Doctor Who_ The Algebra of Ice - Lloyd Rose [54]
The Algebra of Ice
to use a keyboard one-handed, he had anticipated. But he was thrown by the tiny, unanticipated ones: he couldn’t open a jar; he couldn’t hold his toothbrush in one hand and the tooth glass in the other. This petty hell was his new life.
Cautiously, he examined the house. Oh, why bother? If anyone happened to be looking out of one of the back windows (and how many people were in there, anyway? Were there servants?) he was for it. As quickly as he could, Molecross hauled the ladder across the lawn.
He was fortunate. The rear of the house was apparently unused, and there were a number of windows in doubtful condition. He propped the ladder below the one that looked easiest to get through and climbed up. Pressing his face to the cold glass, he saw a large, empty room; the only sign of former habitation was a faded wallpaper of delicate trees and exotic birds. The window frame was almost rotten, and, clumsily because of his hand, he climbed inside.
His entry stirred up dust that drifted languidly in the weak sunlight. The room had several doors, and he cautiously cracked open each one. Three led into other abandoned rooms, and one to a cold hallway. The remaining door also opened on a hall, but this one was a little warmer and Molecross guessed it connected to the occupied part of the house.
There was no noise at all. The silence made Molecross uneasy. Using the trace of heat as a guide, he crept nearer and nearer the front of the house, until a final door led him into a library. It was cold here too, but not the same deep chill as the empty rooms. In spite of himself, Molecross paused to gaze at the evidence of wealth: double levels of books, the top one with a gallery reached by a spiral stair. Well-worn leather armchairs. A fireplace. A soft, intricately patterned rug. Hesitantly, as if it were a person who might haughtily dismiss him, Molecross approached a shelf. Some of the bindings were lettered in Latin, their leather covers patinaed with use and age. Molecross touched one wonderingly. Could the man he’d heard on the phone use this room that indicated such respect for learning and human knowledge? Molecross reminded himself that both Al Capone and Hitler had loved opera.
He crossed to the room’s other door, which was slightly ajar, and looked out. Another hallway, but this one with dust only along the baseboards – a passageway that was travelled. Molecross was about to venture out when he heard a noise on the stairs and ducked frantically back into the library. Afraid to risk being seen in the doorway, he squinted to see what he could through the hinge crack. Only wall and carpet, but the noise – someone walking heavily and awkwardly, someone groaning – was coming nearer. Molecross nearly jumped when a figure crossed his line of vision. It was gone by the time he put Chapter Thirteen
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together what he’d glimpsed: a tall man carrying a smaller, struggling man over his shoulder. Molecross caught his breath. That had to be Amberglass. What should he do? Follow them? He’d be seen in an instant. Wait, then search?
As he stood dithering, Molecross heard a door open. Trembling, he dared to stick his head out and look down the hall. The open door was only a couple of yards away. Molecross withdrew and considered. This simplified things. All he had to do was wait. Unless, he thought, heart sinking, he was about to hear a torture session. He knew he’d never be able to stand that, and his panic would give him away. Oh God, what was he doing here? He couldn’t handle this.
He’d make things worse. But before he could actually succumb to hysterics, the cellar door closed and Brett passed by again and went up the stairs.
Molecross was at the door as soon as Brett’s footsteps faded. It wouldn’t open. The lock appeared to be as old as the house itself, the sort that would need a very