A Curious Beginning

There was a great howl of pain and surprise, and I was hoisted unceremoniously into the air and flung over a solid shoulder.

I heard a blow and a low groan that was unmistakably Stoker. I only hoped he had the wit to stop resisting and acquiesce to our abductors. I could not tell how many men it took to subdue him, but I could distinguish a number of footsteps, first on pavement, then on wood, the dull thud of the planks and the plashing of little wavelets making it apparent they had taken us onto the river. There was a moment of struggle, as if my abductor found it challenging to keep his balance, and the world began to rock. We were on a boat, and the fact that they had snatched us in broad daylight spoke volumes about their desperation.

I was set down hard upon my bottom—upon a sort of bench, I thought, and my assailant put a hand firmly to my shoulder. “Do not move,” he ordered. He made no attempt to bind me, but I did as he commanded, biding my time.

I heard the rough sound of an engine being started and from the abrupt shifting of the boat deduced it was a small one, every motion of our captors setting it to rocking. There was a flurry of orders and our little craft was under way. I strained my ears to detect any sign of Stoker’s presence, but I heard nothing apart from the hurried whispers of the villainous wretches who had seized us.

No one approached me for a long while—no doubt they were too bent upon getting right away, but if they expected me to beg for information or release, they would be mightily disappointed, I vowed. I sat with perfect composure, hands tucked into my pockets, and waited for something to happen.

It took an exceedingly long time before something did. I amused myself by reciting poetry under my breath—not Keats; I found Byron to be much more appropriate for an abduction. At length, something over an hour later given how long it took me to remember “The Giaour,” the sacking was plucked from my head and I emerged, dazed and blinking, into the afternoon light to face my captor.

“Hello, Mr. de Clare,” I said courteously. “I presumed you were my abductor, but I hated to rob you of your dramatic flourish.”

Mr. de Clare gave a rueful shake of the head. “Miss Speedwell, I regret the necessity for this more than you know. But I am afraid you have forced my hand.”

I seized the opportunity to look about and take stock of my situation. The weather had turned for the worse, and in place of the bright sunlight, a cover of grey cloud had descended. The boat, as I had guessed, was a small thing—a pleasure yacht of minute proportions and little power, although it was bowling along handsomely under sail. The engine was still ticking on, and the tide was running out, so it was apparent that Mr. de Clare was putting as much distance as possible between us and London proper. I was not altogether familiar with the Thames or its environs, but just then a sight hove into view that would have gladdened the heart of any Englishwoman. It needed only a moment’s glance at the long, elegant fa?ade to recognize that we were almost upon the Royal Naval College at Greenwich.

Having established our whereabouts, I made a quick inventory of the boat. On the deck, stretched out on his back, Stoker lay perfectly still. His head was still hidden by a sack, but his chest rose in deep, even breaths, and I saw no visible injury.

“Well, at least you haven’t murdered anyone yet,” I said pleasantly. I looked again to Stoker, whose breath began to alter strangely. His chest began to twitch in an odd pattern, and he looked for all the world as if he were going to have a fit of some sort. I stared hard at him, and after a moment, I turned my attention to the other occupants of the boat.

Besides Mr. de Clare, there were four other men—of the working classes from the look of their clothes. And one of them was remarkably tall. The other three were indistinguishable, dressed in serviceable plain clothes with unremarkable features. I doubted if their wives even bothered to tell them apart. As for me, I was far more interested in the large fellow who turned just then so that I saw his face.

“You!” I exclaimed.

Mr. de Clare smiled thinly. “Yes, you have already made the acquaintance of Silent John. I regret the muddle he made of things at your cottage. He is deplorably incapable at times,” he added with a scornful glance at his colleague. Silent John merely stood, his booted feet a yard apart on the deck, his expression blank. “You see?” Mr. de Clare turned to me. “Incapable. He must be told what to do in very specific terms, and when you came upon him at your cottage, he was thrown into a quandary.”

“He tried to abduct me,” I returned icily. “As you just have.”