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P.S. If anyone knows what county/lordship/province/stratum/whatever the DeFoe manor is in, I'd appreciate it.
5 Days a Stranger
by
J. Sampson
Original Story and Concept by
Ben Croshaw
by
J. Sampson
Original Story and Concept by
Ben Croshaw
I
The Autumn seemed to have come early to a seldom-used road in rural England. Though it was only late July, brown leaves flitted across the street intermittently as gusts of chill wind winded through bare and sickly trees. The relative quiet was broken as the unmistakable sound of a small car impressed itself more on the local ambiance. The sole occupant of the red compact paid little attention to the scenery as he pressed further down the winding way.
Trilby's expression was a blank mask. He seemed a thin man, even when wearing a wool, one-breasted sport coat. Tall, as well, his head touched the ceiling of the small car. He seemed to be dressed as a man much older, in a starched, white Oxford shirt, and a perfectly-tightened, dark blue tie. His matching gray wool slacks were pressed and entirely free of lint. A gray Trilby hat which was his trademark and namesake sat on the passenger seat. His jet black hair was slicked back and drooped down near the base of his neck. His almost equally dark eyes were large and focused. He looked slightly to the side and turned the car off the road. He had reached his destination. He drove the car a little farther over grass and dead leaves until it had reached the summit of a modestly high hill that overlooked a modestly large estate in the middle of treeless countryside. Trilby made sure to park his car behind a large bush that would conceal it from any who looked from the house and most who looked from the road. Trilby got out of the car and looked at his watch. It would be a little while before it was dark enough to go on with his business. He looked upon the DeFoe manor house with the same blank expression that had been on him the whole way driving there. This would not be a high point in the career of the Great Trilby, certainly. His fence had informed him that the house was completely deserted now that the last living members of the DeFoe family had died. The DeFoes were not known for their great wealth, nor were they known to possess any priceless heirlooms. But nonetheless, Trilby, cat burglar extraordinaire was on the scene to take whatever wasn't nailed down, and would fit in his hatchback.
Watching the sunset, Trilby thought for a moment about what he was doing. He had always been called a thief, a hoodlum, a crook. His real name had been a casualty of his life, he was known to all by a moniker that someone else had given him. But above all names and epitaphs, Trilby thought of himself as a gentleman, as his attire would no-doubt attest. He took pride in the fact that in his long career he had never once killed a person, nor did he steal from the poor. He was dimly aware that the media had latched onto him somewhat, with some of his better heists being in the public eye, and his continuous evasion of the police. But Trilby never cared for the news or TV. He had other ways of entertaining himself. The old manor looming in the distance should provide ample evening's entertainment, he thought, as a faint smile appeared on his thin, regal mouth. The sun was now swimming low over the distant hills beyond the manor. The side of the unlit house facing him was now in shadow, making it look like some massive, square crag of basalt jutting unnaturally from the pastoral landscape. Trilby got his hat and his umbrella from the back seat of his car, and set out.
It was completely dark when Trilby had gotten over the wall enclosing the front yard and neared the house. The windows on his side were all closed and their shades drawn. He moved around to the other side and saw that one on the second floor was open. Perfect. But there was a light on inside. He hoped the lawyers/cops/medics had left the lights on. If Eric had screwed up, there'd be a right slap for him when he got back. Trilby held up his umbrella, and twisted the handle, revealing a grappling hook at the tip. He pulled back on the handle, launching the flimsy-looking piece of metal through the open aperture. Trilby was through the window in seconds, being very well-practiced. He examined the room, which looked to be an office, and saw little of value: an ugly painting of a woman in a blue dress, probably the last owner's wife; some cheap, tasteless literature; and a safe in the left corner. Bingo. He recognized the model instantly as one that was commonly peddled to middle-class twits who didn't know any better. He had it open in possibly record time, and discovered absolutely nothing. Damn, the lawyers must have already gotten to the assets. Well, maybe there'll be something downstairs. Trilby heard something that sounded remarkably like human footsteps coming from downstairs. Bloody hell, there are people here. Time to exit. Just as Trilby got to the window he had entered from, it snapped shut, almost as if pushed. He tried to get it open again but it was stuck. He tried prying it with his umbrella, but it was determined not to budge. He thought he heard someone talking downstairs.
“Alright, Trilby, keep your wits, you've gotten out of tighter spots than this.”
He couldn't break the window, as it would certainly be heard, his best bet was to try to sneak out of the room and find another window. He hadn't yet heard anyone upstairs, he stood up and walked toward the only door in the room. It opened as he was just in front of it. A man in his 40s a few inches shorter than Trilby stood in front of him. He was wearing a similar Oxford shirt, black slacks, and a tacky striped tie. His plain haircut and well-groomed mustache seemed to suggest he was part of some government bureaucracy or another. He seemed to admire Trilby's clothes for a second before letting out a piercing, wordless cry and running off down the hall. Oh, come on now, I don't really look that scary, do I? Trilby thought for a second before quickly taking off his mask. It was a Halloween mask that could be seen through by the wearer, but made their whole head seem like a black, featureless void. After pocketing the thing, he stuck his head cautiously out the door. He didn't think the man went downstairs, that was good. Trilby quietly stepped out into the hall. He spotted a window to his right, trying it, it seemed to be stuck like the one in the office. Somehow, it figured. Trilby started down the hall. He hadn't heard a door slam. There only seemed to be about five rooms on the whole second floor. This was a modest house indeed. Trilby began trying the doors, as long as the little office mole had locked himself in, he wouldn't be a threat to him, probably. Indeed, most of the doors were locked. He came to one at the end of the hall that wasn't. It was a bathroom, almost spotless but with nothing of worth, nor was the man there. Maybe. The shower curtain was closed. Trilby cautiously approached the tub, keeping his feet on the rug so as to make little noise. He quickly pulled the curtain aside. Nothing. It was time to go.
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