Against the Brotherhood Read online

  “I... didn’t want anything,” she said defensively, her face set in severe disapproval, at least as much as she could achieve, given the awkwardness of the circumstances. “I only hoped that there might be a map, so I could watch our progress.”

  I was reasonably certain that this was a lie, but I was willing to pretend I believed her, at least for a short while. “If you’d wakened me, I could have told you I don’t have one. Trains go where they go. This one will reach Paris soon enough. It can’t leave the track and junket about the countryside.”

  Again her cheeks reddened. “I didn’t want to... make any scene.”

  “Well, you’re doing that now, aren’t you?” I said back at her, my manner as curt as I could bring myself to make it. I did not want to make her think she had won me over, if that was her intention. “Or had you something else in mind? Did you truly want a map?”

  “What... what do you mean?” she asked, doing her best to appear affronted and looking more like an outraged kitten, as much confused as angry. I noticed that she had a talent for this, and my suspicions about her grew. It could be that she was just who she said she was, but what if Vickers had sent her to keep an eye on me? Or the German from the night before hoped to learn what he could not with threat of drowning? “Why are you staring at me in that horrid way?” she asked, cutting into my unpleasant thoughts.

  “You might have wanted to get your hands on my flimsies,” I said in the insinuating way someone like Jeffries would do. “Well, I don’t keep it where you can reach it, and that’s a fact.”

  “You think I wanted your money?” she said in rising accents. “Just because I looked in your luggage?”

  “Looks that way to me. Why else would you try to prig my luggage, is what I want to know?”

  “Well, I was.” This confession took us both by surprise. She looked away from me, her neck quite red above the high collar of her dress. “I... I... my money was stolen last night. I haven’t got very much left, and I thought if I could find five pounds or so, I would have enough to pay for my meals until I reach my brother. I’m afraid I will run out of funds before I reach him.”

  It sounded absurd that such a young woman would have that misfortune befall her; like the rest of her tale, it seemed ludicrous, and I did not know what to say to her that would not reveal my doubts. At the same time, I knew it was just possible that this story, ridiculous though it was, was the truth and that she was more naive than she wanted to appear. I stared hard at her. “Did you have breakfast?”

  She shook her head. “I’m quite hungry.” She looked at her hands in her lap while she wrapped a black lace handkerchief around her gloved fingers. “I don’t mean to throw myself on your kindness, but...”

  “Well,” I said to her, trying not to be too caught up in her tale, “when we reach the next stop, I’ll let you a few francs so you can nip off and buy yourself a pastry and a cup of coffee.” I tried for a smile in the Jeffries manner, and hoped that I achieved the mix of gallantry and lechery I was aiming for.

  “Oh, would you?” she said, giving me a melting look that must have cost her father a great deal while he lived.

  “If you don’t try any more high-jinx with me, I would. It happens I don’t like to see anyone go hungry,” I said, as if I had just performed an act of great magnanimity.

  “I won’t try anything more,” she assured me with the look of one who has brought grief to a score of governesses. “I am very grateful to you.”

  “No doubt,” I said drily. “And if I were not a gentleman, you might have to show me just how grateful you are.” I finished this off with a wink.

  She drew back as if from something rotten. “How can you?” she demanded. “I shall have to find another compartment if you continue this way.”

  “Not until you have your pastry,” I appended to her protestation. “It wouldn’t be a good trade as things stand now.”

  “Surely you wouldn’t dishonor me for the price of a breakfast?” she asked, one hand to her throat.

  “Women have been dishonored for less,” I said, astonished at my own cynicism and temerity. I decided to try to be less of a lout without letting down my guard entirely. “But you need not put yourself in a taking, Miss.” I saw she was truly shocked by what I had said. “If you’re going to cut up rough, I’ll say nothing more about it.”

  She looked huffy, and emphasized this by fixing her veil more completely across her face. “I think you owe me an apology, sir.”

  “Why? Because I spoke the truth? I won’t apologize for that.” I looked directly at her, my eye fixed on hers behind the veil. “It’s all very well for girls like you to fly your colors and faint to learn what your sisters do every day of their lives. But I have seen something of the world, and I know how little honor may be bought for, even in the backstreets of London. You need not go to Africa or India or China to find it.”

  “You are an odious man,” she informed me roundly. “I want to hear nothing more from you.”

  “But you do want me to buy you something to eat, don’t you? So keep a civil tongue in your head until you’ve eaten. You don’t want me to change my mind about the breakfast, do you,” I advised her, and leaned back in my place once more, pretending to doze again.

