Beneath London by Blaylock James P

Author:Blaylock, James P. [Blaylock, James P.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Titan Books
Published: 2015-06-16T07:00:00+00:00

TWENTY

BEAUMONT IN THE MORNING

Dawn was two hours off when Beaumont crept from his room and down the stairs to the fourth floor hallway. The night watch had made his rounds, and the house was quiet. Early morning was the best time of day to be out and about in secret, Beaumont thought, too late and too early both. He knew the lay of the house by now and the habits of many of the people in it, although he could not make out the ways of Mr. Klingheimer, who might be seen coming in or out through any door at any moment, upstairs or down, day or night. Beaumont walked lightly along the hallway carpet to the picture on the wall that hid the key to the lock in Clara’s door.

He took out of his pocket a double-sided, hinged key-mold filled with clay and opened it in his hand. He moved the picture aside, removed the key to Clara’s room from its niche, laid it onto the bottom bed of clay and closed the hinged box, smashing the upper bed of clay around the key until the excess was forced out of the division between the two parts of the mold. He cleaned off the bead of extruded clay and pocketed it before opening the box, removing the key, cleaning it on his trousers, and putting it back into its niche. He swung the picture over it, listened for a moment to the silent house, and then, with the mold safely stowed in his coat pocket, went straightaway down the stairs. Beaumont had long been a collector of keys, and he knew a man along the river who could fashion a good brass copy as quick as you like. The man wouldn’t mind being called out of bed at such an hour, either, if he was well paid for his trouble.

When Beaumont reached the bottom floor landing, he stopped again to listen, hearing quiet footfalls for a brief second and then silence again – the sound of someone crossing a short expanse of floorboards and then stepping onto a carpet. He removed his hat and peered past a newel post to have a careful look. It was Mr. Klingheimer, out and about, just then disappearing down the short hallway that led to the cellar stairs. He was going in to flap his gab at Dr. Narbondo, perhaps – a one-sided conversation, which suited Mr. Klingheimer, who was tolerably fond of his own voice. Beaumont had heard him at it before, talking away six to the dozen with great amusement, laughing even, while Narbondo watched silently through green eyes.

He hurried on his way again, around a turning and down the long hallway to the red door that led to the alley. He reviewed the lie that he would tell Mrs. Skink, but when he entered the final hallway and the red door lay ahead, she was nowhere to be seen. The curtain was drawn across her closet, and he heard the noise of her snoring.

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