Free Death and the Arrow by Chris Priestley Page B

in the alley when they emerged from the Arrow coffee house. A second man stepped out of the shadows. He had a long white scar running down the length of his face—a face every bit as evil as the sergeant said it was.
    “Shepton!” said Tom, instantly regretting that he had let the name escape.
    “Hark, Fisher!” said Shepton with a grin. “He knows my name.”
    “And now he knows mine, thanks to you.”
    “No matter,” said Shepton. “He shan’t tell, shall you, lad?”
    Tom threw the parcel in Fisher’s face and ran down the street, with the two men in loud pursuit.
    “Stop, thief!” cried Shepton. “He has my watch!”
    A passerby made a lunge for Tom, but Tom swerved round him and ducked down an alleyway, only to find a dead end. Shepton and Fisher appeared at the entrance, silhouetted against a pale gray sky.
    “Well now, this is a much better place for a quiet chat,” said Shepton. “Look at him, Fisher. We’ve gone and frightened the poor mite. Calm yourself, lad. We just want to talk, that’s all. I promise you I’ll not hurt you. We just want to know what that crazy soldier told you before he was so
brutally
dispatched.”
    “He said he thought he was being followed by a demon,” said Tom.
    Shepton laughed loudly. “Do you hear that, Fisher? A demon! He was a bigger fool than we took him for.”
    “The boy knows nothing. Let’s just kill him and be done,” said Fisher. “All this talk makes me ache.”
    “Fisher!” shouted Shepton, and pushed him out of the way. “Take no heed, son. You’ll come to no harm from me, I swear it. Now, what else did our brave sergeant tell you?”
    “He thought that you were dead. That you had saved his life,” said Tom. Shepton laughed again. “But Dr. Harker knew it was a trick!” said Tom. “He knows you stole the silver.”
    Shepton grabbed Tom by the collar and pulled him close. “Oh, dear me,” he said. “Here I am, talking all friendly like, and there you are talking me to the gallows. But I promised you I’d not hurt you, and I’m a man of my word.” He smiled once more, and then his face became blank. “Kill him, Fisher.”
    At that moment, a maid opened a door into the alley and Tom bundled past her and into the house. The maid screamed, but Tom ran through the hall and out the front door, onto the street. He could hear Fisher close behind, and he ran without giving thought to the direction.
    “Stop, thief!” called Fisher, using the same trick as Shepton. Tom ducked down an alleyway to avoid a butcher’s boy who tried to block his path with a cart. Fisher was only fifty yards behind him as he tumbled out in front of St. Paul’s Cathedral.
    As Fisher started to catch up with him, Tom ran hell-for-leather up the cathedral steps. Fisher lunged for him but missed and fell, cursing his prey and rubbing his bruised knee. Tom ducked between the massive stone columns of the west front and in through the open door.
    He felt more exposed than ever in the vastness of the cathedral: the scale of the building only served to make him feel more vulnerable. It seemed to take an age to reach the cover of a stone pillar; he ducked behind, hoping Fisher had not seen him.
    Fisher entered the cathedral like a thunderclap; his boot heels clattered on the stone floor, echoing round the cavernous nave, then squeaked to a halt. Tom dropped silently to the floor and began to crawl away from the sound. There was a group of gentlemen only a few yards away. If he could just reach them, he would be safe. Fisher would not kill him with witnesses.
    “I am a constable,” shouted Fisher, his voice booming round the building. “I do not wish to alarm you, but there is an escaped felon in the cathedral. He is a convicted murderer, but he is but a boy and armed only with a butcher’s knife. Could any of you good gentlemen assist me?” Just as Fisher had known it would, the cathedral emptied in seconds.
    “’Tis just the two of us now, boy!” he shouted. “And