The Executioner
by Lawrence C. Connolly
I awoke in an overstuffed bed, in a chamber larger than the whole of my London rooms. Coal burned in the fireplace, but the main source of light came from electric bulbs in two wall-mounted sconces, each trailing a wire that snaked along the wall before vanishing into a hole beside a curtained window.
A cabinet stood open near the fireplace. A tweed suit hung inside. Beside the cabinet, on a dressing table, lay an array of personal items: shirt, collar, tie, leather case. Of these, all but the case appeared to be mine. How they and I had come to be here, I had no idea. Nor did I know where
There was a darkness in me, an emptiness that suggested I had slept far longer than a single night. Yet I recalled no dreams, only the distant memories of a cliff, water, and the body of a man broken on jagged rocks. I had tracked him across the continent, seven-hundred miles to a precipice in the Swiss mountains. The chase had ended there, with him lying dead at the base of a cataract, and I remember looking down at him, watching his body grow larger, expanding in my view as if his broken remains were rising toward me. But in truth it was I who was moving, hurtling downward, still pursuing him even as he lay smashed below the falls. And then, just as the speed of my plunge reduced his body to a blur, I hit the water.
After that, I remembered nothing.
I pushed back the covers and tried getting up. My body ached, the pain worsening as I swung my legs over the side of the bed, looking down at what should have been the floor. But in that instant, it was as if I were back on the cliff, losing my grip on a jagged ledge….
I blinked.
The memory receded. The floor returned. No body beneath me now, only a pair of slippers, fleece-lined, scuffed along the toes. I put them on, feeling their familiar indentations. Like the things in the cabinet and on the table, the slippers were mine.
I found a chamber pot beneath the bed. It was chipped but clean. I knelt beside it, still trying to make sense of where I was. Then I stood and crossed the room, shuffling like a man twice my age, coming at last to the window where I pushed back the curtains and looked out at a moon-lit night. Mountains cut the horizon, jagged peaks of rock and pine. Water roared, muted by distance.
I cupped my hands around my face, blocking the glare from the electric lights until I discerned a silhouetted man standing on a ledge. He wore a greatcoat, hem billowing in the wind. But other than that, and the long hair that whipped about his head, he stood so still that he might have been a statue.
The glass fogged. I wiped it with my sleeve, but when I looked again the figure was gone.
I turned from the window, this time noticing a dining cart and chair behind the dressing table. Had they been there before? A covered tray sat atop the cart, as did a pitcher, drinking glass, smoking kit, and a large sealed envelope. I left the window and raised the cover on the tray: bread, cheese, smoked meats. I covered them again, sat in the chair, and inspected the smoking kit. The case was mine, as were the contents. I took out the pipe, filled its bowl, and turned my attention to the envelope. Inside, I found a letter written on a single sheet of foolscap, folded twice. The handwriting was of a size comparable to the paper: large, elegant, and executed without a single blot or amendment.
It read:
The clothes were indeed mine.
I dressed slowly, favouring my right leg, hip, and shoulder, which I realized, once I had removed my nightshirt, were badly bruised. I found a pocketbook in the jacket pocket. It was new, as were the banknotes inside. A heavy weight in another pocket proved to be a Webley revolver. I had begun carrying one like it in response to threats from the man who had become my obsession, the man I had last seen smashed on the rocks at the base of the falls.
I did not bother with the pharmaceutical case. My pain was severe, but anything strong enough to take away its edge would certainly do the same to my wits.
Leaving the case on the table, I left the room.
More electric fixtures burned in the hall, positioned to illuminate a line of paintings, large reproductions of familiar masterworks. I paused beside one, resting my leg, studying what appeared to be a watercolor of God creating the first man. In it, God hovered in the air, bending low to exhale the breath of life into his creation. I stepped closer, drawn by the expression on God’s face. He looked terrified. An inscription in the painting’s corner read:
The other paintings featured similar subjects. In each, the face of God was the same: slender, pale, apparently terrified.
I reached the stairs and gripped the banister, slowing my pace until I reached a long hall where the only light
