Against the Brotherhood

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  From down the slope and some distance away I could hear the urgent whoop of a train whistle. “That’s a good thing, given all the passengers went through.”

  “Guthrie, dear boy, those passengers will dine out on this story for the next four years at least, or I know nothing about the human love of adventure,” said Mycroft Holmes in the same manner as he would speaking across the table at breakfast. “One of the misfortunes of our sort of work is that we are not allowed to talk about it. If we were, every hostess from New York to Buda-Pest would be after us, and we should never have any time to do our work.” He chuckled as he started his horse moving again, and now his attention was fixed on the ground, the beam of the lantern searching out the telltale signs of recent travel.

  At last there was a mass of recent hoof-prints in the damp ground. They picked up a narrow trail leading off to the west.

  “I think I know where they’re bound,” said Mycroft Holmes about an hour later. It was full dark now, and though the rain had slacked off, the wind was sharper and I felt stiff with cold; my legs and back ached from holding the Hanoverian with my knees and calves and my head thrummed when I moved. “We will reach the town of Dieuze in another two hours. We can spend the night there. The horses will need rest and you and I, Guthrie, will have to thaw out, have a good meal, and let Tyers know that all is not lost.”

  “It isn’t?” I asked quietly.

  “No, Guthrie. For I have obtained one significant piece of information that will help us, since the Brotherhood are not aware I know this.” He indicated the path between the ponds ahead. “Stay on this and we will reach Dieuze. Take the north fork when we reach it.”

  “North fork?” I asked, baffled. From where I was, I could see only the single, narrow path stretching away into the darkness between the lakes. The weight of my carpetbag was immense and growing with every passing minute. Were it not for the notebooks it contained, I would have been tempted to abandon it along the trail, but could not bring myself to commit such an irresponsible act.

  “The track splits at the head of one of these ponds. The south fork goes off to the village of Heming, back toward Sarrebourg.” He recited this easily, with the familiarity that often meant long acquaintance with the region.

  I shook my head, too tired to question how he came by all this information. But I could not keep from asking, “What is the one thing you have learned that the Brotherhood is unaware of?”

  He looked intensely pleased with himself, though the upward-flaring light of the lantern gave his face a certain demonic cast. “I know where von Metz’s chateau is. I discovered it by accident three years ago, when I chanced upon some coded records of the Brotherhood which revealed a number of their holdings. Thanks to what we learned then, four of their strongholds in Austria and the Bohemian region have fallen. But those in France, Italy, and Germany are untouched. This knowledge is my one advantage at the moment, and I must use it while I may.” He indicated the hoof marks on the track ahead of us. “And by the looks of this, so do they. That is why I want us to stop at Dieuze, so that we will be as fresh as they will be when we encounter them tomorrow.”

  How had he managed, I wondered, to obtain this coded record? And what had the cost of it been? I wanted to put these questions to him, but I felt too cold and miserable to shape the words. I also had to confess that I dreaded what the answer might be. I let my mount pick his way after Holmes’, and tried to keep from imagining vast steaming bowls of stew with dumplings, which to me were now taking on the qualities of ambrosia.

  It seemed to be eons later when we finally entered Dieuze and made our way between the stone houses to an inn at the north edge of the town with the promising sign: Le Chat Pecheur, showing a smiling tabby pulling a fish from a stream. With the Canal and the Seille so near, the sight must not be an uncommon one, I thought as Mycroft Holmes called out for assistance.

  A groggy ostler came rushing out in an oilskin to take our horses, and to inform us politely that Madame would be with us directly. If he thought two men arriving riding on carriage horses at ten at night was unusual, he made no indication of it, but accepted the reins as we slid off our mounts and led the horses off in the direction of the stable, promising them both warm mash and a rubdown before he left them.

  “Now there is a capable groom,” remarked Mycroft Holmes in approval as he strode up to the entrance of the inn and rapped hard twice, waited and rapped thrice more. When the door opened, he bowed and said in perfect French, “Good evening, Madame. We are sorry to present ourselves so late, but we are in need of rooms, as you can see.” Then he held out a considerable amount of money, bowed again and said, “For the inconvenience we have caused, arriving hungry at this hour.”

  Madame was a middle-aged woman in a widow’s cap and dark dress with a plover’s body and a wry expression worked into her face from years of use. She took the money without mentioning it, and held her door open for us. “We are not so busy tonight, Monsieur, that you are at any disadvantage. There is a joint of lamb still in the kitchen, and a cheese pastry with onions. I can provide wine as well, if you like.” She indicated her guest book and watched as Mycroft Holmes signed as E. Sutton of Bruxelles and London, and his valet, Josue.

  “Josue?” I asked in a whisper.

  “In case we should need to raze the walls of Jericho, dear boy,” said Mycroft Holmes very quietly. “And now Madame ...”

  “Thillot,” she supplied. “You are cold and hungry. While your rooms are being readied, come to the morning room, and I myself will tend to your supper. Leave the carpetbag. I will have the maid take it up.”

