PROLOGUE
As always, leaving things to the last possible minute was
proving to be a bad idea. In this case, a particularly bad idea as the last
possible minute included the sum total of the time remaining in his life. He
always expected he would die in his bed, or someone else’s bed many years hence.
Warm, comfortable and surrounded by impatient descendants with something
cryptic to say as his last words. He’d given his penultimate utterance a lot of
thought, “My only regret is that you never met your birth parents,” had been his
personal favourite. He imagined saying it to his grown up children and watching
their faces as he drifted off.
Of course his darling wife would be deceased by then, out-living
that most perfect of women would be the honourable thing to do. Fate appeared
to have a different opinion as she was away visiting her parents until the baby
arrived. In his opinion the installation of children was a fine thing, but
taking delivery of the finished product nine months later? That he felt was
better left in the hands of experienced women.
The rain and crashing thunder outside made it difficult to hear
the whine and click of his approaching assassin. The only lighting available in
the large mansion was the flickering glow of candles, and there were precious
few of those.
“What-ho Mr Wibbly?” he called into the darkness. Somewhere out
there a door handle rattled, and then exploded out of the frame in response.
The prototype possessed remarkable strength, but very poor fine-motor skills.
Dashing on stockinged feet he made for the library. Closing the door he went to
the fine writing desk that took pride of place in the room. He had bought it at
an auction, recognising it as living oak, the rare wood that had been a key to
the discovery of the age. The discovery that was now going to get him killed.
The letter was complete, but there would be no time to post it
now. He paused, listening between the rumbles of the storm outside for
approaching death. There it was. The whirr and click of clockwork gears; the
slow, deliberate sound of approaching betrayal. The letter folded up into a
narrow strip, with shaking hands he prised open the hidden slat in the roll-top
desk’s cover. Pressing the letter inside, he winced as the office door
shuddered under repeated blows.
“I’ll
be right there!” he called. Sliding the slat back into place, he patted the
desk fondly one more time and whispered, “That should cause someone no end of
trouble.” He smiled and went to meet his death.
