The first, taller man swung at me, and I saw that he had a knife in his hand. I stepped back to avoid injury and nearly lost my footing. My arms swung wide to preserve my balance and I noticed how near I was to the edge. It was an unpleasant revelation, being so badly placed to fight. That caught me up short, for a plunge into that chasm would surely be fatal. I took a stance as best I could and prepared to fight the two ruffians off.
How I longed for the weapons that had been taken from me in Calais. If I had had the pistol, or even the knife, I would be able to face these men without fear for my life. But those invaluable aids had been taken from me, and I was left with my skill and wits alone for defense, and I was not certain they would be sufficient to keep me alive.
The two men were quick and expert, clearly familiar with the locale, and prepared to take advantage of it. While one would rush me with a knife, the other would duck low and come up on my side, like two shrikes harrying a dog. I was able to elude the attempts to confine my arms, but in the process I was nicked on the cheek and the wrist. Neither was deep or dangerous, yet blood welled under my eye, and I cursed the eyepatch I wore, both for limiting my sight and for sticking to my face, distracting me and keeping me from being able to deal with these two. I began to tire as the attack continued, as I wove, dodged and feinted, all in an attempt to avoid their sallies. They were wearing me down, deliberately keeping me near the edge of the gorge so that I would have little room or opportunity to maneuver here, or time to think, with my heels at the edge of the abyss. I stumbled as one of them rushed at my side and my right foot dangled over emptiness. My arms again waved wildly as I strove to regain my position.
The nearer of the two attackers, the smaller man, picked my ribs with his knife: I felt a hot numbness where the blade went in, but I did not fall. The pain had not hit me yet, so filled was I with fighting, but I knew it would, and when it did, I would be at their mercy.
Angry now, as well as confused and frightened, I struck out with my arm and had the satisfaction of having the blow connect with the smaller of the two men. He staggered back as his companion rushed at me, I thought with the purpose of pushing me off-balance so that I would reel backward and fall into the deep canyon. I was so determined to prevent this from happening that I reached for his shoulder to thrust him away from me and to use a little of his rush to propel me a few feet further away from disaster.
To my astonishment, the ploy worked. The man, with my leverage added to the power of his rush, was carried out beyond the edge and he fell, screaming, into the depths.
I was aghast at what I had done.
The second man went still, and stared out over the rim of the chasm, and muttered an oath in what sounded like a Slavic tongue, and then swung back at me, his knife at the ready. Determined now to avenge the death of his companion, he advanced on me with grim purpose, features working, muttering something about “that Devil von Metz, and the Brotherhood,” every line of him lethal. He began to make great scything sweeps with his arm, the knife whistling with the force of his movement.
I backed up, but away from the canyon, and my pursuer did not appear to notice or to mind that I was no longer in danger of falling as his fellow had done. My breath was ragged and the first of the pain from my wound had struck, making me nauseated and cold. If I had not dreaded what the man might do, I would have broken away and run from him, but the thought of having this dire opponent behind me was more terrifying than the notion of another knife wound or a plunge into the canyon. I did what I could to keep my teeth from chattering and readied to grapple with the man.
How could I best this determined man, I asked myself as I felt my strength ebbing much too quickly; I would not be able to defend myself much longer. My vision wobbled as I made a wild jab with my fist at my remaining attacker and was about to reel from imbalance when the other man uttered a sharp oath, clapped his free hand to his neck, took three erratic, stumbling steps, and pitched forward onto his face.
I stood uncertainly, my head swimming, my side wet and sticky with my own blood. My mind was filled with the horror of having killed another human being, a realization that left me nauseated as much as the unwarranted attack disoriented me.
The fallen man was still twitching, but it was the proof of death, not any spark of life in him that led to this bizarre action. I went to bend over him, hoping to discover that life was not fully extinguished in him, or at the least, learn what had killed him, for I had heard no shot. The light was poor, and I did not want to linger where I might be questioned how I came to be fighting on the edge of the gorge, so my examination was cursory at best, but I thought I saw a feathered dart embedded in his neck, just above the collar of his jacket.
Then there was a shout as the alarm was raised, and I hurried away as best as I could toward the hotel. I had to haul myself upward to my room, using the bannister for purchase. There was a smear of blood left in my wake and I wondered what I should say to account for it, should anyone inquire about it.
Who were these men, and why had they set upon me? Were they opponents of the Brotherhood, and if so, who might they represent? What did they seek to do by killing me? And—dear God—what was I to do about killing one of them? It would leave a blot on my soul I would never be free of, whether the man was my enemy or an assassin set upon his work.
In my room, I unpacked my carpetbag, in the hope of discovering in my few toiletries something that would help to treat and bandage my still-bleeding wound. I was less concerned about my clothes, but that was because I had not seen them yet. As I pried my eyepatch off, I opened the half-dried scab and blood ran down my cheek like tears.
