Part 8 (1/2)
”He would've murdered a woman on the streets. I saved her from his blade.”
”And led him to our boat.”
”I know. And I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry for what he did to your father, too. But he's Jack the Ripper! Jack the Ripper! You've no idea what a monster he is. I saw what he did to one poor woman. He must be put a stop to, or he'll do the same to you.” You've no idea what a monster he is. I saw what he did to one poor woman. He must be put a stop to, or he'll do the same to you.”
”He needs me.”
”He'll butcher you.”
”Don't be silly. He doesn't dare kill me, not if he wants safe pa.s.sage to America. But he'll certainly punish us for getting free of the ropes, so quit your arguing and tie me up.”
I let go the hatch handle and took the rope from her. She pressed her arms against her sides, ready to have herself trussed.
”Lie down,” I said.
”You've got to tie me first.”
”No.”
”Trevor!”
”All right, then!” Though I wasn't keen on being naked again, I needed both hands so I tossed my blanket to the other bed. Trudy turned her head away. Not before giving me a look, however.
On my knees again, I tucked one end of the rope under her arm, then wrapped her around the middle.
”Tighter,” she said. ”He can't know the difference.”
I gave the rope rather a rough tug. She winced. She deserved a little hurt for being obnoxious, but right away I felt bad about it and apologized.
”Shut up and tie the knot.”
”I'd much rather not. Let me leave it undone. I'll cover you up, and you lie down and pretend to be asleep. I'll do the same. We'll wait for just the proper moment, then jump Whittle and throttle him.”
”There'll be no jumping of Whittle.”
I sighed.
I didn't put up any more fuss. I knotted the rope, then scurried down and bound her ankles. When they were secure, I covered Trudy with the bedclothes.
I hurried over to my own berth and gathered the ropes Whittle had used on me. Feeling a bit down on Trudy, I said, ”Now, of course, I'm supposed to tie myself.”
”Do your feet first. That shouldn't present any great difficulty.”
I swung my legs onto the bed, spread them apart, and dropped one of the ropes between them. Then I drew the covers up over my lap.
”What do you think you're doing?” Trudy asked, her tone snappish.
”I may be a silly child and a fool, thank you, but I'm not a coward.”
”Tie yourself this minute!”
”I have a better use for Whittle's rope.”
The one in my hands wasn't nearly so long as the coil I could feel under the backs of my legs. After dragging the covers to my shoulders, I stretched it across my chest and wound its ends around my hands.
”What are you planning?”
”To have a go at playing Thuggee.”
”What are you talking about?”
”The Thuggee. A cult of fanatical murderers in India who employ the garrote to strangle...”
I went mum at the sound of a clacking latch. The door swung open. Whittle came in. He carried a bottle and a steaming pot that had a spoon in it. Clamping the bottle under one arm, he turned around to lock the door.
Secured from this side, it wasn't meant to keep us in but rather to keep Michael out. I supposed he must be keeping all the doors and hatches locked so he wouldn't need to worry about the fellow sneaking below for a try at rescuing Trudy.
He might as well have spared himself the bother. As I found out later, Michael didn't have the grit for such a venture.
After fastening the door, Whittle started to turn around. I shut my eyes before he got a look at me.
”Sit up, deary,” he said in that stuffed voice of his thanks to losing his nose. ”We shouldn't like to have you withering away, now, should we?”
I looked. He was on his knees, facing Trudy. He held the pot near her face. With his other hand, he spooned food into her mouth.
”Quite tasty, I daresay. I don't fancy myself a master of the culinary arts, but this stew is really quite exceptional.”
The odor was delightful. It set my parched mouth to watering again, my hollow belly to grumbling.
He kept shoveling, giving Trudy a few moments to chew and swallow between each spoonful. I wondered if he aimed to save any for me.
It wouldn't come to that, though.
I slipped out from under the covers, swung myself around and lowered my feet to the floor. Trudy, chewing, shook her head at me. Whittle started to look over his shoulder. I sprang. Whipped the rope down past his face. Jerked it across his throat as I rammed against his back. The blow flung a spoonful of stew into Trudy's face. Then he knocked her flat and fell across her chest.
Riding his back, I pulled at the rope for all I was worth. He made choking, gaggy noises. He twisted and bucked under me. He stabbed at my shoulder with the spoon. His other hand dumped the pot down my back. The grub was hot enough to sting, but it didn't hurt enough to make me ease off. I kept on strangling him.
If Trudy'd lent a hand, I might've killed the Ripper then and there and saved the world a heap of grief.
But she was nicely tied because she'd insisted and I'd given in to her.
So she just lay there helpless, leaving the job to me.
Whittle bashed the side of my head with the pot. The world flashed bright, but I held on and kept tugging at the rope. Then he lit into me again and again. I lost count after the fifth bong. But I didn't lose my wits entirely.
Before long, I was sprawled on the floor and Whittle was sitting on me, wheezing for air, clobbering my face with the bottom of the pot. When he got tired of that, he roped my hands in front of me. He sat quiet for a spell, just staring at me and trying to get his wind back.