IN THE STREET a number of delivery wagons were drawn up, and the sidewalks were crowded with various merchants and vendors bringing their wares to the houses that pressed together. I was ignored or scorned as being out of place in this affluent neighborhood, and it struck me that my fiancée would be distressed to see me in this seedy attire. I could not explain it to her as a necessary part of the work I do for Mycroft Holmes. She put great stock in appearance and proper behavior, and any lapse in either would cause her much dismay. I decided when I recounted this adventure to her I would have to mitigate some of its more dissolute aspects. With this to occupy my thoughts, I passed quickly and without undue notice toward High Holborn, where the bustle was more general and a man looking as I did could go unremarked by those around him.
I reached the Cap and Balls betimes. It was a squat and ancient pub, one that might have had some distinction by its age had it not been such a squalid ruin of a place. The floors sagged and the low pitch of the ceiling was oppressive. I made myself known to the innkeeper, who was not much pleased to have me as his guest. He eyed my lamentable baggage and demanded five shillings for the room and an additional ten pence if I wanted my breakfast in the morning.
“For I’ll have no racketing off leaving me without a farthing for my trouble.” His shrewd face made me think he had rarely lost the price of a room to anyone. As I handed over the coins with a great show of reluctance, he chuckled. “A peevy cove you are, right enough. I know. You’ll be playing off your tricks on less knowing coves than me.”
“No doubt,” I told him, trying to appear as if my dignity had suffered from his distrust. “Which room did you say, again?”
“Top of the stairs, go left to the end of the hall.” He rubbed his hands on the filthy apron tied around his paunch. “You can have some baked cheese and a leg of chicken for your tea, if you want to give me another ten pence.”
The price was high for what he was offering, and we both knew it. “Thank you, no. I would rather take a glass of daffy in the taproom later.”
The innkeeper nodded. “Suit yourself.”
The room he had allotted to me was small and so damp that I wondered there were no mushrooms growing under the sagging bed. One high, grimy window opened onto the small, oblong yard at the rear of the inn. Several other buildings backed onto it, making it more like a prison than a place to unload wagons; there was a single, narrow alley leading in and out of the courtyard. “What an unprepossessing place,” I said to myself as I looked out into the confines of the yard.
Once I had bestowed my few items from the carpetbag—enough to give the appearance of my reduced position in the world—I hastened down to the street and set off toward the Inns of Chancery, the better to support my role of a man in search of a lawyer not overburdened with ethics. The pressure of the pistol at the small of my back was a constant reminder of my purpose. After more than an hour of showing myself in the places where I might be expected to conduct my search, I returned to the Cap and Balls, carrying myself in a disheartened way.
As I reached the taproom of the Cap and Balls, I searched for a dark corner where I might watch the room while giving the appearance of despondency.
The innkeeper charged me thr’pence for a very bad glass of gin, which I carried over to the inglenook by the hearth and hunched over, thinking as I did that there are few things I would like less to drink than the stuff currently in my glass. At least I would have no trouble delaying its consumption.
As the afternoon faded, a number of men came into the taproom, not one of them more sinister than a lanky dealer in secondhand clothing. He took a quick look around, passing over me as unpromising, and then ordered a mug of punch. He exchanged half a dozen words with the landlord, and then settled into steady drinking.
By the time the lamps were lit, the taproom was boisterous and the innkeeper had rolled out a barrel of ale. By the smell of it, the quality was about as poor as the gin. For the next two hours I watched the men in the room make merry; no one struck me as sinister, or intent on overthrowing the governments of Europe.
And then a figure crossed the threshold. What there was about him I cannot say precisely that gave him his arresting and malignant presence, but it was as if he walked in a shadow of his own making, an engulfing darkness, potent and dangerous. He chose one of the tables not far from the hearth and raised his hand. “Landlord! My port.”
The innkeeper achieved a sour smile, but hastened to obey the summons, taking down a bottle from the back shelf and pouring a fair serving into a large, clean glass. He carried it to the man’s table—an unusual courtesy in this establishment. As he put it on the table before the new arrival, I saw his hand shake.
“Good man, Holt,” said the sinister guest as he gave him a crown for his trouble. “Do not disturb me unless I summon you.”
“Most grateful, Mister Vickers,” said Holt, bowing and withdrawing at once. Ordinarily this sum would have been enthusiastically welcomed, but now, the innkeeper took it as if it scorched his fingers. He took refuge behind the bar hurriedly, and around the taproom the raucous conversations quieted.
