Against the Brotherhood (19 page)

“THAT EYE OF
yours will be black tomorrow,” said McMillian as I stood beside his breakfast table, trying to make myself appear useful to him.

“Better than having a split skull, sir,” I responded, doing my best to ignore my headache. At my feet, my carpetbag seemed to radiate my duplicity.

“No doubt,” said McMillian, and looked me over critically, then heaved a sigh of disappointment. “Have you ever tended to a gentleman before?”

“As a clerk for one, and a secretary for another. I began as a clerk. I got the work because I knew German.” I felt as if I had been called upon to recite in class and could be birched for answering incorrectly.

“And how did you come to know that?” he asked, his eyes filled with suspicion. “Surely someone of your station has not been abroad?”

“I learned it at school. We could choose to learn chemistry or German or French. I decided German was the most useful. I thought it would make it easier to secure a position.” It was near enough to the truth that I felt no awkwardness in saying it. “I can manage French, too.”

“That’s sensible, at least.” He glared down at his porridge. “Do you know what would be required of you, as my manservant?”

“Well, as I understand it, I would have to look after your things, tend to your clothes, see that they are pressed and in good repair. I would have to settle your accounts for you at various establishments, such as this one, and hotels. I would keep records for you, of a confidential nature, and serve as your barber and cook when you needed such service. I would be responsible for the care and appearance of your quarters and I would keep your personal belongings in good repair.” I looked down at my shoes. “I can drive a carriage, if you need a coachman.”

“What an enterprising fellow you are, but men of your station have to live by their wits, or so I’ve been told,” he said, sounding faintly bored at this. “All right. We’re in Bavaria and a lunatic is King here. So I will undertake an act of whimsy, and give you a trial of forty days. At the end of that time if I am pleased with your efforts, I will pay you three pounds beyond the price of your upkeep. If I am displeased, I will pay you one pound ten. This will serve as an incentive for you to excel.” He coughed once, for emphasis. “Given the state you are in, I will not ask you to commence your efforts until this afternoon. And while you are healing, take care to stay out of sight. A visage like yours just now would sour milk.”

I nodded once, gingerly to avoid hurt. “Thank you, sir. Thank you.”

“Thank Angus, if you must, for he is the one who put you in the way of getting this position. If I were not in such straits as I find myself, I would not consider you to take his place, but as beggars cannot be choosers, you have the position by default,” said McMillian. “And tell Madame Isolde that I want to see Francoise. Have her bring two bottles of champagne. And goblets, of course.” His wink was so lascivious I nearly laughed, for he was like a lecher in a play, leering and scheming.

“Very good, sir,” I said, and hurried to the door, determined to make the most of my respite. I needed about twelve hours of sleep, but would have to make do with three. But I reckoned without Herr Dortmunder, who was lying in wait at the foot of the staircase.

“Well?” he demanded as I came down.

“He has agreed to take me on for forty days,” I told him, and added, “I have to give a message to Madame Isolde for him.”

“We will not need forty days,” said Herr Dortmunder with great satisfaction. “We will have this settled in ten, or we will fail utterly. Forty days. He must be desperate.” He directed a look of condemnation at me that made me long to protest his assumptions of me, for he assuredly thought I was a contemptible creature, feckless and venal at best. “You will be paid for your work,” he added, confirming my worst suspicions.

“So I had better,” I replied grimly, coming to dislike August Jeffries with a determined intensity that was the more ferocious because Jeffries was only a role, a fiction adopted and molded for the occasion. I passed through the dining room to the kitchen where Madame Isolde was working with her servants to find something to put over the shattered window. “McMillian wants something from you,” I told her, and relayed his orders as crisply as I could. I was growing tired of carrying the carpetbag with me everywhere, though I supposed a man in Jeffries’ uncertain position would do just that.

She looked up as I approached her, and put one hand to her bosom. “You are a sight, English, there is no denying it. I hope you will not suffer any greater hurts while you are here.”

“You’re very kind,” I said. “But it is a flesh wound, not so severe as it appears. I will heal. McMillian has agreed to take me on, and for a first commission, he has asked that Francoise be sent up, with champagne.” I could not completely hide my embarrassment at this request, which caused Madame Isolde a fleeting amusement.

“Do not worry about this, English. These girls have done far stranger things for men. Do not doubt it.” She clapped her hands. “Hannes, go fetch Francoise and tell her that McMillian is thirsty again. She knows what to do.”

I studied the activity in the kitchen a little longer and then excused myself, claiming—not incorrectly—that I had a headache and needed to lie down. I thanked her again for all she had done.

“But I did so little,” she exclaimed, looking about in apprehension. “It was the Turk who stitched up your wound and Herr Dortmunder who undertook to discover who fired the shot. His efforts so far have garnered no results. We do not know who shot, or why. How can I accept your thanks for that?” She had fear in her eyes and I wondered what Herr Dortmunder had been saying to her since the shooting occurred.

“Nevertheless, I am grateful, Madame,” I said, hoping to discover some alleviation of anxiety in her.

I did not succeed. “You should rest, English. If you are not able to work for Herr McMillian, there will be great ... displeasure.” She coughed delicately, as if she could not risk saying more. “There is a small room adjoining Herr McMillian’s. It is for his servant. I suppose you should lie down there.”

“All right,” I said, feeling a rush of gratitude for this simple effort on her part. “I will do that.”

“The door is to the left of Herr McMillian’s, near the top of the stairs. It is in an alcove.” She made a quick motion with her hand. “I should not continue to talk with you here, Herr Jeffries. I should, I think, let you rest and return to my chores. And I will see that Francoise is sent up with the champagne. I trust,” she added with a practiced smile, “their antics will not keep you awake.”

