“Thank you, no, Mr. Zaharoff. Zed-Zed,” Mycroft corrected himself. “What I wish above all is what I came for: information about Bingwen Shi.”
“So, at least now we are negotiating like men! In exchange for your discreet silence regarding my forays in Bristol, I shall provide you with Bingwen Shi’s whereabouts. And I shall do you one better: as proof of my goodwill, I shall even give you the means to extricate him. As to why he is in that predicament, I cannot reveal, for it would jeopardize my business interests, and that must be where I draw the line.”
“Thank you,” Mycroft said, rising to his feet. “I will provide your secretary with my address, as well as that of Mr. Shi’s fiancée, who must be kept apprised of matters as they unfold.”
“You must have a deep regard for Mr. Shi—or perhaps for members of the Lin family?” Zaharoff asked as he led the way out. At the exit, he placed his hand upon Mycroft’s shoulder.
“You must understand, Mr. Holmes,” he said, leaning in, “that in shifting political winds, what was not remotely dangerous becomes suddenly fraught. Reputations are destroyed in an instant. Thus, I am sometimes compelled to make a severe example of someone with whom I associate.”
“And why did you feel compelled to make an example of Bingwen Shi?” Mycroft asked.
“Ah. Once again, you know more than you let on, Mr. Holmes. Let us say that Bingwen Shi did not hold up his end of a bargain with me. He was a disappointment. If you, who are not at all in my line of work, have heard the more scabrous mythologies of my reputation, then it stands to reason that whatever I am doing to guard against perennial mutiny and shoddy maneuverings must be working adequately, yes?”
“Indubitably,” Mycroft said. “It is stunning how open to reason people can be, the moment they fear you. Is that not so, Zed-Zed?”
“Oh, it is, Mr. Holmes, it is,” Zaharoff replied, seemingly overlooking Mycroft’s jab. “I truly look forward to our ongoing association, for I believe you shall be invaluable to me.
“As for you, Mr. Douglas,” he added, “I should be remiss if I did not know a thing or two about all my guests. I know that you are an owner of the excellent Regent Tobaccos, as well as the secret benefactor of Nickolus House, named after your deceased son, if I am not mistaken. I know you are an expert in the art of capoeira, and I would love nothing more than a demonstration someday. Given all that, your value has yet to be proven. But, as you are Mr. Holmes’s dear friend, I must assume it is substantial indeed.”
“Thank you, Mr. Zaharoff,” Douglas said curtly. “But I cannot fathom what value I could ever have to you.”
Or what value I would ever wish to have, he thought sourly, for he knew full well that the purpose of Zaharoff’s recitation was meant to intimidate. Far from having been lulled into complacency, as he had feared, Douglas could not recall disliking anybody more than he disliked ‘Zed-Zed’ Zaharoff.
30
BY THE TIME MYCROFT AND DOUGLAS WERE BACK outside, the rain had lessened to a trickle and the street was swelling with mid-afternoon foot traffic anxious to get about its business once again. As Mycroft waved for the Queen’s chartered carriage to come back round, he thought that he might offer Douglas a lift back to Nickolus House. For Douglas, likely as a money-saving measure, had traveled the two miles from Old Pye Street to Berkeley Square on foot, and Mycroft could tell from the scent in the air and upon the ground, and from the shape of the clouds, that the current respite would be temporary.
The offer was not entirely altruistic, for Mycroft was feeling victorious and in the mood for a good Cognac and a cigar, an indulgence he allowed himself with less and less frequency. Though both could be had back at Greville Place, he dreaded an encounter with Sherlock, due back for a night’s rest before proceeding north. The vision of his brother, gleam in his eye and swirl of acrid smoke circling overhead as he recited all things foul—from rampsmen and smashers, to hunters and duffers, and the means and methods of butchery—was simply more than he could bear.
