Against the Brotherhood (8 page)

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS:

M.H. has surmised that since there was nothing missing that we could determine, it is possible the searcher achieved his ends by taking something that should have been delivered. He has demonstrated his assumptions by pointing out that only the secretary and desk were broken into, and the correspondence boxes had been gone through quite thoroughly, while several objects of considerable value were left untouched. Coupled with that, M.H. has shown that in spite of the chaos left behind by the perpetrator, all that was disrupted were items that were written, from books to journals to files.

There was no packet from the Admiralty yesterday, and he has sent word to learn if anything was sent, and if so, when.

It would be a terrible thing if the thief has taken anything from the Admiralty, and M.H. has said he will have to delay his departure for the Continent until the matter of the delivery—if there was one—is cleared up. He has sent word to Edmund Sutton to postpone his coming here for a day at least, but to be prepared to present himself on short notice once this has been settled. “For mark my words, Tyers,
”
says he, “Guthrie is going into more danger than I thought when he left. And the longer I am forced to remain here, the greater his danger becomes.”

Mother has slipped further away. She cannot be fed and what little water can be coaxed past her lips will not sustain her for much longer.

I HAD THE
oddest sensation of floating, not just on the hot, soapy water, but in the air. There was a strange, bitter odor in the room that I had first assumed was bath salts, but now I began to suspect it was something else, more pernicious. My head felt enormous and light, like a bubble, and my vision was obscured by more than the steam in the room. Everything had the appearance of being haloed in rainbows, and at another time I might have found this enjoyable, but not now. Deep inside my mind, I could sense a terrible, muted panic rising, as if I were trying to scream through a pillow. But my limbs were filled with such lethargy and my will appeared to be altogether absent; nothing I thought of seemed to reach my body. My head lolled back and I tried to prevent myself from sliding dangerously low in the tub.

I did not have to worry on that account, for there were footfalls in the room and then I felt strong hands fix themselves on my shoulders and pull me higher up in the bath so that my head and neck were above the water. “Now then, you must wake up,” said a male voice with a distinct German accent. “It is time we had a little talk, fellow.”

It was useless to try to focus my eye; I could distinguish little more than smears of faded colors in the steam. Nightmarish as this was, I could not summon up the strength to oppose it.

The man with the German accent said, “You are the messenger for Mister Vickers, are you not?”

My tongue felt like a length of cotton wool in my mouth but I did my best to answer. “I am.”

“And you are going to Germany for him, aren’t you?” He spoke slowly and distinctly, which was necessary for me to understand him as there was a great roaring in my ears as if I were still at sea.

“I am,” I answered after what seemed forever. I did not want to give the man any answer but defiance, but I was under the compulsion of whatever damned drug was in the air, and I could not resist it. Vaguely I wondered why my questioner was not affected by the drug that held me.

“Is there anything else you are doing?” the man asked with false geniality.

There was something in the question that caused me alarm, but my thoughts were so muddled it eluded me. “Yes.”

All pretense of good fellowship left the man then. “What is it?” he demanded as if I were a recalcitrant horse.

“Scottish fellow,” I muttered, fighting an echo of dread. I was determined to hold something back from the man. “Have to find him.”

“Yes,” said the German impatiently. “That is what Vickers told you to do in Germany, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I agreed, pleased to be able to comply, for I suddenly thought I might be in great danger if I displeased the man.

“Is there anything else you are doing in Germany?” the man demanded.

To my distant-but-anguished dismay I heard myself say “Yes,” in the same dreamy tone I had used before.

“And what is that?” The man was growing furious, and my fear, though banked behind languorous clouds, grew stronger.

Say nothing, say nothing, say nothing, I ordered myself, and heard myself answer, “Make my fortune.” I felt giddy with relief that I had revealed nothing of my true mission, and I strove to let none of this show in my manner.

The man shoved me under the water and held me there until my lungs seemed about to burst. My eyepatch came close to sliding off my face, and I could do nothing about it. That may seem a small thing, but at the time it was of enormous importance to me. I have never been so thoroughly disoriented in so small a space. It was well-nigh impossible for me to determine which way was toward air, and which was not. To make it worse, I had so little strength that I could only thrash feebly, and did little more than make the man wet. The event had one beneficial effect, however, and that was to clear some of the cobwebs from my mind, and bring more of my own control back into me. I felt a hand in my hair and then I was dragged upward into the air again.

“How will you make your fortune?” the German asked with a single, swift glance at the tattoo on my wrist. He averted his eyes almost at once. “I am sorry so much water has been splashed about.”

“There is a will. Father’s will,” I said, sticking to the rehearsed story. “The money will get it set aside. It’s mine by rights in any case.” I made an effort to show the same somnambulistic lack of concern that I had until he had attempted to drown me. It was a greater effort than I had anticipated. I wanted to launch myself out of the tub and strangle the man. “Need money for the lawyer and the courts, damn them all.”

“Oh. Yes. That.” He released his hold on me and strode away toward the door, slamming it shut as he went out.