“I doubt they could, Ma’ am; not the way I’m feeling just at present,” I said, with a slight bow; even that little motion set my head ringing. I picked up the carpetbag again and trudged up the stairs.

The room was small; hardly room enough in it for a narrow bed and a chest of drawers. There was a single wooden chair near the little window. A ewer stood on a tall, thin stand and lacked a mirror. But it was enough to serve my purposes well. I put down my carpetbag, then tucked it under the springs, removed my coat and shoes, and disposed of myself on the bed with a single blanket over me, thinking with it being light out I would need time to get to sleep.

And the next thing I was aware of, McMillian was standing over me, shaking me, his face rigid with outrage and fear. “I said
wake up
you idiot! I need your help at once.”

I sat up groggily, my head swimming, and I stared at McMillian, who was partially dressed with his robe flung carelessly over his drawers and singlet. “Is something the matter?”

“Of course something is the matter,” he barked at me. “I need your help at once.” He tossed my blanket back and all but dragged me to my feet. “Now! Do you understand me?
Now!”

By now I was awake enough to realize my headache had not left, but merely retreated to another part of my skull. I reached out for my coat and pulled it on, trying to imagine what had happened to McMillian that he should be in such a taking. “All right,” I said as I faced him. “If I do not need my shoes, I am at your disposal.”

“And about time,” he growled, taking me by the upper arm and thrusting me into his room. He paused and pointed to the naked body of the girl I had to assume was Francoise. “Look!”

I noticed the contorted features and tense body. “When did this happen?” I asked, trying not to be shocked.

“Not ten minutes ago. I ... I didn’t know what to do.” His face was turning as ruddy as his hair. “I suppose I will have to inform Madame Isolde?”

“I will do it, sir,” I said almost without thinking; I made an effort to pull myself together. “Tell me how it happened.” That was a good start, I decided. I would have to find out for Herr Dortmunder and Mycroft Holmes, both of whom would have reasons of their own to want to know about this death.

McMillian began to pace, rubbing his hands through his hair as he did, as if he could set his mind in order with his fingers. “She came as I was finishing breakfast, about twenty minutes ago. She ... she brought two glasses and a bottle of champagne. I removed the cork while she undressed. She has ... had a way of undressing that makes me come to attention at once.” He glanced at the corpse once, and then looked away. “She poured a glass of champagne for herself, then did as I like best, and emptied the rest of the bottle over her shoulders and breasts. She toasted me and drank what was in her glass. Then she ... she came to me so that I could take my share from her flesh.” He coughed. “I don’t know. She shuddered before I touched her, and began to shake, as if with palsy. Then her tongue protruded and she tried to breathe—“

“And what did you do?” I asked.

“What
could I
do? I tried to stop her from falling, but her spasms got worse and she fell to the floor.” He put his hands over his eyes and stopped pacing. “Look at her. That could have happened to me.”

So now we have it, I thought. “You think the wine was poisoned?”

“It must have been,” said McMillian. “How else could she have ... “ He ended his thoughts with a vague gesture toward the body.

“But if it is known that you ... take your champagne as you do,” I said, hoping I was being sufficiently tactful, “wouldn’t it follow that you are being sent a warning?” Or a distraction, I added to myself.

He gave me a pointed stare. “That is possible.”

“And if that was the intention, all the more reason for me to tell Madame Isolde about it at once, so that whoever is responsible will know his message has been received?” I stared down at the girl again. She had been very pretty until half an hour ago, with a cloud of dark hair and full, rouged lips.

McMillian prodded me on the shoulder. “Be about it, man. Be about it.”

I bowed slightly, and went to the door of his room. “It may be necessary to summon the police,” I reminded him.

This earned me an affronted stare. “I will not have to give evidence, surely. This woman was a whore.”

“And she was murdered in your room,” I added for him.

He dismissed this out of hand. “She died in a brothel. Whores die in brothels every day. The police must know that.”

“So they do,” I said, and left him to dress. As I came down the stairs, I noticed that Mycroft Holmes was sitting in the main parlor, studying a chessboard, apparently unaware of my presence. Herr Dortmunder was busily supervising the covering of the broken window with a cut board, ordering the servants about as if he wanted to use his postilion’s spurs on them.

Madame Isolde, who had been pouring herself a strong cup of coffee, now turned and saw me. “Oh, dear,” she exclaimed. “Is anything the matter?”

I bowed slightly, taking care where I stepped in my stocking feet. “Not with me, Madame, but there is something very wrong upstairs. McMillian has asked me to inform you of it.”

This caught Herr Dortmunder’s attention, and he swung around. “What now?”

“It appears that Miss Francoise has ... met with an accident,” I said, trying to keep my demeanor as stoic as possible. Had I not already been pale from the cut on my forehead, I would have blanched now.

“An accident? But ... how could she?” Madame Isolde watched Herr Dortmunder narrowly as she voiced her questions.

“She ... seems to have drunk some ... bad champagne,” I said, finding the words difficult to get out. “You had better come up.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose I had,” she said, rattling nervously. “It is always so awkward when one of the girls has something ... go wrong.” She pulled her pink wrapper more closely around her, and started toward the stairs as much to escape Herr Dortmunder as to help McMillian or Francoise.

“Wait!” Herr Dortmunder commanded. “I should go with you.”

Madame Isolde shot a single, stricken look at me, and then said, “Certainly. Your help is always welcome.”

His laughter was not pleasant. “You may thank me yet, Madame,” he said as he started up the stairs two at a time, his spur leather chains ringing as he went.

We followed after him. “How bad is it?” whispered Madame Isolde as we climbed.

“Very bad,” I whispered back. “She is dead.”