  I did not want to surrender it, but I knew that holding it would cause her to wonder about its contents and our activities. It would not be wise to do that. And at this hour, there would be few people likely to come to the inn and search my luggage with impunity. I saw a quick signal from Mycroft Holmes, and I complied, leaving the bag by the entry counter.

  Madame Thillot smiled as she led the way to the back of the inn. “You are fortunate. I have only two rooms taken tonight. One is a young woman traveling to meet her family. The other is a gentleman whom I think is a military man, though he is not in uniform.” She held the door to the morning room open, and at once apologized for the chill. She bustled over to the hearth and prodded the embers into a semblance of warmth, then put down two more short logs. “It will be warmer shortly.”

  “Very good,” said Mycroft Holmes, at last shrugging out his tremendous coachman’s coat and removing his hat, which had long since lost any semblance of shape in the rain. He put these aside and chose one of the upholstered chairs. “We have been traveling a long time.”

  “Where did your carriage break down?” asked Madame Thillot. “I saw your horses. No saddles, and harness for driving, not for riding. I must assume your coach is in a ditch somewhere.” The wry expression of her face became stronger.

  “Very true, Madame Thillot,” said Holmes. “In weather like this, what can one expect?”

  “What, indeed?” asked Madame Thillot, and went off to bring us our supper. When she returned with a platter of lamb and brussels sprouts cooked in butter, Holmes thanked her profusely, and added, “Would you be willing to help me further? Is there a telegraph office in this town?”

  “Yes,” she said after a brief hesitation. “It is for those using the Canal.”

  “Would you be able to take a message for me to be telegraphed, first thing in the morning? I would give you the message in full and pay for it twice over.” He was holding a sliver of lamb on his fork, waiting for her answer.

  “For three times the amount, I will tend to it myself,” she said at once. “Write your message and give it to me with the money.”

  “Thank you, Madame Thillot,” he said. “When I have finished this excellent supper, you may be sure that I will.” He paused again, then asked, “Would it be too much
of an imposition to request a bath for my man and me when we are finished with our meal?”

  She chuckled. “Not at all. In fact, had you not asked, I would have recommended one.” Her nose wrinkled. “I do not mind the tang of honest sweat, but when there are machine odors, burning, and marsh-mud in the mix, it is no longer pleasing.”

  “My very thought,” said Mycroft Holmes, cutting more of the lamb.

  “I will arrange for water to be heated. You may have the first tub, and your man the second,” said Madame Thillot as she left us to our meal.

  FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS:

  At last there is word from M.H. It arrived with the milkman this morning, and assures me that he and G. have almost reached their goal. He also tells me that McMillian has been kidnapped, and adds that he supposes the kidnappers got more than they bargained for in their captive. He is going to get the man back, for he does not want the man to complain of the reward he has had for his service.

  G. is slightly injured again but up to the task they must perform. M.H. informs me that it will be a day or two before they have concluded their work there, and then they will turn toward home. It will be good to have this mission completed, for it has been a precarious one from the start. M.H claims that it keeps him in fighting trim to match wits with such lethal enemies.

  I cannot but worry when M.H. takes on his jaunty tone, for in the past it has always meant great danger. If I do not hear from him by nine this evening, I will do as he instructs and warn the government of possible trouble.

  IT WAS NOT the sunlight that had awakened me, I realized in the first seconds. I shook my head several times, trying to force the last dregs of sleep from my mind as I wondered what had startled me out of my dreams so abruptly.

  “At last, Mister Guthrie,” said a cool, feminine voice that banished the last of sleep.

  I sat up, tugging the sheet and blanket with me—to have a woman discover me so improperly!—and saw at the foot of my bed the slim, pale figure of Penelope Gatspy, no longer dressed in mourning but rigged out in a riding habit of the first stare, and holding a Navy revolver pointed directly at my chest. I tried not to goggle, either at the pistol or at Miss Gatspy.

  She held out my personal notebook from my carpetbag, where I had done my best to keep a record of all that transpired on this mission; I had hoped my entries were obscure enough to foil most inspections. “This is most interesting reading. I had no idea there were so many desperate persons in Europe. And all of them after you.” The gun did not waver as she spoke.

  “I ...” It was a feeble beginning, I realized, but no other words came to mind.

  “You. Yes, you. You appear to be at the crux of things, and what a tangle it is! Had you revealed yourself, you might not have had to contend with one ...” She broke off, calling herself to order once more. “You are not August Jeffries, messenger for the Brotherhood and initiate of the Servants of the Valley of Kings. If only we had known this earlier we might have managed matters rather differently. How did you contrive to come by that tattoo on your wrist? You must tell me the whole, one day.” Hearing her, I felt color mount in my face. “You are not the valet Josue, either. You are Paterson Erskine Guthrie, employed by a British governmental functionary named Mycroft Holmes. And lucky for you we discovered this in time, or you should not be alive at this moment.” She held out the notebook while retaining the pistol. At that instant, I would have preferred the opposite arrangement.

  As I took the notebook, I saw that she had been reading about von Metz. “Miss Penelope Gatspy. If that is who you really are.”

