Extract:
UNLESS the reader is a forgetful halfwit – which frankly would not surprise me in the least, for nowadays one meets with negligent inattention on all sides – he will recall that my appointment with Shackle at his lodgings had been for eight of the clock that evening. I thus had plenty of time to spare, visiting several taverns and partaking of no little ale to drown my sorrows, for truth to tell, I seemed not to have that alacrity of spirit, and cheer of mind, that I was wont to have.
Be that as it may, it was probably somewhat after eight when I arrived in the cobbled square before the dingy, mildewed stew known as the Dragon Rouge. Messier was nowhere to be seen, but in any case my business was not with him, nor with the crowd of sottish knaves drinking themselves paralytic in the tavern downstairs. Pushing through them I made my way up to the first landing and knocked on the door to Shackle’s chamber. There came no reply.
I knocked again louder. ‘Open up!’ I cried. ‘Open, I say, thou whoreson wretch!’
Within I could hear Master Sakkers whimpering, followed by a yelp and a whine as he evidently received further ill-treatment at the hands of his owner. ‘’Tis I,’ I called. ‘Ancient Pistol, come to see thee as arranged, thou brutal assailant of a harmless cur! Let’s see if thou beest as brave when faced with the valiant Pistol as when beating thy mangy dog! For if thou open not this instant, I’ll break in and bludgeon thee senseless, yea, to within an inch of thy worthless life! That I will! Thou’dst be no loss to any! Open up, or resist me at thy peril!’
There being still no reply, there remained but one thing to do, namely break in the door. ’Twas a stout timber construction, but I doubted not that the muscular strength of Ancient Pistol would be more than equal to the task. I took as long a run as the limited space permitted, stiffened the sinews, summoned up the blood, and plunged forward.
’Twas unfortunate that Shackle – for I assumed it was he – chose this moment to open the door, so that I hurtled across the room full tilt, waving my arms in unavailing attempts to brake, until tripping over something on the floor and fetching up half in, half out of a poky little unglazed opening which was the best a hovel like the Red Dragon could do for a window. Meanwhile the fellow who had opened the door, without the smallest apology for his stupidity, had fled upon the instant, and was clattering downstairs even as I yelled to him to stop, as a clumsy half-witted slave. Meanwhile Master Sakkers ran after him, barking wildly and snapping at his heels.
The reader will appreciate that it was not in the best of humours that I finally extricated myself from the window-frame and turned to Shackle. For the object I had tripped over had been none other than him, lying on the floor in an ale-sodden stupor.
‘Oh, there thou art!’ quoth I. ‘Thou pie-eyed knave! I might have expected that by this time in an evening thou’dst be dead to the world! Get up!’ I kicked him in the ribs. ‘Come now, up, up!’
He was evidently far gone. Little wonder that he had been unable to open the door for himself. I knelt down, seized him by the collar, and turned him face upward, cursing him the while for the worthless, drunken varlet he was.
Then I saw the knife, buried to the hilt in his chest, the wound surrounded by scarcely-dried blood. Shackle’s eyes gazed sightlessly at the ceiling, and rolled back into his head as I lifted his skull. Blood from his mouth was already beginning to congeal in the grubby matted stubble of his beard. ‘Dead!’ I muttered. ‘Dead, for a ducat!’
Evidently the knave who admitted me must have been responsible, and I now regretted that I had neither particularly marked him nor set off in pursuit. All I could recall was that he had been of medium height, slim, with a dark hood concealing his face, and from the speed with which he had made himself scarce, presumably fairly young. ’Twas just my ill fortune, I reflected, that no sooner did I make contact with Mowbray’s man, than the drunken meathead should manage to get himself stabbed in a tavern brawl. Not that I was altogether surprised. If he made a practice of conducting himself towards others in the same belligerent fashion he did to me, the wonder was he had survived so long. He but usurped his life.
I shrugged and prepared to depart. There was naught to be done, save return to London forthwith and explain to Mowbray the unfortunate albeit unsurprising fate befalling his henchman. I now appreciated the truth of what my noble patron had said: that most of those he employed in espionage were absolutely no firking good at all. What a welcome change it must be for him to be able to rely upon one such as myself.
’Twas whilst I was thus reflecting that I heard from below the shrill voice of a woman crying: ‘Help! Murder!’ and terminating in a screech as if of pain or fury. There followed a commotion amidst the unwashed varlets in the tavern as they learnt of what had happened. Moments later a dozen of them were storming upstairs, full of French ale and dutch courage. ‘He’s still there!’ cried someone. ‘We’ll have him, the murderous slave! Pistol is his name, the bad bugger!’
‘Aye!’ cried another. ‘Did we not all hear the drunken threats he uttered if that poor knave Sakkers would not open up to him?’
There were sundry animal-like noises of agreement, many in French, which I omit as unintelligible. The gist of the English ones was as follows:
‘To the gallows!’
‘Hanging be too good for the varlet!’
‘Aye! Let’s spit the slave on his own sword!’
‘Or shove it …’ The remainder of the filthy rogue’s suggestion was too vile to repeat. Amidst drunken laughter I heard another say: ‘Were’t not best we hand him over to the watch?’
This idea was predictably ridiculed. ‘A fart upon the watch! We know the villain guilty! Let’s hang him ourselves!’