Whereas at Nickolus House, he and Douglas could have a civilized jaw about this more intriguing, and for the moment, less sanguinary case. Douglas’s humidor at Nickolus House held a batch of Mycroft’s favorite smokes of the moment, El Rey del Mundo, though an H. Upmann would do in a pinch. And Douglas might even be persuaded to open that 1800 Napoleon that Mycroft had helped him to luck into a few months before, and that they had set aside for a special occasion. They could indulge while perusing Parfitt’s notes, which Mycroft had not yet had the wherewithal to remove from his pocket…
“The man is a bigamist! Truly, do you intend to remain mum upon that point?”
Mycroft was startled out of his reverie. Douglas, standing beside him, seemed intent on a reply, which made Mycroft feel misunderstood and a tad violated.
“I cannot fathom your priorities, Douglas,” Mycroft said in his own defense. “That Zaharoff may be a murderer is no longer your principal concern, whereas bigamy is the sacred line that one must not tread upon?”
“I find no humor in this,” Douglas shot back. “Clearly, in the panoply of sins, murder is at the highest tier. However, his murdering ways are as yet unproven, whereas there is a woman in Bristol who deserves to know that she is not the only wife to that man. As does, by the by, his first wife.”
In the tense silence that followed, Mycroft watched the maneuvering of the carriage past the jumble of rigs, carts, and pedestrians, all dodging the young boys whose job it was to scrape up newly deposited horse dung before the clouds opened again. He wondered if the traffic had grown worse over the years, or if his mood simply rendered it, at times, more infernal.
The carriage at last drew up beside them. Carlton, their impressively mustached driver, lowered the folding steps, his impassive expression remaining thus even when neither of his charges made a move inside.
“You admire him,” Douglas said as if he were wiping something unpleasant from his shoe.
“I have no moral judgment of him at all,” Mycroft parried. “It was simply a stratagem: to go on the attack, using the same ethically questionable business moves that Zaharoff has defended many times before, thereby lowering his guard—”
“This, I could not fail to notice,” Douglas replied. “As I cannot now fail to notice your ‘stratagem’ of not answering my question.”
Other drivers were beginning to weave around their carriage and to ring their bells, and when that failed to rouse them, to curse aloud.
“In fact,” Mycroft replied, “if I inform either wife, I lose my ability to negotiate. Bingwen Shi shall be executed, and perhaps you and I shall lose our heads—all for being such short-sighted dullards!”
“I cannot vouch for the rest, but I would wager that we shall be able to keep our heads,” Douglas said.
“Oh? You are certain of that, are you?”
“I am. For I know you, Mycroft. You wear your victories upon your sleeve. To this juncture, at least, he is canary to your cat, which means that we are perfectly secure.”
Circumstances aside, Mycroft had to admire Douglas’s ability to gauge the situation, as all around them the ringing and the cursing grew louder and more vile.
“I am asking you, as a friend, to step inside the carriage,” Mycroft said under his breath. “For I have much to discuss with you, and it cannot be broadcast in the middle of the street. Quite apart from the fact that we are about to start a riot.”
Douglas turned to the driver. “Kindly go about the square a few times—”
“Carlton, you shall do no such thing,” Mycroft protested. “Douglas, I mean to take you as far as Nickolus House—”
“No. Say what you have to say and let us get on with it,” Douglas stated as he climbed aboard.
Mycroft followed meekly, while the driver snapped the stairs into place.
As the brougham once again entered the chaotic flow of traffic, Douglas did not deign to even look at Mycroft; instead, he held open the curtain with one finger and stared outside.
Mycroft waited.
“What,” Douglas said at last, turning to Mycroft as if reluctant to engage, “did you see in that ledger that piqued your interest?”
“You noticed that, did you?” Mycroft said with a smile that he hoped was ingratiating rather than smug.
“Your acumen in reading and retaining might be awe-inspiring,” Douglas replied, “but your skills as an actor are abysmal.”
Clearly, Douglas was not about to give him an inch. Mycroft attempted to keep his temper in check, hoping to salvage not merely the conversation but the friendship.
“Let us not begin at the ledger,” he counseled, “for it contains elements that perforce must come last—”
“So what comes first?” Douglas challenged. “For Zaharoff kept his offices as inoffensive as possible, so that nothing of his business dealings could be discerned therein.”
