Chapter 17: A Night Visitor

It is my habit before retiring at the end of the evening to check on the well-being of those enjoying my hospitality. Amanda and Estelle were by now well adapted to the regimen that applies to my students and were both resting quietly when I opened the door to the cellar. I checked the locks on their cage doors and the security of the straps about their wrists and ankles. For Estelle, hooded following an instance of defiance that afternoon, I ensured that her discomfort was no more than I intended.

Then, confident that all was secure, I took myself off to my bedroom up on the third floor. Upon my nightstand, a small glass of green tea sat steaming in a welcoming way, promising relaxation before sleep. Beside it, the evening newspaper, untouched until now, lay neatly folded; offering a measure of diversion from my own concerns. Had I wished for consideration of more weighty matters – not, I consider, a good idea when contemplating a night's sleep – a volume relating the analysis of no less than fifty instances of enhanced female sexual response as a result of stress-induced hysteria also awaited my attention.

I contented myself with the green tea and the news in the paper of an extraordinary talent contest sponsored by the publisher whereby seeming unknowns from the streets of the metropolis were encouraged to imagine that they could somehow be transmuted into stars of the Music Hall overnight. I was considering penning a note to the editor expressing my views on the folly of this venture when I heard a noise from the house below.

In that instant I suddenly realised that in all my efforts to prevent those within my establishment from leaving I had never thought of investing to prevent those from outside from penetrating it. At once, I was concerned that my premises were under attack.

I thought of attempting to summon the constabulary but realised that any attempt to call for help would alert the intruder. Besides, although my activities are in every sense legal, I am sufficiently aware of how my methods would be perceived by the man in the street to be wary of exposing my activities to those who are not as enlightened as my clients. I resolved to tackle the intruder myself.

The stairway was dark but I know it well and felt no need to light the gas mantles. I made my way to the kitchen. The crunch of broken glass beneath my feet and the draft of cold air from an open window told me that there was, indeed, an unwelcome visitor.

I made my way back to the hall. A flicker of light from a shrouded lantern briefly lit up the edge of the door to my consulting rooms. I worked my way silently along the corridor towards it. Noises from inside suggested that whoever was there was busily searching the room.

Taking my opportunity and believing that whoever was there would be sufficiently distracted by their task not to detect my approach, I slid the door open.

Crouched over my desk a black-clad figure was rummaging through my papers and files.

I came upon the figure from behind, taking him – for I assumed the figure must be male –completely by surprise, grabbing with both my arms and wrestling him around and away from the desk. As the two of us span about, the intruder attempted to wriggle free, kicking out at my legs. With a lucky (for the intruder) blow, I was caught off balance and slipped, losing my hold. The intruder turned to run.

In that moment, the identity of my assailant was revealed to me. As the black-clad figure in tight trousers, roll necked sweater and ski mask turned sideways on, a light from the street outside shone through a gap in the curtains and across the distinctive profile of Ngoya Mbute's impressive breasts. She gave a muttered curse beneath her breath and then pushed past me, into the hall and back out to the kitchen. I pulled myself up from the floor and gave chase, but by the time I reached the garden she had disappeared into the darkness, leaving me to puzzle on her intensions.