Entry #519670, added on 07-07-07 @ 3:45 pm EDT
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| Chapter Fifteen | Entry #519670 |
Robert Jennings sat at the bar of the Commonwealth Club. He held his third straight whiskey in one hand, and with the other turned the emerald ring around at eye level. He had been examining the ring for some forty minutes, transfixed by the intricate engraving and wondrously faceted gem.
He didn’t even notice the elegant figure of Sir Maxton Silas, as he sat down next to him.
“Good evening Robert.”
Jennings snapped out of his trance and turned to face Silas. “Ahh, Silas. Good to see you man.”
“I see you’re hard at work as usual.”
“Whiskey helps me think.”
“Contemplation always leads to regret. They say it is a sign the Devil is clouding your judgement.” Silas remarked.
“Too true. But this may be worth it.” The superintendent raised the ring up to Silas’s eye level. Silas focused upon the ring and his expression quickly changed. His eyes widened as he looked between the ring and the superintendent and then back to the ring. Jennings paused, watching Silas’ gaze wander over the ring. He then put it back in his pocket.
“Do you recognise it?” Jennings asked.
“Err, no, no. I thought I did, but no.” Silas turned away from Jennings and gestured towards the barman. “Did you want another?”
Jennings nodded “No, I must get off. The children will be wondering where I am.”
“Whose ring is it?” Jennings asked.
“A man of nobility. Baron Weinhaven. Shame you don’t know him.”
“Yes a shame. Sorry I can’t help you.”
“Not to worry. I’m sure something will come to me, it usually does.”
“I’m sure it will Robert, I’m sure it will.”
Once Jennings had gathered his belongings and left the lounge, Silas motioned to a nearby waiter, whom came over to him. He whispered something to the man before he nodded and in turn also left the room. Silas turned back to the bar and ordered a vodka.
Jennings exited the Commonwealth club and the cool night breeze hit his lungs as he took his first deep breath of smokeless air. The rain was now pouring down hard and with a quick scan Jennings could see that there were no carriages in the vicinity. He opened his umbrella and stepped down the large marble steps that led to the streets edge. He began to walk away from the building in the direction of home. As he left the brightly lit forecourt of the club he heard a voice call to him.
“Is someone there?” Called back a nervous Jennings, “I’ve no time for games.”
But before he could increase his pace, a man ran from the shadows and swung a rope around the superintendent’s neck. Jennings was dragged kicking and scratching at the rope into the shadows of the alley beside the club. He didn’t even get to see his assailant as he felt a hard crack upon his head and he slipped into unconsciousness.
London was a town of sin. A place where the lowest forms of life could gather and exist. It was a place in which someone could disappear, and many had travelled to London to do just that. It was a somewhere to hide, to indulge, but most of all to die, and those frequenting its labyrinthine streets ranged from the diseased whores selling their souls to discreet nobility indulging their perversities.
Upon ‘Great Hollow Street’, beneath a mock façade lies the ‘Dragons Den’. Within its smoky bowels and lavish décor, lounge the many unnamed partaking of the unmentionable. Amongst the languid forms that were scattered through the underground chambers is a restless soul, like the others whom try to appease their demons and to dull the aching pain of their heart. The voices in their head much clearer for the opiate. This man’s troubles are however of a more complex nature than the others.
He beckons to a young oriental servant boy, dressed in a short silk tunic and slippers to approach, and takes the freshly refilled opium pipe from him. It is lit, and struggling to control his shaking hands, he raises it to his lips and draws from it. He holds the fragrant mist within his mouth momentarily, contemplating the inevitable rush, then inhales further to fill his lungs. The drug sends his mind spiralling and when finally exhaled his muscles involuntarily spasm with the coursing relief. He coughs the remaining smoke from his lungs before reaching toward the young servant. The boy hands the man a hot flannel which he uses to wipe the spittle and perspiration from his face. The boy watches the man intently as he then hands the cloth back to him and lies down.
“Are you ok sir?” He whispers with a distinctive eastern accent.
The man turns to the boy, his eyes fully dilated and his complexion like snow. “I will be.”
The boy lingers a while looking with interest at the man; this pale unusual creature that lay feverishly before him. He was dressed in a dark tightly fitted suit and a long thick cloak that the man was using as a blanket. The boy’s eyes wandered the figure and then to a small wooden box that sat close to the man. The box was ornately carved with serpents and unusual lexis that ran around the edging. The boy leaned closer to the man and whispered again.
“What is in the box sir?”
At once the man shot out a hand towards the box and grasped it; his other hand grabbed the boy by the arm. He whipped the box under his cloak and out of sight, before turning to the boy. He stared into the startled boy’s eyes as he dragged him closer.
“My sanity and my salvation.” The man whispered back in reply. He then pushed the boy away and turned over to face the wall. The servant fell to the floor, then quickly scrambled to his feet and made himself scarce.
Charles Mason’s one true passion was his work, and one thing that he hated was being disturbed. He had tried ignoring the first few bangs upon the laboratory’s exterior door as he was not expecting any visitors. But when the banging became thunderously intense, he slammed down his fist upon the desk and furiously went to see who was causing such a commotion. Opening the exterior door though, he found the equally furious figure of Sir Silas. His metal ended cane having left deep divots in the wooden door panel.
“Sir Silas! I didn’t realise it was you, I’m very sorry.”
“Shut up Mason! I’m here for more important things.” He stretched out his arm and held up the emerald ring for Mason to see.
“But…but…” The doctor was struggling for words.
“I want you to return this ring to the Baron, and in future you will keep a closer eye upon the contents of your laboratory! Do you understand, Doctor?” Silas’s voice was filled with anger and Mason could sense it.
“It’s those bloody thugs you keep sending here. They can’t keep their hands to themselves.”
“No excuses Mason! If you slip up one more time, it will be your body they’ll be dragging out of the Thames next! Do I make myself clear?”
The doctor was now backing away for Silas, into the recesses of the porch. “Yes, Sir Silas. Of course.”
Silas placed the ring into Mason’s hand before turning away and disappearing off into the night’s smog once again.
Mason slowly closed the exterior door and made the rather shaky walk back to the laboratory, ring in hand and muttering to himself. When he finally reached the main theatre he wandered over to and then through some large metal doors that led to the storage room. He continued down a long corridor of shelves containing all manner of jars, tanks and vials, before at last coming to yet another door. This one he unlocked and entered. Inside was a large wooden chest rimmed with metal. The chest had a small window space covered in metal bars. Inside was darkness.
“Even now you continue to cause me trouble.” Mason remarked.
He unlocked the chest and lifting the lid, exposed a bleeding fleshy lump that retreated from the dim light that touched it. The raw limbs and muscle resembled a skinless ape partially covered in hair and oozing blood and fluid. Two small eyes squinted up at the doctor, and as he peered back the quivering flesh began to screech and shake as if terrified to be seen or touched. The doctor continued to peer into the box. Mason tossed the ring into the chest at the fleshy blob which recoiled as he did.
“I believe this is yours Baron. Make sure you keep hold of it this time.”
The Doctor then slammed shut the lid again.
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© Copyright 2007 ReflectingeyE (UN: reflectingeye at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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