Against the Brotherhood

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Rest assured, after some trouble in locating it, the clerks will be able to produce a will, and a certificate of death,” Mycroft Holmes informed me.

  “And the delay will increase my embarrassment,” I said, anticipating his strategy. “So I will be eager for anything they offer me that leads to resolving my plight.”

  “Exactly,” he said, and took his watch from its pocket. “Time to be under way,” I agreed.

  “Tell me, what stars are influencing you now?” Mycroft Holmes rapped out as I reached to open the door.

  “Saturn and Jupiter, both badly,” I answered, recalling my instructions over luncheon. “And at present the Moon is negatively influencing my First House. The aspect will change tomorrow, when I hope to hear from my half-brother.”

  “Who is?” prompted Mycroft Holmes.

  “Edward Montjoy, a merchant in Norfolk in the wool trade. Recently a man of that name was forced to sell his partnership to Mister Howell, who now owns the company outright. Mister Montjoy has left Norfolk, and the understanding is that he has gone to America to make his fortune there, since he has not been able to do it in England. His wife was named Anna and she died last year of a lingering fever. Montjoy has taken his one surviving child with him, and nothing is known of the lad.”

  “Very good; the Brotherhood can check on these facts and they will be borne out. Richard Howell has, in fact, recently bought out his partner, Edward Montjoy, that much is in the records of the court. Let them discover this for themselves. It will make your plight the more real when you learn that your half-brother cannot help you, indeed, he cannot be found.” He smiled coldly. “Remember that this news will be very unwelcome, in spite of the fact that you and Montjoy have not seen each other for more than ten years.”

  “Do you think anyone will believe that?” I asked, trepidation stealing over me now that I was about to start on my assignment. “Why should I contact a half-brother from whom I am estranged? Why should these men believe I would do such a thing, if we are not on good terms, Montjoy and I?”

  “You will have to demonstrate to them your sincerity. Because you have to convince the Brotherhood of the extremity of your predicament. That is also the reason you want a not-too-scrupulous solicitor, in order to press your claim on your late father’s estate. You may tell them that you don’t expect much from Montjoy, as there is no close tie there. But let them know you are desperate for his help, for any help, and are depending on family pride to prevail over the coolness of long absence.” Mycroft Holmes held up a warning finger. “Do not let them come to suspect you are seeking their help, or they will have nothing to do with you. They abhor all notions of charity.”

  “I will contrive to do as you require,” I said.

  “Very good,” Mycroft Holmes approved. “Remember to comment on the Grand Cross in your chart, and lament the malefic impact it brings to bear on the Twelfth House.” He cleared his throat. “Be alert, Guthrie, and take no foolish chances. They will not allow you a single slip. You are my eyes and ears in that place.”

  “I will not fail you,” I assured him with more confidence than I felt, then I picked up a half-empty carpetbag and let myself out of his flat. “You have been satisfied with my efforts in the past.”

  “So I have,” said my employer as he prepared to close the door. “But these men are more truly our enemies than any other you have encountered. They are a danger to you and me and the whole of the Empire. They will not hesitate to make an example of you, if it suits their purposes. I, for one, would not wish their vengeance on the lowest executioner in Kabul.”

  That was not the most consoling notion to have as a parting benediction, I thought as I descended the stairs and let myself out through the back alley, stopped at the dustbin to dirty my hands, and went from there into the general chaos of the afternoon crush of carriages, wagons, and pedestrians.

  FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS:

  M.H. informs me that the Admiralty pouch arrived ten minutes late today, the first time in four years. The delay was caused by a traffic tangle near the docks. Had I not been visiting Mother, I would have notified the Admiralty of the tardiness. M.H. has recommended the messenger be provided a bicycle to ensure prompt deliveries in future. It is essential that the schedule be kept.

