The Niche
Vil, seeing a tutor approach, bowed, tilting his head to the right so the man could not see the masked side of his face. The man returned the gesture.
“Good day,” the gentleman said.
“Good day to you too, sir,” he replied and dipped lower. Once the coast was clear, he lifted his head and winced as his joints cracked. Vil’s shadow followed his movements and he checked his appearance, as if it was an actual mirror. The bowler hat covered his forehead and a rolled up scroll was in his hand, behind his back. He had dressed to match the uniform of the Manor’s tutors. A badge with his name was pinned to his breast pocket. “History Substitute”, it said.
Vil bowed to his shadow. “Good day,” he mimicked the teacher. “Bah!” He waved the scroll, as if hitting that certain gentleman.
He opened out the scroll. It was a map of the Manor, detailed and showing the old treasure room. He chuckled, following the given direction through a long corridor and turning right at the end. He had to descend a very long and dark stretch of stairs to reach the treasury. Vil took out an iron key from an inside pocket and chuckled again, delighted to find the key fit the lock.
“Ha!” he exclaimed when the bolt was released easily, though it made a clanking sound as it did so and, for a moment, Vil stood as still as a statue.
At last he dared to push the door open. Again the horrendous noise stopped him in his track. If he had oiled the hinges and greased the lock no sound would have been made. But that would mean leaving marks, and stains were usually spotted by the Manor tutors.
“Blasted door!” he cursed. The door creaked in protest and Vil clamped a hand around his mouth. The door slammed shut behind him.
It was dark and cold in the old treasure room. He felt around, touching the walls and scraping his hand when he stumbled over a stool. He swore. Vil forced himself to get up. The sooner he found something of value the sooner he could leave the blasted place.
Once more he used his hands as guides, this time he also moved away furniture with his legs. At last Vil came upon a niche, possibly at the very end of the room, he searched around for anything candle-like. Suddenly Vil stopped. Was that voices he had heard?
The lock rattled. He quickly climbed into the alcove just as the lights switched on.
“I said to him, ‘Don’t think you’ll get anywhere with that foul mouth of yours’,”
“And what did he say?”
“He swore at me, of course. You can’t expect anything else from young men these days.”
Vil inclined his head, peeking out of the enclosure to see two gentlemen in tailored suits, one grey and the other black, who he recognised to be the gentleman he had met earlier.
“I agree,” Grey Suit said.
“Obviously, you would.” Black Suit mumbled. Vil grinned. The other man had not heard as he was busy fumbling through a chest of drawers.
“Now, Storn promises the place will be empty by the end of the week. We can begin the search on Saturday night!” Grey Suit’s excitement was clearly evident.
“Don’t get your hopes up, we’ve tried once before and failed to find the map.”
Vil looked down at his scroll. The black squiggle of writing pointed out a niche as the door to the secret chamber of treasure, collected over a period of over fifty years.
Black Suit sniffed. “Have you been smoking? Haven’t I told you not to do that in the Manor grounds?”
“But I didn’t, I swear!”
They sniffed the air, and turned their heads towards the back of the room. Vil backed deeper into his sanctuary until his back was against the wall. Sweat was beginning to form on his forehead and he prayed for a distraction. He had forgotten about the cigarette from earlier and pinched his arm—a reminder to quit smoking.
Someone else entered and piped up, “Things are going well. What did I tell you, eh?”
“Good chap, Storn, I didn’t expect any less from you.” Black Suit said and seemed to slap the newcomer’s back.
They talked for a while about the coming holiday, Black Suit grumbled over the lack of students with clean profiles—Grey Suit agreed with every one of his statements—and Storn, who sounded younger than the suited gentlemen, went through their proposed plan.
“I’m sure it’s in this room.”
“What is?”
“That disgusting smell. Smoke.”
Vil was on the edge of breaking down or strangling himself. Why did he have to smoke? Why had he not waited until the Manor was far behind him? This was no time to be asking questions or regretting his mistakes. Next time he would be careful. If there was a next time.
He heard the scrapping of feet and the voices were clearer. They were sure to find him. How would he talk himself out of being in a private room, or at the Manor without proper papers? Vil rolled up the map, readying himself for the angry men that would soon find him. And they did find him. Not angry faces but men with twinkles of delight in their eyes, as if his presence had conjured up a new plan in their minds.
“It’s you, is it?” Black Suit said. Grey Suit smirked.
“Do you know him?” Storn asked.
“No, but soon I will.” Black Suit grabbed Vil, who lashed out and was held by Storn. “Easy now, I want to hear him sing before you deal with him.”
Storn loosened his grip, Vil was surprised how strong the young gentleman was and dodged past them. The door closed automatically. His key would be of no use as the men were already surrounding him.
“What’s this?” Storn snatched Vil’s map away.
“Give it back!”
“Oh, got a tongue in that mouth of yours, do you?” Black Suit laughed, reaching for Vil’s mask and pulling it off to reveal a face badly scarred.
The men were horror-struck. Black Suit was the first to recover.
“What is it?” Black Suit turned to Storn who had unfurled the scroll.
“It’s a map! The map!”
“Are you sure? How can you tell?”
“Why, it clearly states ‘Old Treasure Room’ by that niche!”
Four heads turned in the direction of the concealed treasury.
“It is mine!” Vil shouted, struggling to get the map back and failing—Storn was holding him very firmly.
“Oh? I don’t think so. Let’s make an example of him. Place him in there.”
“No!” Vil resisted his captives. He did not care if they had the map now, he would find another treasure to take as his own. He only wanted to get out and away from the blasted Manor and its queer gentlemen.
Storn, helped by Grey Suit, pushed Vil into the niche. He attempted to ask for mercy when a wall slid up, from a narrow opening. Vil was trapped. He banged on the wall, shouting obscenities, not caring what Black Suit thought of his foul mouth.
A hissing sound came from somewhere in the niche. It smelt horrid and he began to cough. Before he could wonder what it was, Vil felt light-headed and slumped onto the bottom. His hat, when the wall slid back into place, fell at Black Suit’s feet.
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