I spread out my shaving materials, including the new razor I had purchased in Paris, and opened the packet of sticking plasters. There were ten of them, and I knew I would need at least six for the cut in my side. I pulled my other belongings out and reluctantly decided I would have to sacrifice one of my remaining clean socks to serve as an absorbent pad for my side. I was quite cold now, and feeling stretched beyond my limits. Gingerly I pulled myself out of my coat, wincing at the protestations the muscles in my side made at this simple action, and looked in dismay at the rent in the worn black fabric. I would not be able to repair it adequately, and even if I could, the bloodstain was large and would be impossible to remove. For an instant I felt I was back at that chasm, and my first attacker was falling to his death. I pinched myself, and was once again back in my hotel room, facing the task of getting out of my clothes. Carefully I reminded myself of my necessary tasks. Next came the waistcoat, where the damage was bad but not so apparent as the ruin of the coat. I could tell that the new shirt would be useful for little but rags.
But that realization made me cast aside my sock and rend the shirt, making the pad I would need to place over the cut in my side. I went to the washstand and did what I could to examine the damage in the light of the lantern put there.
The cut was about five inches long, generally superficial but deep enough in the central part to be troublesome. I hoped that I could do something that would reduce the risk of infection, but all I had was a small vial of iodine which I carried to treat shaving nicks. I assumed it would be easy to procure a replacement for this, and so, clenching my teeth against the pain of it, I dribbled most of the contents of the vial into my wound, my eyes watering as I did.
It took me nearly an hour to complete these necessary ministrations, and at the end of it, I felt wholly shaken and ill with the experience. My palms were sweating and it required an effort to keep from trembling. As I climbed wearily into my nightshirt, I could not help but review the last few days’ activities in my mind, and thought that it was an astonishing account: I had been taken in by an organization of enemies of the Queen, sent to Europe where in a period of four days I had been drugged, nearly been drowned, and been attacked by armed men, one of whom I had killed, and one of whom had been dispatched by unknown hands
for reasons I could not surmise.
Doubtless this was more than I had bargained on when I entered Mister Holmes’ employ, and as I pulled up the covers I pondered what might happen next, and how I should inform Mycroft Holmes about the events of the last four days. After the attack on the edge of the gorge, I suspected that the absence of the packet of materials I was to receive was more than an oversight. This brought more unwelcome speculations, and some distressful notions returned to plague me. If those men at the abyss were mere footpads I could dismiss their attack as the misfortune of a solitary traveler. But suppose they were more than that? I could not persuade myself they were not, not even here in the apparent safety of my room. Their attack once again became more sinister in my perceptions than it had seemed. For what reason had they tried to kill me? And who had killed the second man? Was there any significance to my missing razor? To say nothing of my pistol and knife? How alarmed should I be in that regard? In the midst of such confusion, it might be nothing, but I could not afford to overlook any possibilities. There was also the unaccountable Miss Penelope Gatspy, about whom I had come to no conclusions, for there was always the possibility there was no reason to consider her more than a serendipitous encounter.
But if there had been more to it than that, I wondered what her purpose might have been, and who it was she served. Sleep eluded me as I puzzled over these very strange events and tried to decide what I should do about my current predicament. At last, more from exhaustion and pain than from any calm or resolution, I lapsed into uneasy slumber, filled with images of unknown men plummeting into gulfs so vast that oceans could be contained in them.
FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS:
M.H. has been busy all morning with the Admiralty, who have sent three of their men to wait upon him, and has only just broken off his conference to ask me to send another telegram to the Continent. I am, of course, not permitted to know the particulars of their deliberations, but I am conscious that M.H. is seriously displeased that they have dragged on so long. He is increasingly worried about G., and if only this emergency at the Admiralty were not so ominous at this time, he would have departed for Europe yesterday at the latest. As it is, he is afraid he may have the young man’s life on his conscience for the rest of his days.
“For mark me, Tyers,” said he, “the Brotherhood will have him in their clutches by now, and I’m damned if I can be sure of getting him out.”
He has already declared that two of the clerks under suspicion are blameless, for their handwriting is not found in any of the records in question, and their handling of the material occurs at an earlier stage than M.H. is now convinced the mischief is done. He said that had he not been able to review all the pages and entries associated with the matter, he would not have been able to dismiss the two from the pall of doubt. But since he has had all the records, he has discerned the pattern more clearly. Without question he will know which is the culprit before much more time has passed
I must visit Mother this evening, and make the necessary arrangements with the church, for her earthly repose.
BY THE FIRST light of dawn I rose and began to write an account of all that had happened to me since I left Pierson James’ chambers. I crossed the pages and wrote on both sides of the few sheets of paper provided by the hotel, taking care to be succinct and yet to leave nothing out, and even then, when I had filled the available sheets I had not finished my account of the incident on the edge of the chasm the night before. What I ought to do with this account, I was not entirely certain. Very carefully I folded it in half and tucked it into my carpetbag, trusting I would hit upon some plan. I was not wholly sure it was safe to keep with me, though I had taken care to reveal no names in my writing, with the exception of Miss Penelope Gatspy. More than anything I wanted to find some means of getting this back to Mister Holmes in London, but had no notion how I could accomplish this.
