Boon Island - Kenneth Roberts [61]
Behind Captain Dean's talk I was conscious of all the night-sounds of Greenwichthe bells from the vessels in the river; the distant shouting from taverns; the clatter of hoofs: the rattling of wheels of after-theatre carriages on the cobbles of the river frontwhen suddenly I heard something I didn't like at all. Captain Dean and my father heard it too, and liked it as little as I; for their heads turned slowly and questioningly toward each other.
What we heard was halfway between a gasp and a gurgle, as though someone had started to shout, and had been prevented by a gush of liquid in his throat.
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But if that sound was repeated, it was lost in all the other noises that made Greenwich, in summer, so difficult a place in which to sleep.
I pulled the curtain to one side, leaning from the window to listen. I thought I saw a blob of darkness on our front steps. When I stared at it half sideways, to see it more clearly, I decided it was nothingthere was no movement from itand then, suddenly, I heard a long-drawn, quivering inhalation, such as one might make after holding his breath until his lungs are on the verge of bursting.
I ran to the front door and drew it open.
Neal Butler fell into the hallway as if he had been leaning against the door.
I pulled him to his feet. His appearance horrified me.
"What's the matter with you? You look sick!"
I took him by the arm and turned him toward the front room. My father and Captain Dean were on their feet, staring at us, and Neal's appearance led my father to hurry to the windows, draw them down and close the shutters.
He struck a light, and helped me put Neal in a chair.
We saw it was no ordinary sickness that troubled Neal, but some sort of mental disturbance that had left him half conscious. He seemed unwilling to look at either of us. His breathing was quick and shallow, with a deep shuddering breath at unexpected intervals.
"What happened to you, Neal?" my father asked. "Speak up! We're your friends."
When Neal didn't answer, my father reached for a claret bottle and filled a glass. "Here," he said, "drink this and tell us what happened to you."
When Neal continued to stare into space, my father
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grasped his chin, and put the glass to his lips. Neal choked; then drew two of those long, shuddering sighs.
"He was waiting for me after the play," he said flatly.
"Who was?" my father asked.
"The one with the white face," Neal said. "The painted one."
"You mean the one we call Tintoretto?" my father asked.
Neal nodded. "He pulled at mepulled at my clothes. I tried to walk around him so to get to you and Miles."
"This manthis Tintoretto. He'd pulled at you before?" my father asked.
"I had that knife," Neal said. "That one I'd sharpened. When we were almost at your house, I ran. He ran after me. When he caught up with me, I showed him the knife. He pushed it away. Hehe laughed! That white face! That painted fish mouth! I never thought the knife would go into him so quickso smooth!"
For the first time he looked directly at me and at my father. "When he fell over against me, I was glad I did it. I had to do it. You'd have done it if you'd been me! Then I was afraid."
My father put his hand on Neal's shoulder. "Had Tintoretto ever done this before?" Neal seemed to have run out of words. My father shook him. "I asked you whether he'd ever done this to you before tonight."
Neal gulped. "No, sir. The first time I recited Mr. Cibber's epilogue I could hardly get past him in the wings. He squeezed me, and my hand smelled of perfume. I couldn't get around him."
"Listen carefully," my father said. "Do you think others saw him squeeze you, as you put it?"
Neal nodded and swallowed hard.
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Captain Dean