  She sat very straight; as I watched her through my half-closed eye, I could see that she was more frightened than offended by what I had said. My headache still had a grip on me, but I no longer felt as if the upper part of my skull were about to burst to pieces. I occupied my thoughts with what little I had learned about her. She claimed to be in mourning for her mother. That could be true; her clothes were black and severe, with no adornments beyond simple pearl earrings, which were suitable for mourning wear. She had made no mention of a father, and since she claimed to be going to visit her brother, I had assumed her father was dead. But what if he were not? Could there be some reason why she did not like to mention a father? If so, what could that reason be? And was it enough to impel her to travel alone in a foreign country? Or was the whole a fiction, or enough of it to render any conclusions I might reach invalid from the start? If the misadventures of the night before had not caused my head to ache, these ruminations certainly would. I wished I dared to make notes, or to prepare a report for Mycroft Holmes. The patch over my eye felt itchy, and it was all I could do not to scratch.

  The conductor came by to punch our tickets and to check our travel documents. He remarked that I would have to change train stations as well as trains in Paris, adding that I had been wise to schedule a night in that city. “It is better to spend the night in Paris than in Amiens or Charleroi.” The suggestive roll of his eyes made it apparent that he had his own ideas on how a man might entertain himself there.

  “Will we be stopping soon?” I asked as he handed back my documents.

  “Oui, in about thirty minutes. It will be a twenty-minute stop.”

  His expression was suggestive. “Will that be enough time for you?”

  “Time enough to purchase a croissant or brioche and some coffee, I should think,” I observed.

  “Yes; there are sellers at the station. They will be on the platform. You need only lean out the window. You do not need to trouble yourself to leave the carriage.”

  “I must catch a train for Dijon and from there to Basel,” she said to the conductor as that worthy examined her papers. “Will I have to change train stations?”

  “There is a train that departs to the southeast from your station. It will reach Dijon in the evening, and there will be a train to Basel in the middle of the next morning.” He tipped the beak of his cap to her, nodded to me with a knowing wink, and departed the compartment.

  “He is a very rude person,” said my traveling companion. “I think he was amusing himself at our expense.”

  “Perhaps,” I allowed, and regarded her with more concern. “Just
what is it your brother does for the British Ambassador in Basel?”

  “He is an undersecretary,” said my traveling companion with the sort of disdain that can only be called sad, for such a post was not worthy of such grand airs. “He has been in his position six years.”

  “In Switzerland,” I said, as if I meant Samarkand. “How fortunate for him.”

  The train began to slow for Sainte-Cecille, where passengers wanting to visit the bathing hotels at Plaige Saint-Cecille would depart, and those returning from such recreations would come aboard.

  “It is a very good post. My mother said so often and often,” she said.

  I reached into my jacket and drew out the small purse of coins. I handed this to the young woman and said, “We’ll be in the station shortly. You’ll want to be ready.”

  She took the coins so eagerly that I was hard-pressed to doubt her sincerity. I watched as she worked the window open and stood in order to reach out farther. “I’m so grateful, Mister...”

  “Jeffries, at your service. August Jeffries, of Norwich.” I bowed a little, to show the remnants of good conduct.

  “I suppose sharing a first-class compartment on a train constitutes an introduction, under the circumstances. I am Penelope Gatspy, of Kenilworth.” She held out her left hand for me to kiss.

  I complied, thinking as I did that it would be very easy to fall into conversation with her now that we had exchanged names. That would be a very dangerous thing to do, for her, if not for me, so I merely watched as she purchased two croissants and a jug of coffee, and sat consuming them while the holiday departers replaced the holiday arrivals, and the train continued on its way to the River Somme.

  FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS:

  M.H. has been occupied with the Admiralty records for many hours. I now believe he has made layers of information around him, for otherwise, I cannot conceive how he is able to keep everything in order in his mind, for it is certainly not orderly in appearance. Yet he claims success in his endeavor. He has found a pattern of pilfering that he is following to the full extent of its possibilities. He has already sent word to the Admiralty requesting them to detain four clerks in anticipation of his determining which of them has been altering the records to his own ends. He has not informed me of how he will do this, but I am confident that he will, for he has always prevailed in the past. Eventually he may tell me how he has determined it must be one of these four clerks, and what in the records pointed his way to them.

  I have had word from hospital and must leave shortly in order to consult with the physician tending my mother. M.H. has said I may have the next four hours for this purpose. He has asked that I go by the Admiralty on my way back and obtain copies of the handwriting of the four clerks in question.

  Word from G. has caused M.H. increasing concern for G’s welfare, and he is attempting to bring this Admiralty matter to a swift conclusion through the discovery of the criminal so that he may depart as quickly as possible for France. Such a resolution will be welcome to the Admiralty, for it would provide a means to keep any scandal to a minimum, which is fervently desired. I know M.H. is more keenly aware of this than I, and that he will strive to serve the interests of the government in this matter as in all others.

  BY THE TIME we reached Paris, Miss Gatspy had told me a great deal about her family: her father had caused a scandal of some sort when she was a child and had left England under a cloud. Her mother had removed from London to Kenilworth and stayed there in quiet retirement from the world since Penelope was nine. Her brother, some years older than she, had remained in the care of an uncle in London while he completed his studies at Harrow and then had gone on to Trinity College, Oxford. It was apparent that Miss Gatspy and her brother were not well acquainted and had had little contact for many years. If, I kept reminding myself, any of this is true. It may all be a whimsy to mislead me.