“He did,” Mycroft agreed. “Nonetheless, there were clues here and there as to what motivates him. Such as the illustrated translation of Alexander Pope’s The Iliad, first edition.”
Douglas nodded. “I did see that,” he said. “Impressive binding, hard to miss. What of it?”
“Did you also see that small portrait of an obscure subject, the one with the gold tag that read ‘Giovanni Aurispa’?”
“I did not.”
“From what I recall, Aurispa was a fifteenth-century Italian savant and historian who is credited with bringing a tenth-century manuscript—the earliest known version of Homer’s epic poem—to Venice. Both the book and the Venetus A, for that is what the manuscript is called, point irrevocably to what I had already surmised upon seeing Count Wolfgang’s suite in Vienna: Zaharoff is more than simply ‘invested’ in Schliemann’s archeological digs; he is obsessed with finding the elusive golden treasures of Troy. A rather ironic Achilles heel, do you not agree? In any event, I am keen to use it to my advantage. For he does not know how much money I have. He cannot know. Why would he? To this point, I have been no threat to him. And by the time he finds out that I might have a bit more than he thinks, I shall have won away a goodly portion of his treasure.”
“It is that very thing, Mycroft, that concerns me. You seem to view this as a game.”
“Surely there is nothing alarming in that. For do you not also gauge various aspects of mortal life to be a test?”
“I do indeed,” Douglas admitted.
“Well, then. A test, a game—what is the difference? Another clue to Zaharoff’s business ventures was his offer of the 1873 Winchester itself,” Mycroft continued. “Even if one has close dealings with the company, those newest models are quite hard to come by. Which means that Zaharoff must have been instrumental in Winchester’s largest sale to date: forty-five thousand of the earlier model, the Winchester 1866. Now, Britain’s spy network did manage to alert the War Office just this year as to the sale, for it was substantial; but no one to this point had been able to establish either broker or buyer of said weapons.”
“You are saying that Zaharoff is the broker.”
“I can guarantee it. Usually so open with his double dealings, he has managed to hold this particular transaction close to the chest, which of course piqued my curiosity the moment he mentioned his association with Winchester, for I perused all documents at the War Office pertaining to him, as well as all arms transactions of the past three years, and I saw no such link.”
“So you made a guess.”
“An educated one. And when I saw his countenance darken, I knew I was correct.”
“So now you have guessed the broker,” Douglas underscored. “But how can you, from that, make out the purchaser?”
“From what I have read of Zaharoff, there is but one country that is near to his heart. His homeland. I believe that cache of weapons was sold to the Ottoman Empire, for their burgeoning conflict with Russia. That of course would come as a very unwelcome surprise to the Russians. A bit of faulty intelligence, and Russia could underestimate both the cache and the quality of weapons coming against them. Our advance knowledge of the matter could save them thousands of lives.”
“If you choose to reveal it,” Douglas interjected. “If instead it is to England’s advantage to remain silent on the matter, those ‘thousands’ will die… the unfortunate detritus of war. Rather hideous. Out of curiosity, this information about Zaharoff that you unearthed—when did you do so?”
“Earlier today. Why?”
“And in how much time? Two hours? Three?”
“How is that pertinent?”
“In how much time, Mycroft? Give me the satisfaction of knowing, at least.”
“An hour five, and I still do not see—”
“Because we mortals are astounded by such things,” Douglas declared. “Because it seems that momentous decisions affecting many upon the world stage can turn on just this sort of a detail that you ferret out in moments and then place into your pocket for later use.”
“Surely you are exaggerating for effect,” Mycroft countered.
“Am I? You decide whether or not to reveal such information depending on how it serves Britain. Or your family. Or me, for that matter.”
“What would you have me do instead?” Mycroft asked, feeling his anger rise.
“Tell the truth. I grant that the cost is high. But to act ethically, regardless, does not make one a—what did you call it? A ‘short-sighted dullard’? Your newfound friend Zaharoff is a monster, one with myriad tentacles. And one does not negotiate with monsters,” he concluded.
