Against the Brotherhood

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “To be sure,” said the man, ignoring my rudeness with such determination that I realized his manner was deliberate. “But you may have need of them before we reach France.”

  “You’re mistaken, sir,” I grumbled, hoping that my dismay was concealed. “I am bound for Amsterdam.”

  “No, Mister Jeffries, you are not. Your travel itinerary has been changed. You will make the crossing to Calais, and there go to Paris, and then east into Germany, by way of Luxembourg. From Luxembourg you will go to Mannheim, to Wurzburg, from there to Ulm—that is a bit indirect; it can’t be helped. At Augsburg you will be met by a Herr Dortmunder. You need not know anything about him, for he will have a description of you to guide him. He will identify himself by asking if you have any English coins you would like to exchange for German ones. He will give you further instructions.” All goodwill had vanished from my traveling companion, and I could not help but be aware of the intensity of his purpose.

  I regarded him with an expression I hoped was sullen; my eyes fixed on the top of his tie and I muttered, “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because I have authorization, and a note from Mister Vickers. I also have the tickets you need, and I will take those you already possess. Do not think to deny you have them: I know very well that you do. You have them in your inner coat pocket, or so I am told.” He achieved a grimace of satisfaction. “Oh, yes. I am under instructions, too, to make your journey for you so that if there is anyone supposed to watch you, they will have a target for their efforts. We do not want them casting about for you.” He pulled an eyepatch from his pocket, removed his spectacles, and set it in place. “Doubtless they will be searching for this.” He fumbled with his spectacles, trying to keep them in place on his nose without success.

  “Mister Vickers is a knowing cove,” I said, and took the large envelope he held out to me. Inside was another packet of flimsies, not all of them British, and a purse of coins, everything from French to Austrian. There were also a number of train tickets and timetables. I took one out and started to read it.

  “You’ll notice that there are a number of departures marked. Those are the ones you are expected to try to take; there is plenty of leeway in the departure time so that it should not be impossible, even for you. If you cannot reach the latest on the list, you are to send a telegram to the station where you are to transfer, to a Father del Franco, advising him of your late arrival.” He leaned forward to emphasize his next words. “Should you fail to make a connection and not send word ahead; the Brotherhood will assume that you have played them false. They will then be forced to hunt you down and exact vengeance for your betrayal.”

  At another time I might have found such pronouncements a trifle overblown and melodramatic, but in this place, and for the purposes involved, I could not make myself regard the threat as anything but of deadly sincerity. “I’d be a fool to hop the drum, with such a hugger-mugger lot as you are,” I said, and noted that my traveling companion understood that bit of street and army jargon. “I’ll do what’s necessary for you—I said I wouldn’t rat, and I won’t.”

  “You had better not. We dispose of those who have no use to us, and those who defy us we destroy,” he said with as chill a tone as any I have ever encountered before.

  “Indeed,” I said, and continued to examine the items in the envelope.

  “You will tell me if you have any questions before we reach the coast.” He sounded bored now, and he leaned back against the squabs, holding his spectacles with one hand to keep them from falling.

  “It says here that I’m to stay at the Red Lion in Calais,” I remarked as I went over the instructions. “I could probably get a good way to Paris if I slept on the train.”

  “You probably could,” said the other man, his attitude one of casual contempt. “But Mister Vickers has deputies in many places, and he requires that you be in a site that is useful to him, should he have any reason to change your plans again. And he may change them if he feels it wise to; you must be prepared. So it will be the Red Lion. You will find a room has been engaged for you.” He showed no inclination to say more, and I went back to my perusal of the contents of the envelope, all the while wondering how I would get word to Mycroft Holmes without endangering myself and this mission. I recalled my instructions in regard to telegrams, and suddenly I thought we could not arrive in France too soon.

  My traveling companion noticed some shift in my manner, and said, “Well? What is it?”

  I frowned. “I left with matters unsettled with the solicitor. I suppose you know about that?” I did not wait for his answer, but went on, “And I notice there is not much time to reach the boat once this train arrives. So I suppose I will have to wire him from France.” I did my best to look disgruntled. “That will be another expense.”

  The man sighed. “I will attend to that for you,” he said, his demeanor condescending and sour. “Write your message and I will see it sent from Amsterdam, upon my arrival.”

  I shrugged, although I was becoming steadily more apprehensive. “All right,” I told him, and drew out a small notebook from my pocket, and found a pencil. I licked the point as I thought of the best way to phrase the message so that this mall and Vickers himself would not be alerted.

  Pierson James, Solicitor

  Steyne Chambers

  London, England

  James:

  Contact Edward Montjoy. Imperative you act immediately or estate will not be settled until year’s end. Will wire again tomorrow.

  A. Jeffries.

  The man read it, his brows drawing together. “Why should you contact him again?”

  “Because he’s a bloody lawyer, that’s why,” I said truculently, hoping that the sullen manner would not betray the fear that went through me. “If I don’t keep goading him, the estate will never be settled, and my stepbrother might well be off to Australia before James can reach him.” I scowled at him. “You send it.”