Vickers gave no sign of noticing the impression his presence caused. He was content to sit and drink his port slowly, his deep-set eyes brooding on the middle distance. I saw that he was watching the door in a covert way, as if in anticipation of new arrivals. I did not want to make my surveillance apparent, so I feigned drunkenness and did my best to make it appear that I could not hold focus with my single eye.
It was not long before the crowd in the taproom dispersed, leaving two inebriated carters leaning on the bar arguing over some matter of customs, Vickers at the hearth table, and me in the inglenook, bent over my glass of dreadful gin. The waiting was difficult, for the palpable sense of ghastliness that came from Vickers and my own sense of being observed by him. I felt as if I had been covered with a thin, viscous film of debasement.
Finally the innkeeper approached his dire guest, saying subserviently, “There’s a butt of pork and stewed onions tonight, Mister Vickers. And trotters. If you should want any.”
The look of condemnation this menu brought made Holt step back. “I think not,” said Vickers in what would have been cordiality in another. “Perhaps something later, when I am through with my friends. Though not trotters.” This afterthought made the landlord shudder and shake his head.
Holt once again escaped to the protection of his bar. He made a point of polishing this expanse with a damp cloth, all the while taking care not to look in the direction of Vickers.
When I thought I could bear this no longer, I poured the contents of my glass on the floor and called for another, making a point of sounding ill-used. “And a slice or two of bread while you’re at it.”
“That’ll be ha’penny extra for the bread,” said Holt, not bothering to bring the gin to me.
I staggered to the bar, threw down the required coins, took the drink and the two thin slices of hard bread, then made my way back to the inglenook, muttering as I went. I slouched down, and took a bite of the bread; it was surprisingly good. I ate it with an enthusiasm that would pass muster for hunger.
“Is that all the supper you are having, my good man?” said Vickers, not moving from his place at his table.
I did not respond, but continued to chew my bread, my shoulders hunched.
“I am talking to you, fellow,” said Vickers, more pointedly, and stared at my head as if he would burn a hole through to my brains.
“Me, sir?” I said, turning to face him. It was not a pleasant thing to look into his eyes.
“Yes. You.” He gave an imperious wave of his hand. “Pray join me a moment.”
“Very well,” I said, taking on a servile manner to show gratitude, though I loathed myself for even pretending to accommodate him.
This seemed to satisfy Mister Vickers, who showed me a cold smile and indicated the bench across from his chair. “Sit down. I don’t recall seeing you here before, sir.”
“Because I have just arrived today, didn’t l?” I answered, as one seeking to ingratiate himself.
“My good man, you know your movements better than I do,” said Vickers with thinly veiled contempt.
“Well, I just reached London today,” I said, my cringing only partly feigned. “And a sorry place I’ve fetched up.”
Vickers looked around. “I am forced to agree.”
It was tempting to ask why he came here when it was apparent he could have chosen less lamentable accommodations, but I stopped myself in time. Remembering my role, I muttered, “I’d have better if there was justice in the world. I’d stop at the Grand or the Empire.”
“Who would not?” His question required no answer, and I did not venture one. “Do me the honor of telling me why you are in London,” said Vickers languidly.
I knew better than to be too easily drawn in, and so I shrugged my shoulders. “Naught that would interest the likes of you.” It was a surly response and should have got me a sharp dismissal, but it did not. I noticed that Vickers had caught sight of the tattoo on my wrist and I turned my hand as if to conceal it.
“Now there you are wrong,” said Vickers. “I suspect you are in need of work. Am I right? Some way to line your pockets with the coin of the realm. If your complaints are not an excuse for idleness.” He did not wait for my answer. “And under the circumstances, I should think you would seek to engage the support of anyone who could be of assistance to you.”
“But what would you want with me?” I asked it with a sense of coldness spreading through me; he surmised something because of the tattoo, and expected that I would grasp his meaning and share his purpose.
When Vickers looked at me this time, I felt a vileness about him that shook me to the roots. “Any number of things. I have my uses for such as you, as well you know. If you are suitable to my purposes. Which I will determine when you answer the questions I put to you.”
All of Mycroft Holmes’ warnings, which I had thought overblown, now came back to me, and I realized that if anything the gravity of the situation had been underestimated. I lowered my head in order to avoid that baleful gaze. “I’ve had some hard times,” I admitted, striving to maintain the demeanor required.
