The Bloodless Boy by Robert J. Lloyd Read Free Book Online Page A

into cinders.
    As he stood by the fire he heard the thumps of Tom racing down the stairs, and wondered what the boy was doing out of bed. He listened to the withdrawing of the bolt securing the front door. He had not heard knocking, and could hardly perceive the bolt; a muffled clanking was all. This chill has affected my tubes, he thought gloomily; I now lose my hearing, as well as my senses of smell and taste, as well as my memory.
    Tom’s voice called from the lobby. ‘Mr. Hooke!’
    Hooke looked at himself in the mirror, picking remnants of hare from his sand-coloured teeth. The catarrh in his head did not trouble him so much as his thoughts on assisting the Justice, as he left the warmth of the fire to go downstairs, to greet his visitor.
    *
    Tom had invited the caller in, and he stood in the cold lobby, bringing in the even chillier aura of the night. He was a man of about forty years of age, but the manner of his clothes made him seem older – his lack of style noticeable even to the Curator, who cared little for such things. The man rubbed his hands for warmth, which amplified the unctuous air he had about him. His smile did not move, and lacked warmth behind it, as if he had learned to be pleasant from a book.
    He removed his hat, shook the snow from it, and announced himself as ‘Moses Creed, Solicitor.’
    ‘Good evening, Mr. Creed,’ Hooke welcomed him warily, wondering whether he came with a subpoena.
    ‘You are the illustrious Mr. Robert Hooke, of the Royal Society?’ the Solicitor enquired, as if to distinguish him from a dozen others. ‘Creator of the famous Micrographia , of the weighing of the air, and of the building of the new London?’
    Hooke was now even more cautious, alarmed at the intensity of the man’s obsequiousness. ‘I am Mr. Robert Hooke, Curator of Experiments for the Royal Society, and Professor of Geometry here at Gresham’s College,’ he replied.
    ‘It is an honour , Mr. Hooke, to meet you – a most skilled natural philosopher, known throughout the Kingdom for your prodigious interests and ingenious pursuits!’
    ‘Your words are welcome, and kind.’ Hooke raised his hand to stop the Solicitor going further. ‘What is it, Sir, that I may do for you?’
    ‘You may take this letter, Sir, that I am engaged to deliver.’
    Creed took from a bag slung over his shoulder a small letter, bearing a seal of black wax, and held it towards Hooke.
    Hooke, startled, took it hesitantly. It certainly had the appearance of the letter that Sir Edmund had shown them briefly at the Fleet, having lifted it from the body of the boy.
    He looked at it more closely. On it was his name, and the address of his lodgings at Gresham, written in a remarkably steady and controlled hand.
    ‘Who charged you with conveying this to me, Mr. Creed?’ Hooke asked, his voice puzzled.
    ‘I was engaged for my discretion. You understand, I hope, Mr. Hooke.’
    ‘When was it left with you? Will you say that?’
    ‘Do not press me on this. I am not one who betrays the terms of his commissions. I bid you good night, Sir.’
    *
    Hooke, back in his drawing room, surrounded by his tools and equipment, asked Mary to prepare him some tea. He sat at his table, and broke the black seal, which bore a simple image of a candle and its flame. He opened the letter. He was hesitant in all his movements; for some reason he could not explain even to himself this letter made him more nervous than all of the business with Sir Edmund.
    He would not tell Harry; it was an unphilosophical sensation.
    It was more pages covered by grids of numbers, arranged in a square on one side only of each sheet, twelve numbers along by twelve numbers down.
    Sir Edmund’s writing was ordered, but the writing on these sheets was astonishingly neat. Each number was perfectly sized for its neighbours, and perfectly reproduced each time it appeared. Only occasionally was it discernible that this was not printed, when the character of the pen’s nib,