  “So you see, I must go to Bertram now that mother is dead and ask him to lend me his support, or reveal what, if any, provisions our father may have arranged for me before his disgrace. My mother’s will gives me a competence only, and it was my understanding that father had made arrangements for some monies to come to me upon mother’s death.” Her conversation was artless and beguiling, and it was an effort not to be wholly caught up in it.

  “I surmise your brother did not attend your mother’s death,” I said as we rolled along the north bank of the Somme.

  “No; he was not able to obtain leave from his post,” she said, looking downcast. “It has been years and years since I have seen Bertram. I only hope I will recognize him when he meets me at the train.”

  I regarded her with a mixture of sympathy and reserve. “Bertram Gatspy,” I said, trying to recall if I had ever heard Mycroft Holmes mention such a name in his encyclopedic accountings of the diplomatic corps. Nothing came to mind, but I was aware my memory could be faulty.

  When at last we reached Paris, I left Miss Gatspy with mixed feeling. I made my way through the horrible crush to the telegram desk, gave my address as 221 C Baker Street London and asked if any messages had been received for me.

  “Yes, Mister ... ah ... Jeffries,” said the clerk in passable English. “It arrived five hours ago.” He handed over the telegram. I tore open the envelope, noticing that the seal was not as secure as it should have been, and found the following message: Terms of trust appear questionable. Am awaiting word from Luxembourg. Pierson James, Attorney-at-law.

  I considered this information, remembering my instructions, and concluded that there would be a packet of some sort waiting for me in Luxembourg. I folded the missive and thrust it into my inner jacket pocket and handed over my new message to be sent to my employer.

  Efforts still not satisfactory. More options are needed I hoped that this second sentence would convey my concerns about Miss Gatspy, by implying that I could not tell Mister Holmes enough with our codes as we had arranged them in advance.

  As I hurried out of the train station, I caught a glimpse of a woman in mourning, who might have been Miss Gatspy, climbing into a cab. I could not help but be puzzled by this, and it distracted my thoughts as I summoned a cab for myself and gave the address of the hotel included in my instructions from Vickers.

  The stay was less eventful than my night at the Red Lion had been. Before I checked into the hotel I purchased a new razor and a packet of sticking plasters in case I should cut myself with the unfamiliar instrument. At the hotel I was given an odd-shaped, dark room and an indifferent meal by a waiter who had as much interest in me as he would have had in a herd of sheep. I slept through the night and awoke at the first summons of the chambermaid. Some of my previous apprehension faded as I prepared to depart for the station.

  I was surprised to find a message from Vickers waiting for me at the desk when I came down in the morning: Performance to date satisfactory. Proceed according to instructions. Dortmunder will meet you as arranged. It was signed, ominously as I thought, Vickers for the Brotherhood

  Breakfast was provided, such as it was, as part of the price of the room. I had a stale pastry and a cup of very strong, tepid coffee, all served by the same massively indifferent waiter of the night before. The landlord made sure I had my bag, asked for his money and sneered at the tip I offered. And then I was in a cab pulled by a horse with a loose off-side rear shoe and bound for the next leg of my Journey.

  No one disturbed my peace this time, and I stared out the window at the French countryside, the little villages and the rolling hills, the occasional spire of a church. It was enough to lull me into a sense of safety that I was aware could evaporate in an instant. Finally we came to Luxembourg just at sunset. I called at the telegraph desk and was told nothing had come for me. Recalling the telegram, I experienced a sense of apprehension, but I was assured that the staff handling the telegrams was conscientious.

  Disappointed and mildly tro
ubled, I left the train station, thinking that I ought to find a way to contact Mycroft Holmes and inform him that I had not received his information as I made my way to the hotel suggested by Vickers. It overlooked the gorge that had made the little country so strategically important when wars were fought on foot and on horseback only, without trains and powerful guns to change the balance as they had done in the last twenty years. I was so interested in the place that I went to take a walk along the precipice, to marvel at how nature had contrived so useful a barricade.

  I had gone some distance along the top of the gorge, marveling at the narrow roads leading down to equally narrow houses clinging to the side of the chasm, and impressed with the ingenuity that made it possible for men to put up such structures. I was about to turn back when two figures leaped out of the shadows and rushed at me. I might have been able to run from one of them, but with two it was impossible. As they overtook me, I prepared to fight them, thinking them nothing more than common footpads, out to steal from an unwary foreigner.

  They were both dressed in nondescript dark-gray coats without capes or anything that would provide purchase for an opponent. One was tall and lean, with wide shoulders and fair hair. The other was not as tall, somewhat blocky, with light-brown hair and intense blue eyes. They walked with the practiced elasticity of movement that promised athletic ability and strength.

  I looked about in the hope that we were observed, but I saw no one on the street or in the houses below who might raise the alarm. I did not think of myself as an adept fighter, but I had been the middle of five sons and learned a thing or two about holding my own in my youth.