“Prussian,” said Julian. “Have to be, with those military flagpoles up their tails.”
Prussian, Matthew thought with a feeling in his gut like a twinge of rising bile. The one Prussian he had ever known—and one too many—was the deadly swordsman Count Anton Mannerheim Dahlgren, who at the moment should be bones in the belly of whatever Atlantic ocean shark had managed to digest the bastard.
At the door the uniformed man was speaking. Sir Polar Bear nodded, and then he and Clown Face came back down the stairs in their stately marching order as the mansion’s door was shut and apparently the business finished. They came back through the gate, which was also closed behind them by the impassive guard. An instruction was given from Sir Polar Bear to the driver of their hackney, the two climbed back in, closed the cab’s door, and the carriage started off, passing Matthew and Julian, their own shivering driver and the steam-snorting Hermes.
“More intrigue!” Julian called up. “Now follow that carriage!”
“Intrigue or not, my ass is an iceberg!” the driver complained, but he unlocked the carriage’s brake as Matthew climbed up beside him again and Julian took his place within the hackney. With a whipstrike into the air Hermes started off, and this time the carriage ahead was easy to trail at least for a distance because they seemed to be the only two vehicles out and about in this vaunted area of London estates.
Back they travelled into the busier boulevards and thoroughfares of the city. It seemed to Matthew that the Christmas season had made London more of a beehive than ever, even at the midnight hour. Hackneys came out from all directions, veered off this way and that, but Matthew kept his focus squarely on the one carrying the two—Prussian?—clowns.
In another ten minutes they were stopping back where Benson had halted the coach to let the Turlentorts out: in front of the red-carpeted steps underneath a red awning that protected the entrance to the Mayfair Arms Inn, which was a huge elegant brownstone building that made New York town’s finest Dock House Inn look like a near relation to The Octopus Garden. The edifice boasted four floors and had a castle-like turret up at each of its corners along with a forest of chimneys, all of which seemed to be spouting smoke into the snowfall. The two objects of current attention were disembarking from their carriage, the hackney’s door being opened for them by a red-liveried footman wearing a ten-ton white wig and with white stockings up to his knobby knees.
As Hermes’ driver pulled their carriage up behind the one ahead, Matthew saw Sir Polar Bear, who had in his grip a small brown satchel, gesturing for aid to unpack the bags laced up beneath canvas on the luggage platform at the rear of the hack. In turn the footman blew into a whistle that brought a pair of other similarly-clad attendants running. Sir Polar Bear paid the driver with glittering silver and then he and Clown Face marched up the steps and into the Mayfair Arms while the footman strode ahead to open all closed doors as if the strange guests had no arms of their own.
Julian was out of the carriage with his saddlebag over his shoulder and his sword’s scabbard in its rightful place. He handed six shillings up to Matthew and Matthew passed them to the driver, who tipped his hat and said, “Thankee sir, and good luck with all yer intrigues.”
Matthew climbed down and watched as Julian stood to one side observing the removal of the many pieces of luggage belonging to the two men they’d followed. As the canvas was unlaced, revealed beneath were a pair of large trunks, four smaller cases and four hatboxes. The attendants struggled to carry one of the trunks between them into the building. As noble Hermes pulled the trusty carriage away into the flurries, Julian said, “I think we should give them some help. Here.” He tossed one of the smaller cases to Matthew and picked up another one.
“Hey! Hey!” called the hack’s driver, who was on the ground feeding his horse pieces of a dried apple. “What’re you doin’ there?”
“We’re part of the delegation,” Julian answered with an upthrust of his chin. “And the last servant who spoke so rudely to me got a skewer in his kidneys.” He put a hand on his sword.
The driver pulled his hat down lower over his eyes, so as not to see anything more. He shrugged and muttered, “I ain’t speakin’.”
“Come along, Manfred,” Julian directed.