  I have ventured out again this evening, to the theater where Edmund Sutton is appearing. He presented me with an outlandish costume which he claims M.H. wants for a disguise. What can be the use of such a flamboyant disguise I cannot fathom, but it is what M. H. stipulated, and so I have packed it in his trunk in anticipation of his departure to the Continent once C. has left.

  M.H. has confined himself to his study for the evening, with Admiralty records all around him, for the purpose of review. One would think he were merely browsing, given the speed at which he peruses these records. Since I have come to M.H.’s employ, it has astonished me to discover how quickly he takes in such material. He claims that speed actually aids him, that to make a slower study would cause him to overlook crucial facts. He anticipates completing his review in two days, barring interruptions.

  IN THE STREET a number of delivery wagons were drawn up, and the sidewalks were crowded with various merchants and vendors bringing their wares to the houses that pressed together. I was ignored or scorned as being out of place in this affluent neighborhood, and it struck me that my fiancée would be distressed to see me in this seedy attire. I could not explain it to her as a necessary part of the work I do for Mycroft Holmes. She put great stock in appearance and proper behavior, and any lapse in either would cause her much dismay. I decided when I recounted this adventure to her I would have to mitigate some of its more dissolute aspects. With this to occupy my thoughts, I passed quickly and without undue notice toward High Holborn, where the bustle was more general and a man looking as I did could go unremarked by those around him.

  I reached the Cap and Balls betimes. It was a squat and ancient pub, one that might have had some distinction by its age had it not been such a squalid ruin of a place. The floors sagged and the low pitch of the ceiling was oppressive. I made myself known to the innkeeper, who was not much pleased to have me as his guest. He eyed my lamentable baggage and demanded five shillings for the room and an additional ten pence if I wanted my breakfast in the morning.

  “For I’ll have no racketing off leaving me without a farthing for my trouble.” His shrewd face made me think he had rarely lost the price of a room to anyone. As I handed over the coins with a great show of reluctance, he chuckled. “A peevy cove you are, right enough. I know. You’ll be playing off your tricks on less knowing coves than me.”

  “No doubt,” I told him, trying to appear as if my dignity had suffered from his distrust. “Which room did you say, again?”

  “Top of the stairs, go left to the end of the hall.” He rubbed his hands on the filthy apron tied around his paunch. “You can have some baked cheese and a leg of chicken for your tea, if you want to give me another ten pence.”

  The price was high for what he was offering, and we both knew it. “Thank you, no. I would rather take a glass of daffy in the taproom later.”

  The innkeeper nodded. “Suit yourself.”

  The room he had allotted to me was small and so damp that I wondered there were no mushrooms growing under the sagging bed. One high, grimy window opened onto the small, oblong yard at the rear of the inn. Several other buildings backed onto it, making it more like a prison than a place to unload wagons; there was a single, narrow alley leading in and out of the courtyard. “What an unprepossessing place,” I said to myself as I looked out into the confines of the yard.

  Once I had bestowed my few items from the carpetbag—enough to give the appearance of my reduced position in the world—I hastened down to the street and set off toward the Inns of Chancery, the better to support my role of a man in search of a lawyer not overburde
ned with ethics. The pressure of the pistol at the small of my back was a constant reminder of my purpose. After more than an hour of showing myself in the places where I might be expected to conduct my search, I returned to the Cap and Balls, carrying myself in a disheartened way.

  As I reached the taproom of the Cap and Balls, I searched for a dark corner where I might watch the room while giving the appearance of despondency.

  The innkeeper charged me thr’pence for a very bad glass of gin, which I carried over to the inglenook by the hearth and hunched over, thinking as I did that there are few things I would like less to drink than the stuff currently in my glass. At least I would have no trouble delaying its consumption.

  As the afternoon faded, a number of men came into the taproom, not one of them more sinister than a lanky dealer in secondhand clothing. He took a quick look around, passing over me as unpromising, and then ordered a mug of punch. He exchanged half a dozen words with the landlord, and then settled into steady drinking.

