The Count's Revenge
an excerpt

11 April 1898
Morris Mansion, The Strand, Galveston, Texas

The brick of the large house gleamed darkly in the falling rain. The same rain kept most passers by off the streets, and the few exceptions kept heads down, paying no mind to anything except scurrying for shelter. The rain was an added bonus to the night’s work, and the small dark man wondered if it’d been sent to help him. He’d been warned to expect no aid, but still he wondered.

The Morris family was, if his information was correct, away for the evening, at a party hosted by Nicholas Joseph Clayton – doctor, architect, or some such.

A coach rattled by, splashing through puddles on the cobbles, and flinging bits of wet sand up as it passed. Sand, sand, everywhere there was sand, here; the legacy of the nearby ocean. Even over the sounds of falling rain and street sounds, the sound of the surf was audible. Audible, and a subtly luring distraction.

The small man shook himself. He could afford no distractions. Neither the rain nor the party would last forever. Perhaps, if he pleased the master, he himself would. To work!

The front door, though tempting, would not do. While he could doubtless handle the staff, doing so in a way that might be noisy – might even result in someone escaping into the street – would not answer. After a last glance around – no one paid him the slightest attention – the small dark man moved down the alley to the carriage barn at the rear of the house. The rain began to beat down harder.

Light shone from windows on either side of the alley, and once a shadow of movement brought the man to a halt – someone in the Morris house pulling curtains more tightly closed. The man paused long enough to make certain he’d not been seen, unlikely though that may be, in the dark thorough rain-swept windows – then moved on.

At the rear of the house there was more light – not just from various windows, but lamps were lit at both the carriage barn and the rear door to the house. The man ducked around the corner of the alley, out of sight from anyone that might pass by on the street, and froze again, watching, listening. Water found its way inside his coat, trickled down his back. Rain beat against his face, tasting of salt. Memories of home told him the rain should be cold, but it was not.

Nothing moved in the court yard, and no sound could be heard over the rain. The small dark man moved to the door to the house, and stopped again to listen. He could hear voices, now.

“Well, Mistah Morris gonna do what he gonna do, make no mistake ‘bout it; but me, I’da stayed in on such a night as this.” A clatter – falling dishes? – drowned out whatever the response may have been, followed by cursing. The voices were female.

So. Morris was, indeed, away. But the back door would not do for a way in. It would not do to be seen so soon, no – that was for after the task was done. The man looked up at the back of the house. Darkened windows on the second floor would answer nicely.

The man knelt and quickly removed boots and stockings. He stuffed the stockings into the boots and, from inside his coat, produced a length of fine rope. It was a moment’s work to tie the boots together and sling them across his back, and then he turned to the brick wall of the house, and began to climb.