They went up the red-carpeted steps through the double oak doors into the Mayfair Arms. Matthew was struck with a myriad of impressions: first of all, blessed warmth and crackling logs in a huge fireplace with gold-hued marble tiles forming the mantle, colored lanterns and boughs of holly hanging from oak beams in a high-ceilinged lobby, a trio of musicians playing with dignified tones two violins and a flute, a number of seating areas containing overstuffed leather chairs and sofas here and there on the smooth and polished dark brown timbers of the floor, and above it all a massive chandelier that must contain at least sixty lighted candles. A distance away stood Sir Polar Bear and Clown Face at a desk where a slight young man in a dark blue suit and a restrained white wig was signing them in on a ledger book. A few other guests were seated near the musicians for the late-night musicale, a grandfather clock ticked quietly in a corner, and all seemed right in this world of the wealthy.
The footman was coming toward Matthew and Julian on his way out again, with the two attendants at his heels. Over by a wide red-carpeted staircase with man-sized wooden statues of angels standing on either side of the bannisters the first trunk had been set down, the other baggage to follow in preparation of hauling all of it up to the new arrivals’ chamber.
Julian reached out and caught the footman’s arm, at the same time turning his back on the clerk’s desk which stood perhaps twenty feet away.
“What kind of establishment are you running here?” Julian asked, his voice sharp enough to convey irritation but not so sharp as to prick the ears of anyone else. “Must your guests carry in their own bags from this frigid night and have no one to greet their carriage?”
“I…I’m sorry, sir. But due to the lateness of the hour and of course the weather, I have only these two attendants on—”
“No excuses! I am absolutely mortified that we have travelled so far to be treated as common…well, as common! What is your name?”
As this was going on, Matthew saw Julian sneak a glance at the clerk’s desk and he realized this was a stalling game to get the two men up the stairs and out of the lobby. Sir Polar Bear and Clown Face were obviously in a hurry as well, because the key was already being offered and the clerk motioned with a sweeping gesture toward the staircase.
“Hold your place while I’m speaking to you,” Julian went on, and the two hapless attendants—both young boys who looked terribly uncomfortable in their wigs and tightly buttoned uniforms—stood behind the footman as if seeking his protection, as much as frightened mice could seek the protection of a spindly scarecrow. “My associate and I have been guests in many inns across this country, and indeed across Europe, and I am simply astonished at the lack of—”
Matthew nudged him. The objects of interest were ascending the stairs with their quickstep military gait.
“Keep calm and carry on,” Julian said to his audience, and just like that he released them from their state of siege. They rushed on out, Matthew followed Julian to the clerk’s desk, and Julian set the case he was holding atop it. “Booking for Randolph Mowbrey,” he said. “And associate, Mr. Spottle.” While the clerk was checking the ledger for these names that were not there, Julian added, “That would be Count Randolph Mowbrey.”
“Of course,” said the clerk, whose brow was furrowing as his finger ticked down the list on his ledger. “Odd…I don’t see those names.”
“Our agent here made the booking some time ago. We’re with the Prussian delegation who just arrived. The two gentlemen before us.” To the clerk’s blank stare, Julian said loftily, “We are the interpreters, and we would like the room next to theirs.”
“Um…sir…I don’t think I can—”
>
“This is quite the beautiful lobby,” Julian interrupted with a smile, but his voice still carried a hint of disdain. “I’d say it’s easily the equal to the lobby of the Imperiale in Konigsberg. Wouldn’t you, Mr. Spottle?”
“Easily,” said Matthew, wondering where that ridiculous moniker had come from.
“A room next to our patrons,” Julian said. “We have just gotten off the ship, we are in need of shaves and baths—as I imagine you might realize—and the rest of our luggage has been delayed in being unloaded at the dock due to some error or another.” He flipped a hand into the air to display further annoyance. “Therefore we are in no mood for further errors. A room, if you please.”
“Well…Count Mowbrey…I can offer you a room on the same floor, but…it won’t be a Grand Suite as Count Pellegar has been given.”
“What room and how far from Count Pellegar’s, then?” Julian spoke the name as if he heard it every minute of every day.