  By the time the lamps were lit, the taproom was boisterous and the innkeeper had rolled out a barrel of ale. By the smell of it, the quality was about as poor as the gin. For the next two hours I watched the men in the room make merry; no one struck me as sinister, or intent on overthrowing the governments of Europe.

  And then a figure crossed the threshold. What there was about him I cannot say precisely that gave him his arresting and malignant presence, but it was as if he walked in a shadow of his own making, an engulfing darkness, potent and dangerous. He chose one of the tables not far from the hearth and raised his hand. “Landlord! My port.”

  The innkeeper achieved a sour smile, but hastened to obey the summons, taking down a bottle from the back shelf and pouring a fair serving into a large, clean glass. He carried it to the man’s table—an unusual courtesy in this establishment. As he put it on the table before the new arrival, I saw his hand shake.

  “Good man, Holt,” said the sinister guest as he gave him a crown for his trouble. “Do not disturb me unless I summon you.”

  “Most grateful, Mister Vickers,” said Holt, bowing and withdrawing at once. Ordinarily this sum would have been enthusiastically welcomed, but now, the innkeeper took it as if it scorched his fingers. He took refuge behind the bar hurriedly, and around the taproom the raucous conversations quieted.

  Vickers gave no sign of noticing the impression his presence caused. He was content to sit and drink his port slowly, his deep-set eyes brooding on the middle distance. I saw that he was watching the door in a covert way, as if in anticipation of new arrivals. I did not want to make my surveillance apparent, so I feigned drunkenness and did my best to make it appear that I could not hold focus with my single eye.

  It was not long before the crowd in the taproom dispersed, leaving two inebriated carters leaning on the bar arguing over some matter of customs, Vickers at the hearth table, and me in the inglenook, bent over my glass of dreadful gin. The waiting was difficult, for the palpable sense of ghastliness that came from Vickers and my own sense of being observed by him. I felt as if I had been covered with a thin, viscous film of debasement.

  Finally the innkeeper approached his dire guest, saying subserviently, “There’s a butt of pork and stewed onions tonight, Mister Vickers. And trotters. If you should want any.”

  The look of condemnation this menu brought made Holt step back. “I think not,” said Vickers in what would have been cordiality in another. “Perhaps something later, when I am through with my friends. Though not trotters.” This afterthought made the landlord shudder and shake his head.

  Holt once again escaped to the protection of his bar. He made a point of polishing this expanse with a damp cloth, all the while taking care not to look in the direction of Vickers.

  When I thought I could bear this no longer, I poured the contents of my glass on the floor and called for another, making a point of sounding ill-used. “And a slice or two of bread while you’re at it.”

  “That’ll be ha’penny extra for the bread,” said Holt, not bothering to bring the gin to me.

  I staggered to the bar, threw down the required coins, took the drink and the two thin slices of hard bread, then made my way back to the inglenook, muttering as I went. I slouched down, and took a bite of the bread; it was surprisingly good. I ate it with an enthusiasm that would pass muster for hunger.

  “Is that all the supper you are having, my good man?” said Vickers, not moving from his place at his table.

  I did not respond, but continued to chew my bread, my shoulders hunched.

  “I am talking to you, fellow,” said Vickers, more pointedly, and stared at my head as if he would burn a hole through to my brains.

  “Me, sir?” I said, turning to face him. It was not a pleasant thing to look into his eyes.

  “Yes. You.” He gave an imperious wave of his hand. “Pray join me a moment.”

  “Very well,” I said, taking on a servile manner to show gratitude, though I loathed myself for even pretending to accommodate him.

  This seemed to satisfy Mister Vickers, who showed me a cold smile and indicated the bench across from his chair. “Sit down. I don’t recall seeing you here before, sir.”

  “Because I have just arrived today, didn’t l?” I answered, as one seeking to ingratiate himself.

  “My good man, you know your movements better than I do,” said Vickers with thinly veiled contempt.

