In a Stranger's Shoes, part 7

Read the previous part Here.

Now that I have the knowledge that there might be clues in the next room, I can't rest. It is midnight. I was brought in some food at seven; I was given an injection at ten. Fortunately I had the chance of replacing the injections with water, so I am not drugged. In the last few hours, I have devised a plan to get to the next room. It is time to execute the design. I open the window and climb out of it. The cold wind blows against my face. I feel the life, the adventure that I always sought in my teenage years. I had wanted to be a cop and was the topper in the academy, but my father's sudden demise and my greedy relatives had caused me to work as a journalist. Striving to push the past aside, I fling myself from the supporting bars and land on the sill of the window in the next room. A sharp fist jab on the wood forces it to open. I step in the room. As I am about to reach for the light switch, I realize I have company. I am startled by someone's muffled cries coming from the same room. Did they find out? As I wait for them to make the move, the cries become more distinct. It is a female voice crying out in French. I can make out the words aider, laissez-moi which in my language mean help, leave me. I hit the switch and light shatters the darkness in the room. I see an impeccably beautiful woman clad in a white dress tied to the bed. Her limbs and her mouth are tied with cloth. On seeing me she stops. I untie her and she embraces me. “Jean. Jean. s'en aller. ils vont te tuer.” It hits me: Jean was the guy in the passport. He and I looked alike, he's the guy who had died in the hotel in Brussels. I was brought here because I bear a striking resemblance to him and now I'll be playing his part in their scheme. I run my hand through her hair and she calms down. “Listen”, I tell her. “I am not Jean. I am Michael Baker.” She draws herself apart from me as she grasps the meaning of my words. She starts sobbing. “Is he dead?”, she asks. “Yes.” I let her cry; tears are the right of a sad soul.

“Who are you?”, she asks.

“I am Michael Baker, an American. I was brought here from Brussels as a hostage. I want to know what these people want from me”, I tell her.

She starts talking,
“Jean was the old Duke's only heir. The old Duke is on his death bed. After the Duke's death, Jean would be the last male survivor of the Walramian line. Our captors work for Jean's distant cousin Robert. Robert draws his blood from the Ottonian Line. Robert can take over the Dukedom only after the Walramian line becomes extinct. However, the old Duke suspected a threat to Jean's life, so he amended the Family-Pact to include a clause wherein if foul play is suspected, the line suspected of foul play can be denied its right to the throne. Thus, Robert could not kill Jean, until he found you. Now his plan is to prove that Jean, i.e. you, are mentally retarded and the right to the throne is his.”


After she finishes, I assure her that Robert would never be able to succeed in his evil plan. Finally I set my eyes on the huge piece of furniture that I had suspected would be in this room. It is a wooden shelf holding books. It has many books, photo albums, even manuscripts. One week of my life certainly deserves more explanation than she has given me. I scan through the books, flipping several pages wildly. I must find out the entire truth. Finally I succeed to retrieve the book that holds the answers to all the questions in my head. I read it.

Read the LAST part here.