  “I said I would.” He pursed his lips as he continued to think. “I suppose once you are in Europe there would be no harm in sending telegrams. If the solicitor is expecting to hear from you...”

  “Well, he is, see,” I insisted. “And if he don’t hear from me, he’ll probably have questions about it. Then you’ll have trouble throwing him off the track, if you can, lawyers being the natterers they are. Best send the telegram and save us both trouble.” The last was more improvisation than certainty, but I trusted it would convince the man.

  He folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. “Very well. Unless Mister Vickers gives me orders to the contrary, I will go along with your plan.” He shook his head. “Solicitors are the very devil; you have the right of it there.”

  “That they are,” I agreed with as much of good fellowship as the two of us would be able to share.

  The train reached Dover ten minutes late, and so the rush to get aboard the boat was greater than I had anticipated. My traveling companion took his case from the rack above his seat and said, “Your message will be sent from Amsterdam. Have a pleasant crossing, Mister Jeffries. And remember, as long as you are on a mission for Mister Vickers, you are not alone.” As I studied the tickets he had given me I recalled too late the warning Mycroft Holmes had given me about accepting anything from these men.

  His wish for a pleasant crossing was not to be fulfilled. The Channel was choppy and we lurched from Dover to Calais, and by the time I set foot on the shore of France I felt as if I had been racked. Much the worse for wear I went in search of the Red Lion, and stumbled into it after ten minutes of casting about, my head ringing and my gut sore.

  It was one of the old coaching inns which had had its heyday in the sixteenth century, with private parlors and a plenty of rooms that once were used for servants; now the parlors had been divided in half, and the servants’ rooms were let out to guests. It wore its age and fall i
n station with a kind of resigned gentility, like a bankrupt duchess living in dignified but reduced circumstances.

  The landlord scowled at me and was about to refuse me a room—and I had to admit I was a very unappealing prospect—when I mentioned that Mister Vickers had reserved a room for me, and that I was traveling on his instructions. As I said Vickers’ name, the landlord’s expression brightened so desperately and dramatically that I supposed Vickers must have some terrible hold over the poor devil, for there was no other reason for such a startling change of demeanor.

  “Ah, yes, Mister Jeffries. I have been expecting you.” His English was excellent for a Frenchman. “The room on your left at the top of the first flight of stairs is ready for you. I will have the chambermaid go and warm the bed if you wish to retire at once.”

  I must truly be a sight, I thought. “No,” I said, doing my best to sound as rude as possible. “I think I had better have a bath first. And if there is someone who can have my clothes brushed and sponged for me?”

  “Certainly,” said the landlord with a nod as he indicated his registry and the place I was to sign.

  I scrawled August Jeffries, Norfolk and London, England and listed my occupation as personal representative, which seemed vague enough for a fellow like Jeffries.

  “Very good, Mister Jeffries,” said the landlord, and with a disapproving stare at my luggage, he snapped his fingers for one of the servants to come and carry it up for me.

  “Never mind,” I said, picking up the carpetbag myself and nodding in the direction he had indicated, “I’ll see to stowing it. You get that bath heated up, and see that the boots gets my coat presentable again.” With that I accepted the key and made my way up the steep stairs.

  The room was nicer than I had expected, far better than my place at the Cap and Balls, a good-sized chamber with a formidable armoire of considerable age against one wall, a commode under the two high windows, and a bed large enough for a pair of opera singers standing out at right angles to the armoire. There was also a writing table and chair, as well as a shaving stand with a filled ewer of water against the third wall. I tossed my bag onto the bed and removed my limp collar and cuffs, deciding as I did that these should be ironed and starched while my jacket was sponged.

  I had just finished setting out my brushes and shaving kit when there was a timid knock at the door, and a small voice said in French, “Your bath is ready, sir.”

  Ordinarily I would have given the youngster tu’pence for his trouble, but Jeffries was made of coarser stuff, so I only shouted through the door that I would be in to bathe in a moment. I realized I was being hurried, and I supposed it was the landlord’s desire to please Mister Vickers’ deputy. I dragged my robe from the carpetbag, thrust my pistol under the pillow at the head of the bed, tucked my knife into one of my robe’s capacious pockets, and made my way along the hall to the end of the hall where the door was prominently marked BAIN.

  The room was steamy and growing dark as the day sank down to dusk. If there were lamps in the room they had not yet been lit. I considered going back to my room for a book of matches, then decided against it, as I would not be so long bathing that I would have to worry about nightfall. Besides, it was pleasant to have the fading, gentle light of gloaming around me, or so I thought. There was a tin of bath salts standing next to the tub, and I added them to the hot water without hesitation. Satisfied that my soap was near to hand, I tossed my coat over the brass valet-stand, and then peeled myself out of the rest of my clothes, and glad to be rid of them, then, without further ado, I sank down into the high, old-fashioned tub, my feet resting near the taps. At any other time I would have removed my eyepatch, but I remembered my mission and left it in place, disliking the sensation of something on my face. I was aware of an odd scent in the room, which I attributed to salts or soap, and not long after, I began to doze.

  FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS:

  M.H. has surmised that since there was nothing missing that we could determine, it is possible the searcher achieved his ends by taking something that should have been delivered. He has demonstrated his assumptions by pointing out that only the secretary and desk were broken into, and the correspondence boxes had been gone through quite thoroughly, while several objects of considerable value were left untouched. Coupled with that, M.H. has shown that in spite of the chaos left behind by the perpetrator, all that was disrupted were items that were written, from books to journals to files.

  There was no packet from the Admiralty yesterday, and he has sent word to learn if anything was sent, and if so, when.

  It would be a terrible thing if the thief has taken anything from the Admiralty, and M.H. has said he will have to delay his departure for the Continent until the matter of the delivery—if there was one—is cleared up. He has sent word to Edmund Sutton to postpone his coming here for a day at least, but to be prepared to present himself on short notice once this has been settled. “For mark my words, Tyers,” says he, “Guthrie is going into more danger than I thought when he left. And the longer I am forced to remain here, the greater his danger becomes.”

  Mother has slipped further away. She cannot be fed and what little water can be coaxed past her lips will not sustain her for much longer.

  I HAD THE oddest sensation of floating, not just on the hot, soapy water, but in the air. There was a strange, bitter odor in the room that I had first assumed was bath salts, but now I began to suspect it was something else, more pernicious. My head felt enormous and light, like a bubble, and my vision was obscured by more than the steam in the room. Everything had the appearance of being haloed in rainbows, and at another time I might have found this enjoyable, but not now. Deep inside my mind, I could sense a terrible, muted panic rising, as if I were trying to scream through a pillow. But my limbs were filled with such lethargy and my will appeared to be altogether absent; nothing I thought of seemed to reach my body. My head lolled back and I tried to prevent myself from sliding dangerously low in the tub.

  I did not have to worry on that account, for there were footfalls in the room and then I felt strong hands fix themselves on my shoulders and pull me higher up in the bath so that my head and neck were above the water. “Now then, you must wake up,” said a male voice with a distinct German accent. “It is time we had a little talk, fellow.”

  It was useless to try to focus my eye; I could distinguish little more than smears of faded colors in the steam. Nightmarish as this was, I could not summon up the strength to oppose it.

  The man with the German accent said, “You are the messenger for Mister Vickers, are you not?”

  My tongue felt like a length of cotton wool in my mouth but I did my best to answer. “I am.”

  “And you are going to Germany for him, aren’t you?” He spoke slowly and distinctly, which was necessary for me to understand him as there was a great roaring in my ears as if I were still at sea.

  “I am,” I answered after what seemed forever. I did not want to give the man any answer but defiance, but I was under the compulsion of whatever damned drug was in the air, and I could not resist it. Vaguely I wondered why my questioner was not affected by the drug that held me.

  “Is there anything else you are doing?” the man asked with false geniality.

  There was something in the question that caused me alarm, but my thoughts were so muddled it eluded me. “Yes.”

  All pretense of good fellowship left the man then. “What is it?” he demanded as if I were a recalcitrant horse.

  “Scottish fellow,” I muttered, fighting an echo of dread. I was determined to hold something back from the man. “Have to find him.”

  “Yes,” said the German impatiently. “That is what Vickers told you to do in Germany, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I agreed, pleased to be able to comply, for I suddenly thought I might be in great danger if I displeased the man.
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  “Is there anything else you are doing in Germany?” the man demanded.

  To my distant-but-anguished dismay I heard myself say “Yes,” in the same dreamy tone I had used before.

  “And what is that?” The man was growing furious, and my fear, though banked behind languorous clouds, grew stronger.

  Say nothing, say nothing, say nothing, I ordered myself, and heard myself answer, “Make my fortune.” I felt giddy with relief that I had revealed nothing of my true mission, and I strove to let none of this show in my manner.

  The man shoved me under the water and held me there until my lungs seemed about to burst. My eyepatch came close to sliding off my face, and I could do nothing about it. That may seem a small thing, but at the time it was of enormous importance to me. I have never been so thoroughly disoriented in so small a space. It was well-nigh impossible for me to determine which way was toward air, and which was not. To make it worse, I had so little strength that I could only thrash feebly, and did little more than make the man wet. The event had one beneficial effect, however, and that was to clear some of the cobwebs from my mind, and bring more of my own control back into me. I felt a hand in my hair and then I was dragged upward into the air again.

  “How will you make your fortune?” the German asked with a single, swift glance at the tattoo on my wrist. He averted his eyes almost at once. “I am sorry so much water has been splashed about.”

  “There is a will. Father’s will,” I said, sticking to the rehearsed story. “The money will get it set aside. It’s mine by rights in any case.” I made an effort to show the same somnambulistic lack of concern that I had until he had attempted to drown me. It was a greater effort than I had anticipated. I wanted to launch myself out of the tub and strangle the man. “Need money for the lawyer and the courts, damn them all.”