The narrower boat at last touched the dark hull. The side was wet and black; no name could be read. The boy shipped his oars and turned his face downstream, as if he would not watch the cargo go up. The heavy boots pushed Edmund onto a rope ladder. His wrists were still bound with hemp, so he could only brace his elbows on the rungs, and climb one step at a time.
Holmes eased their boat back half a ship's length, into the shadow the stern threw upon the water. The spark on deck was lowered a little. A thin face lit for a moment in the cupped palm—a pointed chin, the eyes not meeting any man's, as if they were still on a prompt-book. Watson knew him: Marlowe.
"Scene Five is played here," the voice said, dry and low, like a line read off the page. "The living man is received. Where is the die?"
The heavy boots stopped at the foot of the ladder. "It was taken, at the printing shop."
Marlowe closed his palm, and the spark went out. In the dark only one sentence remained, already travelling along the water: "Search the river. Without the die, this cargo does not count."
❦ To be continued.
Comments 0
No comments yet.