“So I assumed,” said Vickers with a trace of amusement. “If you will be good enough to inform me of the nature of your difficulties, perhaps we can come to some agreement on a means to alleviate the most pressing of them.”
“And what would a man like yourself want to do it for?” I demanded, making sure there was enough of a whine in my voice.
“I have my reasons,” said Vickers, and again, I felt a cold grip me in leaden fingers.
“It’s been hard, sir,” I told him, keeping my eyes averted. “I can’t find employment, not as I’m qualified to do.”
“And what might that be?” The question was made lazily, as if it had little or no significance to Vickers.
“I’ve been factoring for mercers and cotton growers, sir,” I answered at last. “Dealing mostly with the Egyptians and the mercers around the Midlands; Birmingham and Coventry and the like.” That was plausible enough, and I knew sufficient amounts about the brokering of cotton that I could answer most inquiries about it and sound credible, thanks to a cousin who had made a respectable fortune in the business.
“Are the mills doing badly?” asked Vickers as if disinterested. “I was unaware of it.”
“They’re doing all right,” I said sullenly, and continued on as if I could not stop myself from reciting the whole of my misfortunes. “But a whole lot I brokered, the Egyptians wouldn’t make good on the delivery, and I lost my commission and the mercers won’t trust me. None of them will let me in the door.”
“How unfortunate,” said Vickers blandly.
“If my half-brother can give me a place, I’ll be off to Norfolk in a couple of days. I can be of use to him, for all he deals in is wool instead of cotton.” My confidence did not sound convincing, luckily. “Edward Montjoy, in Norfolk. You may know of him?”
“I haven’t the pleasure,” said Vickers, on the edge of boredom.
His eyes flicked over me. “But if you have hope of a station in Norfolk, why do you come to London?”
I glanced around furtively, as if I feared we would be overheard.
“It’s my father’s damned will. He left everything in a muddle, and I hoped I could straighten it out, so I wouldn’t have to depend on my stepbrother at all, but could set up for myself. I wouldn’t have to depend on Montjoy if the will didn’t force me to.” This last sounded unreliable even to me.
Vickers regarded me steadily for a short while. “So you are looking for a solicitor? Why not speak to the man who handled the will for your father.”
“Because I don’t trust him, is why,” I said, and let Vickers draw the fest out of me over the greater part of an hour, by which time, three more men had come into the taproom and sat down at tables flanking Mister Vickers.
“A lamentable situation, Mister...”
“Jeffries,” I introduced myself. “August Jeffries. No relation to the famous judge, not that I know of, any road.”
“The Hanging Judge.” Vickers showed his teeth. “Not a connection to boast of in polite company.”
The other three men exchanged looks that were impossible for me to read in the low light.
“So you want to find a solicitor who can... persuade the courts to make some of the funds left to your wife and family in trust available to you for the purpose of bringing said wife and family to England?” Vickers ran his tongue over his thin lips. “An enterprising notion.”
I listened, feeling ashamed of August Jeffries and his plans to take advantage of his nonexistent relatives. “I wouldn’t do it if the stars hadn’t turned on me as they did.”
Vickers fell silent, and now directed his gaze on my eye. “How did the stars turn on you?”
I managed to make my apprehension look like awkwardness. “It is Jupiter and Saturn together. If I had not a Grand Cross, it would not be so hard, but—”
“Stop!” declared Vickers. He looked at the other three men. “He is right; the aspects are generally negative now.”
The oldest of the three, a white-haired mole of a fellow in an expensive tweed suit and the air of a man of some consequence, nodded sagely, and spoke with a broad, Devonshire accent. “That is true. With Jupiter and Saturn both badly aspected, it could account for some of his misfortune.” He put a heavy emphasis on the some.
“But the Moon,” I interjected. “Tomorrow it moves into Aries, and—”
“It is more favorable to your endeavors,” Vickers finished for me.
“Perhaps the Moon is working a little ahead of itself, Mister Jeffries. For I think we can be of some help to you.”
I stared at him, doing my best to look grateful. “If you could put me in the way of finding a solicitor, I would thank you most heartily, sir, and no doubt about it.”
Vickers nodded, and looked steadily at me. “And in return,” he said with gelid assurance, “you will help us.”
“At your service,” I said, deliberately sounding a bit wild, so that it would appear I did not entirely trust to my good fortune, or had taken a spot more gin than was good for me, which was truly the case with the Blue Ruin they poured here. I made sure I reeled a bit as I got to my feet and saluted in very bad form indeed. “Yours to command.”
