Saltwater Grudge Chapter Seven: The Depth of the Lie

            The basement smelled of old stone and stagnant water. Julian was chained to a heavy wooden pillar, the iron cuffs biting into his wrists. The floor was covered in a few inches of freezing seawater that ebbed and flowed with the tide outside. He was in the cellars of the Vane manor, a sprawling Victorian pile that sat on a private stretch of the coast, hidden from the world by high stone walls and ancient trees.

            Arthur Vane stood before him, looking as immaculate as he had at the gala, despite the dampness of the room. He held the silver pocket watch in his hand, turning it over with a look of bored curiosity.

            “My father was a man of many secrets, Mr. Julian,” Arthur said, his voice echoing in the vaulted space. “But he was also a man of great foresight. He knew that one day, someone like you would come along. Someone with just enough intelligence to be dangerous, but not enough to be wise.”

            “He also knew that his son was a murderer,” Julian spat, the salt water stinging the cuts on his face.

            Arthur laughed, a dry, hollow sound. “Murder is such a vulgar word. I prefer to think of it as an audit. Thomas was stealing from the estate. He thought he could use the coordinates to blackmail me. He forgot that the sea is a very effective way to settle a debt.”

            “You killed him because he found the vault,” Julian said. “And you’re going to kill me because I know where it is.”

            “I’m going to kill you because you’re a nuisance,” Arthur corrected him. “But first, you’re going to tell me where the ledger is. The one Thomas mentioned in his final moments. The one that contains the names of every official we’ve ever bought.”

            Julian stayed silent. He didn't know where the ledger was, but he knew that as long as Arthur thought he did, he was alive. He watched the water level rising. It was up to his knees now. In another hour, it would be at his waist. By high tide, it would be over his head.

            “I’ll give you some time to reflect,” Arthur said, turning toward the stairs. “The tide is very persuasive. I’ve found that even the most stubborn men become quite talkative when the water reaches their chin.”

            As Arthur left, Julian began to work on the chains. He was a man of the sea; he knew how to move in water. He felt around the base of the pillar, his fingers searching for a weakness in the wood. It was old, rotted by decades of damp. He began to kick at the base, the impact sending jolts of pain through his injured ribs.

            He worked with a desperate, focused energy. The water was at his waist now, the cold numbing his legs. He kicked again and again, the wood splintering. Finally, with a sickening crack, the base of the pillar gave way. He was still chained to the wood, but he could move.

            He dragged himself toward the far wall, where a small, barred window looked out at the waves. Above the window, he saw a loose stone. He pulled at it, his fingers bleeding, until it came free. Behind it, wrapped in oilcloth, was a heavy book.

            The ledger.

            Thomas hadn't mailed it. He hadn't hidden it in a safe. He had brought it here, to the heart of the enemy’s territory, knowing that it was the last place they would look. Julian tucked the book into his shirt and turned back to the window. The bars were rusted, eaten away by the salt. Using the loose stone as a hammer, he began to beat at the iron.

            The water was at his chest now. He could feel the pressure of the tide against the walls. He struck the bars one last time, and they gave way. He squeezed through the narrow opening just as a wave crashed into the room, filling it to the ceiling. He surfaced in the churning sea, the cold hitting him like a physical blow, but he was free. He struck out for the shore, the ledger pressed against his heart, a weight that felt like salvation.