It was tempting to think of turning back, to fly for the Channel and the protection of home, but as I wrote of all that had happened to me, I lost all hope that such an effort would succeed, for I was fully aware I was being observed, and any deviation from the course set down to me would doubtless expose me to more than the censure of my employer: I would not reach Dover alive, of that I was quite certain.
There was also the matter of my ruined coat. I would have to find some means of replacing it before I continued on my journey, for I surely could not present myself to that stickler Scotsman with my garments in tatters with bloodstains upon them. A more liberal man than he was said to be would think twice about engaging a man with so obvious a record of violence about him. I would have to procure another shirt, as well, with the one I had been wearing reduced to scraps. How could I fulfill Mister Holmes’ instructions if I appeared before this MacMillan looking like the scaff and raff of the gutter? I had money, but not enough to allow me any extravagant purchases.
My side ached and my muscles were stiff, and when I pulled on my second shirt, the soft cotton felt like sandpaper on my skin. A look in the mirror for shaving confirmed my worst suspicions regarding my face: there was a great, discolored mass under where I would wear my eyepatch again, as well as puffiness from the nick. It would be useless to deny a mishap of some sort. I was so enervated that I wondered if I would be able to carry my bag to the train, whither I was bound as soon as I broke my fast.
I came down the stairs and made my way into the breakfast room where the host had spread out a variety of cheeses and breads, and an array of preserves and comfits to accompany these. I had little appetite, but I knew it was essential I eat. As I selected two wedges of cheese—one soft with a pungent rind, the other pale and firm—and a soft roll, the host himself came into the chamber, concern on his benign face.
“Ah, Mister Jeffries,” he said, his Luxembourgeois accent making the name sound exotic. “I hope you have not had a misfortune?”
“As a matter of fact, I have,” I declared, deciding not to deny the events of the previous evening. “I was set upon by robbers.”
The fellow crossed himself and regarded me with great concern. “You have spoken to the authorities?”
I shrugged. “I must leave today, and, as the blackguards did not get anything from me but the satisfaction of my bruises in exchange for some of their own, I decided I would not bother.”
“It is shocking,” said the host, his hands joined to show his solicitous attitude.
“Very true,” I said. “The worst of it is the fellows ruined my coat, my shirt, and my waistcoat.” Too late I noticed the distress in the host’s face, and did my best to make light of it. “They struck a couple lucky blows before I got away from them.”
“But this is dreadful,” said the host, coming over to me. “That such a thing should happen to you in our little country.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “If you will let me have your old coat, I will tend to it. In the meantime,” he said more brightly, “I have in my closet a number of coats left here over the years. You may make a selection of them, choose whichever suits you. I would make the same offer for a shirt, but I suspect you would prefer to purchase one new.” His smile was wide and beneficent.
“That is very kind of you,” I said to him, trying not to question this gesture, for I could not but suppose that he was correct in saying that many items of clothing had been left behind over the years, and if he had not sold them to a dealer in used clothing, he might well still have such a trove. “I fear I will have to avail myself of your offer.”
“When you are finished here, come to the front. If the landlord were here, I would not be able to do this, but as he is away in Berlin, I will take responsibility for this.” He continued his smile. “It is not as if you are seeking to take advantage of our goodwill.”
Remembering that I was August Jeffries, I just nodded once, and said I’d talk to him when I was done eating.
The host was about to leav
e from the room when he was struck with a new thought. “Is there anything I can do additionally? I believe it is fitting that since my country is responsible for the injuries you have sustained that I should take it upon myself to dispel any ill notions you may have in regard to it.” His sigh was like listening to an actor expressing profound sympathy, and I was unable to determine if this might be the actual temperament of the man, or a pose to convince me of his legitimate concern.
“I’ll give it some thought,” I promised him, and went on with the meal. By the time I was finished, I had decided on a risky course. Taking care to do it while still at the table, I retrieved the report I had written and tucked it into the Luxembourg newspaper left as a courtesy at each table. This was folded securely and I went in search of a postage sleeve for it; I found this at the front desk, where the host declared himself in readiness to see that the thing was sent back to my attorney in London with all due haste. “He has dealings in Europe, don’t you know, and has asked me to procure newspapers for him while I travel, which I have attempted to do,” I temporized as I scrawled James’ address upon it. “What is this likely to cost to post to London?”
He made a gesture of dismissal. “Do not worry about the amount; it is trifling, I assure you. Think of it as a gesture from Luxembourg to compensate, inadequately, for your unfortunate experience.”
I had a moment of wondering if I were wise to trust the man, but decided since it was known that Pierson James was representing my cause it might not be thought too strange that I would send him a newspaper from my travels. If the missive included were discovered, I could claim I wished him to be aware of what I had been forced to undertake as a means of financing my claim on my trust. Satisfied that I had nothing to fear from sending the material to London, I nodded to the host and said, “If your employer gives you any trouble for this, notify my solicitor and he will see you are provided some recompense for your problem.”
Against the Brotherhood Page 11
