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Lymond breathed in and smiled, with his cheek pressed against the cold concrete beneath him. The still-cool May had lowered the early morning temperature in his cell. As footsteps echoed down the hall, the young man lithely twisted himself into a carefree sitting position with his hands draped over his knees, long fingers quietly drumming against his leg as a feline grin greeted the woman standing in front him. His faced, carved from marble and still retaining the polish of youth, was striking, even with the bruises that stretched down the left side of his face. The white silk shirt, open to the neck, and the black pants he wore also bore the marks of fighting. The detective reached for her keys as his honeyed voice addressed her.
Good morning, Detective.
Wordlessly, the detective opened his door and led him down the long hall. She would have been more concerned if it were not for the eight patrolmen who surrounded the two of them. Lymond walked with a small smile, apparently oblivious of the mass of humanity that hemmed him in. They reached a small room with a table and a few chairs- the patrolmen took up their stations behind him with stone faces. The detective took a seat across from him, surprised by such attic detachment from one who looked so young. She dropped her eyes when faced with his icy blue gaze, focusing instead on his file in front of her.
"Francis Crawford of Lymond, Alias Lymond. Country of Origin: Scotland. Age: Unknown. Relations: Unknown. Suspected Offenses: Murder, Arson, Larceny, Bribery of Public Officials, Forgery, Kidnapping. Convicted Offenses: None. Reports that he is wanted dead or alive by various men for... romantic liasons. Polyglot. Master of small firearms and... swords?"
For the first time, the detective pauses and looks up.
"I was a spirited youth. One of my hobbies."
"Obviously you had a busy childhood. Where did you grow up, Mr. Crawford?"
"Lymond will suffice. And oh, here and there. England. France. Russia. Not much to tell, really."
"Then why don't you tell me about what happened last night, instead?"
"Not much to tell, really. I must have been in some sort of bar fight, but I simply can't remember."
"Witnesses say that a man roughly fitting your description was attacked on board of a ship travelling from England. That four men were left bleeding on the deck, one with a knife in his chest. And the only survivor refuses to leave the ship or speak to anyone. This morning, we find you washed up on shore with nothing but your clothes and a letter, illegible. What happened? We're willing to accept self defense, you just need to tell us what really happened."
A small smile and a shrug told her he was already gone. Within 45 minutes he was walking out the front door, blinking in the spring sun. The New World, indeed. And new opportunities abounded. But for now, he dropped himself onto a park bench to watch, and to learn. |
