A Thousand and One English Nights (Book Three of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Thirty Six: Little Daughter

It was quiet in Oxford after the prison-break. For three days, there were no riots, no explosions. People stopped walking around with their shoulders hunched in expectation of what was going to happen next. And then, on the third night, Danvers heard the sash window in his bedroom sliding upwards, and watched, open-mouthed, as Jack climbed inside. 

He had been expecting him, in a way. Danvers had been half-expecting to die ever since he'd seen Jack in the mortuary, and confessed that he'd thrown his last chance of salvation on the fire.

But he had expected Jack to be sporting about it. He had expected to be challenged to a duel, or some kind of boxing match under the Marquess of Queensbury's rules. He wasn't naïve enough to think he would have stood a chance in either of these contests, but at least they would have been fair and structured and out in the open. This night-time visit – with Elsie just in the other room brushing her teeth – struck him as beastly and unfair.

Still, he grabbed a bottle of tonic from the night-stand – the only thing he could think of to use as a weapon – and gently pushed the bathroom door closed so that Elsie wouldn't wander out. After that, he was out of ideas, and just gaped at Jack, trying to find the words to tell him how outrageous this was.

Jack was holding a letter in one hand and a revolver in the other. The letter was rain-spattered and crumpled, but Danvers was still able to recognize it. If his heart could have sunk any further, it would have done.

"You were supposed to run," said Jack, perching on the windowsill with one leg folded underneath him. "You get away from someone like me – by whatever means – and you're supposed to keep away. You are not supposed to send me a letter detailing exactly how you ruined my life, and invite me over to discuss the matter at any time convenient. That's not even English – that's like..." He waved a hand with serene confusion. "That's like a joke someone would make about the English."

Danvers drew himself up. "I felt I owed you an explanation. Is that so comical? Besides, you asked me to put it in writing."

"I did," said Jack, nodding sagely. "You're quite right, Danvers – and it made interesting reading, although I had to screw it up and throw it across the room a few times." He started playing idly with the revolver, as though he was itching for an opportunity to use it. "In my worst nightmares, I wouldn't have expected Myrrha to be behind what was done to me. Although this isn't the first time my worst nightmares haven't gone far enough."

Danvers didn't know what to say to this. Jack was still staring reflectively at the revolver. It almost seemed that he was talking to it rather than to him.

"Still, it takes some of the blame away from Alice and Sergei," he muttered. "The one wanted to control me, and the other didn't lift a finger to help me, but neither of them could have stood between Myrrha and something she wanted. You don't know where she is now, I suppose?" he added, tearing his gaze away from the gun.

"I've been back to the cottage," said Danvers. "It's deserted."

He didn't want to add that the severed genitals in jars had been left on their shelves, even though every other article of furniture had been removed. And he especially didn't want to add that Professor Carver's head had been on display beside them. He didn't want to tell anyone about that. Putting it into words would be like re-living it.

"Well, I wouldn't have expected her to stick around," said Jack, waving the gun dismissively, and making Danvers wince. "That's not why I'm here, although they're tangentially related. I wanted to ask you what you thought of something. I keep meeting you, did you know that?"

Danvers frowned at him. "Well, we live in the same town, we share some common acquaintances. Of course we're going to bump into each other now and again."