Against the Brotherhood (10 page)

“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 troubled, 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.

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.