  “Well, I just reached London today,” I said, my cringing only partly feigned. “And a sorry place I’ve fetched up.”

  Vickers looked around. “I am forced to agree.”

  It was tempting to ask why he came here when it was apparent he could have chosen less lamentable accommodations, but I stopped myself in time. Remembering my role, I muttered, “I’d have better if there was justice in the world. I’d stop at the Grand or the Empire.”

  “Who would not?” His question required no answer, and I did not venture one. “Do me the honor of telling me why you are in London,” said Vickers languidly.

  I knew better than to be too easily drawn in, and so I shrugged my shoulders. “Naught that would interest the likes of you.” It was a surly response and should have got me a sharp dismissal, but it did not. I noticed that Vickers had caught sight of the tattoo on my wrist and I turned my hand as if to conceal it.

  “Now there you are wrong,” said Vickers. “I suspect you are in need of work. Am I right? Some way to line your pockets with the coin of the realm. If your complaints are not an excuse for idleness.” He did not wait for my answer. “And under the circumstances, I should think you would seek to engage the support of anyone who could be of assistance to you.”

  “But what would you want with me?” I asked it with a sense of coldness spreading through me; he surmised something because of the tattoo, and expected that I would grasp his meaning and share his purpose.

  When Vickers looked at me this time, I felt a vileness about him that shook me to the roots. “Any number of things. I have my uses for such as you, as well you know. If you are suitable to my purposes. Which I will determine when you answer the questions I put to you.”

  All of Mycroft Holmes’ warnings, which I had thought overblown, now came back to me, and I realized that if anything the gravity of the situation had been underestimated. I lowered my head in order to avoid that baleful gaze. “I’ve had some hard times,” I admitted, striving to maintain the demeanor required.

  “So I assumed,” said Vickers with a trace of amusement. “If you will be good enough to inform me of the nature of your difficulties, perhaps we can come to some agreement on a means to alleviate the most pressing of them.”

  “And what would a man like yourself want to do it for?” I demanded, making sure there was enough of a whine in my voice.

  “I have my reasons,” said Vickers, and again, I felt a cold grip me
in leaden fingers.

  “It’s been hard, sir,” I told him, keeping my eyes averted. “I can’t find employment, not as I’m qualified to do.”

  “And what might that be?” The question was made lazily, as if it had little or no significance to Vickers.

  “I’ve been factoring for mercers and cotton growers, sir,” I answered at last. “Dealing mostly with the Egyptians and the mercers around the Midlands; Birmingham and Coventry and the like.” That was plausible enough, and I knew sufficient amounts about the brokering of cotton that I could answer most inquiries about it and sound credible, thanks to a cousin who had made a respectable fortune in the business.

  “Are the mills doing badly?” asked Vickers as if disinterested. “I was unaware of it.”

  “They’re doing all right,” I said sullenly, and continued on as if I could not stop myself from reciting the whole of my misfortunes. “But a whole lot I brokered, the Egyptians wouldn’t make good on the delivery, and I lost my commission and the mercers won’t trust me. None of them will let me in the door.”

  “How unfortunate,” said Vickers blandly.

  “If my half-brother can give me a place, I’ll be off to Norfolk in a couple of days. I can be of use to him, for all he deals in is wool instead of cotton.” My confidence did not sound convincing, luckily. “Edward Montjoy, in Norfolk. You may know of him?”

  “I haven’t the pleasure,” said Vickers, on the edge of boredom.

  His eyes flicked over me. “But if you have hope of a station in Norfolk, why do you come to London?”

  I glanced around furtively, as if I feared we would be overheard.

  “It’s my father’s damned will. He left everything in a muddle, and I hoped I could straighten it out, so I wouldn’t have to depend on my stepbrother at all, but could set up for myself. I wouldn’t have to depend on Montjoy if the will didn’t force me to.” This last sounded unreliable even to me.