Mycroft stared at him impatiently. “He is not my friend. And you know better than to try to twist my arm with a bromide. Now, might we cease to go around in proverbial as well as literal circles? For, as I said, I shall gladly give you a lift wherever you wish to go.”
“Again I thank you, but I prefer to walk,” Douglas said.
He rapped his knuckles against the trap and requested that the driver halt.
“Douglas, do not be a goose,” Mycroft exclaimed. “The lull in the clouds is fleeting; you will catch your death!”
But Douglas would not be mollified. “By the by,” he said softly. “There is a difference between a test and a game. A test presupposes the existence of a tester as well as of a test-taker, whereas a game is naught but competition between two human beings, and presupposes nothing but itself.”
Mycroft watched Douglas step out of the carriage, dig his hands into his pockets, and, with his head slightly bowed, move away until he became one among the throng and was finally out of sight.
* * *
Douglas had gone on foot less than a mile when, as Mycroft had predicted, the lull ended and the rain returned with a vengeance, complete with blasting draughts that laughed the month of May to scorn. Turning up his collar did no good at all, for the wind was a ruffian, and a noisy one at that, peppering its ceaseless complaints with whistles and moans. A rapid walker regardless of the weather (lest anyone object to a black man strolling along at too leisurely a pace), Douglas lowered his head another quarter inch and hugged himself into his sodden overcoat just as a gust of wind funneled past the walls on either side of him and buffeted him sideways. He realized that to attempt to push on all the way to Old Pye Street and Nickolus House was nothing but sheer stubbornness and stupidity on his part.
Perhaps he could take a detour to the Red Lion. The owners had always been kind, and would welcome him; but even that might be too severe a trek. So he turned back and headed in the opposite direction, for the closest respite where he might wait out the frenzied rain was his own Regent Tobaccos. At least Mr. and Mrs. Pennywhistle would not cast him out because of the color of his sodden skin!
As thunder rumbled above, temporarily undoing any other sound but itself, Douglas dashed down Conduit Street and then turned onto Regent Street towards the shop.
He sprinted up the steps and tried the door, but it was locked, and he had not thought to bring his key. Assuming that Mr. P. was in the back with a customer, he rang the bell and called out; and he hear
d the faint voice of Mr. P. return the call: “Douglas? Is that you? A moment!”
Douglas was reaching again for the knob when he felt something hard land squarely upon the crown of his head.
He spun around to see what it was, or to defend himself if need be, when he felt his legs collapse beneath him… and after that, he felt no more.
31
WITHIN MOMENTS OF DOUGLAS’S DEPARTURE, THE STORM that Mycroft had predicted made its appearance. By the time the carriage was approaching St. John’s Wood, it had become a veritable draining of the heavenly fountains. Mycroft calculated the first volley and what he knew to be Douglas’s usual walking pace. He considered which inns were likely to welcome his friend, along with a handful of others that would not—at least not without a fair-skinned companion by his side. He would most likely have sought shelter at the Red Lion, though the smarter move would have been to retrace his steps and make for Regent Tobaccos, which lay less than a half-mile from Berkeley Square, and so was the closest of the two better options.
Whichever locale he had chosen, Mycroft assured himself that his friend was out of the weather, perhaps nursing a beer at the first locale or having a nice cup of tea at the second, while Mrs. Pennywhistle fussed over him like a brood hen. But, if Douglas were biding his time for the storm to pass, he would have quite the long wait. Newspaper predictions notwithstanding, it was certain to remain stubbornly overhead for the next several days.
Serves him right! Mycroft thought. For Douglas had upended their plans. Instead of lingering by a welcoming fire in a homely kitchen, Mycroft was being jostled about in the back of a cold, damp carriage, with barely enough light to read by.
At least Carlton had repaired the bad wheel. One had to be grateful for small blessings.
A half hour before, he had finally taken Parfitt’s notes in hand—and then had forgotten all about them, immersed as he was in other miseries. Now, in the drab glow of the carriage lamp, and to put his mind elsewhere, he squinted down at the lad’s chicken-scratching to learn about the Via Esmeralda Mining Company.
The Empty Birdcage Page 20