“Number twenty-six, on the second floor at the end of the hallway. Count Pellegar and Baron Brux are in twenty-one. The room is readied for a gentleman who has yet to arrive but I can place him elsewhere. Your window’s view would unfortunately be of a brick wall.”
Julian gave a frown of distaste. “Horrible! But…I suppose it’ll have to do. You know, sometime in the future I hope inns are able to prevent these kinds of booking errors.”
“Yes, my hope as well, your Excellency. If you would sign, here, please. And I might ask for the prepayment of the nightly rate of two guineas?”
“Two guineas? The night is almost done! And with such an unsightly view and disregard for our arrival?” Julian paused in his penmanship. “What say one guinea for tonight, and we shall pay for the remainder of our stay tomorrow once all is sorted out?”
The clerk was obviously taken aback by this suggestion, because he stuttered a bit before he said, “I do understand your meaning, your Excellency, but—”
“Agreed, then!” Julian was already drawing out his sword, which caused the clerk another few seconds of consternation, but his expression relaxed when he saw the golden guinea that Count Mowbrey removed from the belt and placed with great care exactly at the center of the man’s open ledger. “Can’t be too careful, with all the rascals about,” Julian explained as he put the belt away and replaced the sword. “We’ll carry our own bags. The key, if you please?”
“Spottle?” asked Matthew as they ascended the grand staircase.
“The name of a stray dog I took in when I was a small boy. I had to think fast. And I once killed a man named Randolph Mowbrey, so he won’t mind.”
The second-floor hallway was also richly carpeted in red. Matthew saw that there looked to be only six rooms per floor, three facing three. As Julian unlocked the door of number twenty-six at the corridor’s far end, he said quietly, “We’ll wait for their luggage to come up and everything to settle. We don’t want any interruptions to spoil our party.”
Matthew had dreaded this, but he’d known it was coming. They had to get into number twenty-one and find out whatever they could, and that meant Julian’s penchant for violence might be at free rein.
Their room did have a window that faced a brick wall, but the space was perhaps three times as large as the dairyhouse that Matthew called home in New York. The glow of a trio of oil lamps around the chamber cast merry light and spoke of the care the Mayfair Arms gave to its guests, making sure illumination was available to the gentleman who had booked the room but failed to arrive. Everything but the view was a study in good taste and expensive decoration, from the medieval tapestry that draped one wall to the black leather chairs situated around an oak table, a long black leather sofa and a canopied bed with an ornate carved headboard. The room smelled only faintly of the whale oil, but mostly of clean leather and fresh linens.
“A gold-plated bedpan is in here somewhere, I’m sure,” said Julian as he put the purloined case down on the floor. Matthew put his own stolen case on one of the chairs and then walked to a washstand that held a small mirror on a pedestal, a washbasin, a cake of soap, a handtowel and a straight razor. “I presume the well is down in the lower cellar where the peasants are laboring night and day,” Julian said. He took the saddlebag from his shoulder and tossed it on the bed, followed by his sword.
“Likely,” Matthew answered. “We’ll probably get a servant up here shortly with some water.” He peered into the mirror and saw a weary-looking stranger with four days of beard on his face. Had he ever looked so old before, and so worried?
Julian took his tricorn off. His blonde hair stood up like hay that had been attacked with a pitchfork. He eased down into one of the chairs, removed the small spurs from his boots and put his feet up on the table. When he yawned and stretched a muscle popped in his shoulder. “I could go to sleep right now and remain unconscious until morning, but it’s not to be. I’m interested in that satchel Pellegar was carrying so closely. Holding documents of value, do you think?”
“No idea.” Matthew turned away from the mirror. “You’re not going to have to kill anyone tonight, are you?”
“Absolutely not. Unless I have to.”
“I’m not in this to murder anyone.”
“Ah,” said Julian with a faint smile that Matthew took as mockery, “the man on the high wire. Balanced between his values and his purpose. If murder would save your Berry, would you refuse it? And by not committing murder, thus Berry would be doomed? What do you say?”