  “Oh, it is,” she said with a kind of formal cordiality that did not bode well for this encounter. “Your government is not the only group to have bones to pick with Herr von Metz and his pernicious Brotherhood. They murdered my brother last year.” Her blue eyes shone with such purpose that I was struck with a notion.

  “Is that the opinion of everyone in the Golden Lodge?”

  If I had hoped to disquiet her with the question, I failed. “Yes, it is. We exist to stop them.”

  Her dedication was convincing, but for all that she was a young woman tangled in affairs much too complicated for her to grasp. I did what I could to soften the blow. “But Miss Gatspy, the British and the French and the Germans are all doing their best to stop the Brotherhood. Why should the Golden Lodge succeed where these countries have not?”

  “Because countries have other matters to attend to. Treaties, for example. And they cannot devote themselves to ending the activities of the Brotherhood as we of the Golden Lodge can. And they have no real understanding of the power of the Brotherhood, which we do.” She slipped her pistol back into her purse and sat on the edge of the bed. “We know them as you do not, as you cannot. And, unlike you, we have no hesitation in doing all that must be done to exterminate the Brotherhood as the vile thing it is.”

  “If you have such a mission in life, how is it you did not kill me when you had the chance on the train from Calais?” It was a foolish question and I did not honestly expect an answer, so it was all the more surprising when she gave me one.

  “It was Guilem’s idea. He got so little from you the night before that he thought we had better be sure you were not just a lackey.” She smiled at me with what passed for warmth. “He thought you were nothing more than a hireling, and an uninformed one at that. The final decision of your disposal was left up to me.”

  I regarded her with fascination. “I don’t know what to say ...” I began, and broke off.

  “Of course you do,” she countered winningly. “You want to wring my neck. I would want the same thing in your position.” She leaned toward me, her eyes bright. “And now that the Brotherhood has taken McMillian, you will have to be willing to work with us to get him back.”

  “And why is that?” I asked her sharply. If she had not that pistol with her, I might have been tempted to act more forcefully, for all that she was a female.

  “Because we know where the Brotherhood has taken him.” She wore a look now that was at once smug and righteous. It did not become her. “Oh, I know your employer, Mycroft Holmes, has the location as well, but we have a record of the guard posts and the various traps which protect the chateau. You may find the place but you will not reach it alive without our help.” She cocked her head, and I noticed a low whistle from the floor below. “Your Mister Holmes is coming in from the stable. Guilem is waiting for him.” She tossed my blankets back. “Come, sir. You must rise at once. We have no time to lose.”

  I rubbed my face and felt the stubble under my fingers. “I need to shave and dress, Miss Gatspy,” I said, hoping she would step out of the room.

  “I have seen men do both before, Mister Guthrie,” she said without a hint of a blush. “Do not be embarrassed on my account.”

  I sighed, and went to my carpetbag, putting the notebook back into it before I took out my inadequate shaving kit. I went to pour water into the basin and readied my soap for the brush. Looking into the mirror, I saw that my black eye had been revived by the blow on the head I had received the day before. It was a bright purple with deep purple shadows and a trace of green and yellow where the old injury was fading. It was reassuring to see both my eyes for a change, though the right eyelid still looked swollen from the glue I had used to fix the supposed scar to it.

  Penelope Gatspy appeared over my shoulder in the mirror behind me. “I think I would cover one eye, too, if mine were like yours,” she said with a faint smile. “I thought when I met you in the compartment to Paris that you were not used to wearing the eyepatch.”

  “What mistake did I make?” I asked her as I lathered my brush.

  “Nothing obvious. But you were not yet used to turning your head as far as you would need to see with one eye. I noticed that from the first.” She favored me with a pursing of her lips. “It was one of the reasons I di
dn’t kill you.”

  “Thanks very much,” I said, and stopped spreading the lather on my cheeks as I heard a scuffle downstairs, followed by a sharp oath in English.

  “Keep on, Mister Guthrie,” said Penelope Gatspy. “We will want to join Mister Holmes directly.”

  “If you do him any harm, you will aid the Brotherhood beyond all reckoning.” I took my razor and began to shave. It was in need of a proper stropping, but I did not have the leather for doing it. “What are you planning to do?” I asked as I progressed down my cheek to my jaw.

  “We have as much interest in getting the treaty as you do. We would just as soon it remain secret, as your government must.” She favored me with another smile that did not reach the brilliant blue of her eyes.

  I finished shaving in silence, and as I tugged off my nightshirt, I could not keep from blushing when Penelope Gatspy did not decently turn away, but watched me with an eagerness I found disconcerting. I dressed as quickly as I could, and allowed her to order me down the stairs. She, I noticed, carried my carpetbag.

  We found Mycroft Holmes in the taproom, a German newspaper open, a cup of strong coffee steaming on the table beside his chair. Across from him was seated a man I had not seen since he thrust me under my bathwater in Calais. He held a pistol negligently in one hand and watched Holmes with the appearance of boredom.

  “There you are, dear boy,” said Holmes as we came into the room. “I see you have met one of our new ... allies.” He coughed once, to make his point, and then regarded me narrowly. “I think it would be best if you would take the time to look at this piece in the paper.” He folded the pages back and handed me the paper, indicating a report from Munich.