Chapter Forty-One

S imon Dagliesh looked up from the plate of bread and tankard of water that had been given to him. While it had only been hours since his arrest, it had been some days since he'd eaten anything of real substance. The fresh baked bread had smelled heavenly, and the young guard, who looked little more than a boy, had taken pity on him with his rumbling belly. But now, halfway through the hearty chunk, the other guard—the brutish one—was standing in the doorway, slapping a billy club against his palm, as if waiting for an excuse to use it.

"Come with me," the guard demanded.

"I'll finish my meal, thank you," Simon said, and picked up the hunk of bread to take another hearty bite.

The guard laughed. "Oh, you've had enough, you puffed-up bastard. Preening like a peacock when you're in rags not fit for the dust bin."

Simon's eyes narrowed, and without any warning he rose from the bench where he'd been sitting, hurling the plate and tankard at the guard as he charged toward him. It had been an impulse. Not well thought out, nor particularly stylish in execution. It also landed him flat on his back, the guard's boot on his throat and the man leaning menacingly over him.

"Give me a reason," the guard taunted. "Just one. A strong enough kick to the head, and you won't even be fit to hang."

Before he could reply, the guard jerked him up, and he stumbled as he gained his feet, the manacles digging into his ankles as his boots had been "confiscated." More than likely taken to the nearest pawnbroker or rag seller.

Yanked upward by the neck of his shirt, once he was on his feet, Simon jerked out of the guard's reach. Even then the guard used the billy club to prod him along the corridor to the dim, dank cell.

It was will alone that kept him on his feet. He'd enter that cell under his own power. He wouldn't crawl before any of them. The very idea of being manhandled by those he found to be utterly beneath him was inconceivable to him. It didn't matter that they were, at present at least, dressed better than he was and significantly more well groomed. They were still inferior to him.

"Get in there, your majesty," the one intoned sarcastically. "Welcome to your new abode... the very height of luxury!"

Simon smirked. "I may have been arrested. My guilt might even be proven. But I will not be imprisoned for long. Men of my standing rarely are. And when I am free, I shall make you regret every insult you visit upon me."

"Will you now?" The guard chuckled even as he gave Simon a harsh shove, pushing him back from the door. As it clanged shut with a horrible grating sound of metal on metal, he peered through the bars. "I'll be wishing you the best of luck with that... m'lord . It ain't the trial you need to worry 'bout."

"Ill-bred brute," Simon muttered as the guard ambled off, leaving him locked in the damp, wretched place. The only light spilled in from a single lamp burning in the corridor beyond the door. It did little to dispel the deep shadows in the corners. He dared not think of what sort of vermin might be inhabiting the place with him.

Even as that thought occurred to him, there was a slight shuffling sound. He shivered with distaste. "Rats."

"Rats are not your greatest cause for concern, Lord Ernsdale."

Simon's blood ran cold in his veins at the sound of that voice coming out of the darkness. Not even the iron bars of the gaol could keep him out. "Ardmore."

From the shadows, the man leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "You're lucky in one regard, Dagliesh. The Hound has covered your debts in exchange for my aid in searching for you. Not that I helped much. But then I didn't need to. I knew you'd do something reckless and foolish... something to draw attention to yourself. Why? Because you're incapable of setting aside your own vanity and conceit, even in the face of certain death."

"If my debts are paid, why are you here?"

Ardmore made a tisking sound, clucking his tongue over and over in a way that was intentionally grating. Largely because it was quite terrifying. "Simon, you know me better than that. Your debt is paid. The money has been returned to me. But you've taken something else from me that the Hound, with all his resources, cannot return to me. You've made me a laughingstock. If I let you get away with your attempts to dodge me, what message am I sending to others? Oh, no, Simon. My pursuit of you was never about the money. While it was an astronomical sum to you—it is a mere pittance to me. My reputation? Now that is worth something."

"So you intend to murder me in my cell?"

Ardmore smiled. "Oh, it's done already. Didn't that kindly young officer give you bread and water?"

Panic raced through him. His skin prickled with it and his lungs tightened as the breath refused to expel from him. "What do you mean?"

Ardmore simply rose and walked toward the door, passing within arms reach of him. With a snap of his fingers, a guard appeared and opened the heavy door to let him out. Casually, as if he were not talking about having poisoned him, Ardmore said, "I'm not a religious man. I don't think you are either. But you have a very limited amount of time to change your mind about that. It wouldn't be the worst idea to hedge one's bets a little."

Ardmore vanished into the dimness of the corridor, the cell door clanging shut behind him once more, and Simon was alone in the cold, dank space. It felt as if the walls were closing in on him. Every beat of his heart sounded like a drum as he weighed and measured each one. Was his heart speeding up? Slowing down? Was it panic making it difficult to breathe or something more sinister?

He fell to his knees, his fingers shoved down his throat as he tried to force the poison out. He gagged and wretched to no avail. Even when he scraped his knuckles against his teeth with enough force to make them bleed, the contents of his stomach refused to be purged. The coppery taste of his own blood filled his mouth as he felt a faint twitching in the muscles of his legs. He tried to get to his feet, to call for help that likely wouldn't come anyway. But he couldn't get his feet under him. The more he tried to move, the more stubbornly ungainly and uncooperative his limbs became.

Sprawled on the floor without a shred of dignity left, Simon felt those tremors in his legs moving upward. They passed through his entire body. And then the tightness in his chest began. It was subtle at first, but grew progressively worse until only a hoarse rasp escaped him. Ardmore had spoken truthfully. The bread and water he'd been given had been poisoned. Death was coming for him sooner rather than later.

For a split second, he was tempted to pray for forgiveness—to beg the Lord for mercy. But as he wasn't entirely certain he believed in the Lord at all, it would have done him little good. If the Lord did exist, and he knew every man's heart as the church insisted, it would have been a wasted effort. Simon wasn't the least bit sorry or repentant for anything he'd done. His only regret was that he'd failed.