Convicted Innocent(48)

The little papist stilled at once, and both he and the inspector stared at the police sergeant. Horace could hear Lewis struggling to breathe from 10 paces away.

“Why did you do that?” the old man found himself saying.

“No questions.” The blonde replied tersely as he stood over Lewis’s trembling form. “Either do what ‘e said, or we kill ‘em. You ‘ave two minutes t’ choose.”

* * * * *

David’s head ached from Venn’s blows, but his thoughts had been scattered well before the heavy had struck him.

Another tear slipped free and worked its way down his cheek.

He was of no use to his friend, of no use to Innocent, of no use even to himself.

And Inspector Tipple! The gray haired detective had schooled his expression well when the blonde had demanded that he choose – choose between one murder and another – but David had seen his face in that moment. For a single second, a bleakness akin to sorrow had stricken the old man’s weary eyes, but then it was gone.

“A moment, if I may.”

Tipple’s request was quiet and simple; no one said anything as he bowed his head slightly, eyes nearly closed and his hands folded meditatively behind his back.

His was a terrible choice – and he hadn’t a clue of Conway Duke’s neat trap. The uncle’s acting was sublime, and no one could or would counter the script Innocent had supposedly composed.

The priest swallowed. He tried not to look at where his friend lay bleeding, perhaps dying, on the floor, and couldn’t look back over his shoulder at Innocent.

O God!

David swallowed again, choking back a sob. The gag felt looser in his parched mouth this time; perhaps the rough use at Venn’s hands had made it slip a little. He worked at it with his tongue.

The inspector still stood with his head bowed as the kerchief slipped from the priest’s lips. Since all the thugs who might have raised an alarm were watching Tipple, no one said anything.

However, David’s throat was as dry as his mouth, so he also said nothing. Or at least not right away, waiting until he was sure his voice was ready.

He could remain silent. He could let the inspector make the terrible choice. The old man would, of course, elect to save as many lives as possible – the innocent over the professedly guilty – even if the choice meant his own ruin.

And Innocent, if he were true to form, would willingly step between those he called friends and their attackers. The young man would let Tipple kill him.

Or David could speak and try to spare Tipple and Innocent that awful fate. The consequences might be…. Well, the priest figured in a moment of bell-like clarity, Venn would likely hold nothing back in retribution, what with his remarkably ferocious and focused antagonism.

A choice – to speak or remain silent. Such a simple thing.

It was as Lewis had said.

David inhaled slowly; exhaled.

Have mercy.

* * * * *

Horace waited as long as he could, only speaking when he noted some of the heavies growing restive.

“I’ll need a knife.”

As soon as Horace said this, Nicholas Harker started forward. As the young man rounded the group of prisoners and their keepers, a blade thrown by the blonde clattered to the ground at the inspector’s feet.

Horace stooped slowly and picked it up, the weapon drawing his attention like a magnet.

The blade felt strange and almost awkward in his hand: heavier than his penknife, of a different shape from the knife he used at table, and nothing like the cavalry sabre he’d wielded years ago. This was a tool for quiet killing: not pretty, but deathly functional.