“I say that’s a high wire I’ve yet to cross.”
“Avoiding the issue,” said Julian, his eyes hard again, “leads to a fall.”
Matthew had no reply for this, nor did he wish to dwell too long on the matter. He sat down in one of the other chairs, took his tricorn, the woolen cap and his gloves off, leaned his head back and thought he too could close his eyes and sleep until morning, if not longer.
Sometime later there came a knock at the door. At once Julian was up and striding past Matthew’s chair. “Yes?” he asked whoever was on the other side.
“Hot water, your Excellency.”
It was a servant bearing the gift of a large ceramic bowl with a hinged metal lid on the top. Steam was rising through little holes in the lid and the bowl was so hot the youth was wearing soft leather gloves. He opened the lid, which revealed a spout, and poured water into the washbasin, after which he placed the bowl atop the washstand. “Anything more for you gentlemen?” he asked. “Another lantern or two? The Mayfair Tavern is closin’ in half-an-hour, do you require any food or ale?”
“We’re fine for tonight,” said Julian, who gave the servant two shillings. “Oh,” he said before the boy opened the door, “we’re with the Prussian gentlemen in number twenty-one. Has their luggage been brought up yet?”
“Yes sir, it has. Well…except they say they’re missin’ two bags, and it looks like maybe they weren’t taken off the hack, or…I don’t know, sir, it happens sometimes.”
“Indeed. And those gentlemen have been tended to just as you’re tending to us?” Julian softened his tone when both he and Matthew realized the servant might wonder at this interest. “We’re being paid to make sure they’re comfortable,” he explained. “They’re a finicky lot.”
“I see. Yes sir, I brought up their hot water before I brought yours.”
“And they asked for nothing more? I mean…with the English they know to speak?”
“The bald-headed gentleman’s hot about the missin’ bags, but he asked only for peace and quiet,” said the youth. “Nothin’ more.”
“Very good. It’s comforting to know they’re settled in for the night. Thank you, then, and goodnight to you.”
The youth said goodnight and left with the shillings in his pocket.
When the door was closed again, Julian turned to face Matthew. “Someone’s going to put two and two together here pretty soon, and that c
lerk or his manager will be asking us questions about missing bags. I don’t think they’ll do that tonight, though.” He crossed the room and started to pick up his sword and scabbard but then thought better of it. He did reach down to rest his hand on the reassuring pistol, though, which would be out of view beneath the cloak. “So,” he said, squaring his shoulders, “let’s go meet the neighbors and take them their luggage, shall we? And don’t fret, Matthew. Those two look like puffs of whiffle dust, so I seriously doubt murder will be necessary tonight.”
“Says the man with a four-barrelled pistol,” Matthew said as he stood up on aching legs.
“Accompanied by the man with a pistol and a dagger,” Julian answered. He put his tricorn back on and tilted it at its usual rakish angle. “If anyone is dressed to kill, it’s you. Come on, then, let us ease their worried Prussian minds.”
eleven.
Julian looked up and down the hallway. There was no one else in sight. He held the case he’d taken, and standing just behind him Matthew had hold of the second case. Julian gave a nod to Matthew, and then he walked to the door of number twenty-one and knocked.
A moment of silence passed. Then from behind the door came a voice: “Was ist es?”
“Pardon the intrusion,” Julian said quietly, his mouth up close to the door, “but my friend and I have found your missing luggage.”
“Gepack? That is…luggage?” The door came open wide enough to admit a face that was glistening with some kind of beauty cream. It was long, pale and angular with a thin nose that twisted slightly to the right on its steep descent from the high forehead and the totally bald pate. Matthew caught a glimpse of a dark purple robe under the man’s pointed chin. The eyes in the pallid face were deepset and as black as inkwells under mere wisps of blonde brows. They found the two cases and the man’s nearly-lipless mouth said, “Ah! Yes!”
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