“Without a doubt,” said Vickers, smiling with all his teeth. He made a signal to the other men and got to his feet. “If you will give my companions all the details of your plight, I will engage to help you out of this coil, if your responses are satisfactory.”
“Satisfactory in what sense?” I asked, my ill-usage only partly feigned.
Vickers shrugged elaborately. “In... oh, in regard to that tattoo on your wrist, for example.”
I felt most apprehensive. “This—I can tell you nothing about it.” Vickers gestured to one of the men, who took a poker and stuck it deep into the fire. No one else in the taproom paid the least attention to any of this. “We shall see,” he mused. “When it is glowing, bring it here and lay it across—”
“What?” I demanded, ready to jump up.
“It will not be necessary if you will tell me what the significance of it is,” Vickers told me as if he were describing a day in the country. “It will spare you suffering, and what is the trouble with that?”
“No trouble, except that I can’t oblige you,” I said, doing my best to sound more resolute than ignorant; I was convinced that any sign of weakness now would set Vickers against me and I would fail in my mission for Mycroft Holmes.
The man he had ordered tested the poker. It was red but not yet glowing; he put it back in the fire.
“Think of all I can do for you. And in return I want only to know the importance of that... unusual tattoo.” Vickers looked toward the window. “Such a minor thing, really.”
“It may be,” I said, swallowing hard. “But I can tell you nothing. Do what you will, I cannot tell you.”
Vickers sighed. “Bring the poker.”
This could not be happening, I thought as the man approached me. I knew these men were dangerous, but I had not supposed they were mad. I could not move from my place without falling into their hands, so I did my best to maintain an outward composure. “I can tell you nothing,” I repeated as the poker—now seeming the size of a loaf of bread—was brought near enough for me to feel the heat of it.
“Suppose we should burn it off” Vickers suggested.
I recalled the scar I had seen on Mycroft Holmes’ wrist, so small I had not thought it worth notice, and I realized it was a burn scar. Good God, had they done this to him? “I still can tell you nothing,” I said. To my astonishment my voice did not shake.
The glowing metal was near enough now to singe the frayed cuff of my jacket. Vickers studied me. “Well?”
“I have nothing to say,” I told him.
“Not even about the Valley of the Kings?” he asked, and signaled his man to move away. “For now, I am willing to assist you.”
I was startled at the suddenness of his offer, at his abrupt change of demeanor, which did not diminish my conviction of his sinister intent. In the persona of August Jeffries, I demanded, “What are you talking about? You were prepared to maim me, and now you extend yourself as if there were no... question, or bargains? You are not a charitable man, of that I am certain. So what benefit do you expect?” I managed to sound scornful and pleading at once, and decided that the hours I had spent with Edmund Sutton were not wholly wasted.
“Oh, there are questions, and you have answered the most pressing,” said Vickers, and his voice was as cold and piercing as a hangman’s pity. “Rest assured, you have given the answer.” He turned on his heel and strode out the door without looking back.
The Devon man glowered at me. “Let’s go over the terms of your father’s will, shall we?”
I made a half-hearted and truculent protest, then sat down again and let them draw my story out of me; all the while I wondered what I had said that had so changed Vickers’ mind. I reckoned I must have given him the response he expected in the denial of all knowledge of the meaning of the tattoo. But what did that denial mean to him?
FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS:
G. has been started on his mission. M.H. told me that he is apprehensive about the assignment for there is much we do not know, and G. is still untried. Once enmeshed in the intrigue it may be difficult to extricate G. from it. If, indeed, we have such an opportunity. So much depends on G. himself.
There was a note from G.’s fiancée delivered here, summoning him to a fete tomorrow night. M.H has sent her a note, informing her that G. will not be available for the occasion, being as he is on business for the government.
M.H. was displeased to read in the Times that there are yet again rumors of another naval scandal. The author of the article claims that an effort is being made to conceal any evidence of wrongdoing, for it is feared that another blow to the government could lead to a vote of no confidence. In these uncertain times, even the appearance of mismanagement might be sufficient to do the government severe damage.
The messenger from hospital informs me that Mothers condition remains unchanged It is a great relief to me that M. H. has undertaken to pay the whole cost of her care, for now I know she will not be deprived of any help or comfort the medical profession can offer her. Had I been the one to shoulder all the cost, she must have had far less skillful care than she now receives.