As soon as he was gone I began, to my distress, to tremble, as cold panic took me in its unrelenting claws. Until that moment I had thought I had handled myself rather well, given the circumstances, but now it was borne in upon me how easily I might have perished, and how ignominious such a death would be. Had Vickers sent this German to be rid of me? Was Mycroft Holmes mistaken in his conviction that Vickers recognized the tattoo? Had Vickers somehow learned that I was not the man I seemed to be? I huddled down in the hot bath and did my best to keep my teeth from chattering. The soporific phase of my drugged state—for surely I had been drugged—was over. My head was beginning to hurt now with a ferocity the Channel crossing had not approached. My chest felt closed as well, and I did all that I could to get into position to haul myself out of the tub while I could trust myself to move. I thought of my codebook which I had been at pains to keep with me, surely soaked and illegible, and cursed myself for such carelessness. My head raged afresh.

When I came to myself again, the water was cold and the room was dark. My head rang like a distant gong and my joints were as stiff and creaking as a frozen gate. I struggled to pull myself to my feet, and, shivering with cold I wrapped myself in a towel and tried to warm myself with brisk action while drying off. My results were mixed. I was still as cold as if I had come out of the North Sea at midwinter, but my mind was less clouded and when I moved I no longer felt about to collapse with fatigue. As I drew on my robe and reached for my clothes, I realized, without much surprise, that they had been thoroughly searched and my knife was missing.

As vexing as it was, I knew I had to complain, or questions might be forthcoming I would find less pleasant to answer than those my interlocutor had posed at the edge of the tub. So I pulled my robe around me and made my way down the stairs, calling loudly for the landlord, nothing conciliating in my manner or the sound of my voice.

Hearing my outcry, the landlord bustled out of what I supposed must be his private dining parlor. I stood in the hall, hands braced on my hips, ready to confront him in the person of the ill-tempered Mister Jeffries. “What sort of a house are you running, when a man traveling on behalf of his employer is subjected to abuse and possible theft?”

“Mister Jeffries,” said the landlord, his lugubrious expression reminding me forcibly of one of the less endearing hounds. “Pray, sir, keep your voice—”

Immediately I began to bellow. “Oh, don’t want the others to know what may become of them in this place, is that it? You want them to be attacked as well?” I took a hasty stride forward; to tell the truth, my head was still aching as if mice were getting at the inside of my skull, and the band that held my eyepatch in place felt as if it were made out of red-hot bands of metal. “Well, perhaps I should just warn them of what you countenance in this place?”

“Mister Jeffries,” the landlord protested.

“Yes,” I said belligerently. “I think it might well be my duty to warn them. What do you think?” I achieved a sneer that must have been more successful than I supposed, for the landlord cowered back.

“If you would tell me first what has transpired? I perceive you are upset.”

“Upset, you call it?” I said with furious incredulity. “And bloody right I should be. Anyone who wouldn’t be would be barmy in the brain-box.” I longed for a cool cloth over my eyes and a proper lie-down, but I could not let myself be lured away from my purpose. “Well, since you will have it, I was no sooner in the bath when a great brute of a man comes into the room and proceeds to attempt to drown me.”

“Drown you? But why?” asked the landlord.

“Well you may ask,” I said darkly, hoping to control the nausea that rose in my throat when I moved my head too quickly. “He was determined to get information from me and was not above using violence to do it. He threatened me repeatedly. I think he also slipped me a Shanghai nightcap, for I cannot think how else I come to have such an ache in it. My employer will be displeased with your service.” I watched him for his reaction to this threat.

“Par bleu,
who would want to do such a thing?” There was a lack of steadiness in his eyes which suggested he knew the answer, though I doubted he would reveal it. He was frightened, but not of me. So the man who attacked me had probably not been an agent of Vickers, or the landlord would not be afraid of anything I would report. Then who was the German and why had he wanted to drown me?

“Then you had better tend to your other guests, in case this blackguard should try to take advantage of one of them. As it is, Mister Vickers will not be pleased.” This last threat I threw in with the hope that it would cause alarm to the landlord. I was surprised to see the man blanch and cross himself. “Oh, you wouldn’t like that, would you? Well, then try to find out who did his best to drown me.” With that, I set my teeth against the pain in my head, turned around, and made my way to my room with the exaggerated care of one who was intoxicated.

As I closed the door, I saw that the room had been gone through. My clothes were tossed all about the floor, the drawers of the chest had been pulled out and turned over, the bed had been torn apart and the mattress shifted off the leather slats onto the floor beside the bed. The pistol was nowhere to be found. While I was not surprised, I was disheartened, and decided that I would save the inspection of my luggage for tomorrow, when I hoped my head would be working better and ache less. I did not trust myself to do a good job of such an examination now, so I did little to repair the chaos, but cleared myself a place on the mattress, dragged the covers and a pillow into place and made preparations to retire.

I slept badly, my dreams tumultuous and haunting, and I woke at cock-crow, heavy-eyed and queasy from the aftereffects of the drug. A vague but persistent unease had got hold of me and filled me with disquiet. I could not decide why the German had attacked me. I was satisfied Vickers had not sent him, had no reason to send him. Then who would take so bold a chance, thinking that I was in Vickers’ employ? Realizing that no matter how tired I was, I would not be able to sleep any longer, I sat up on the mattress and began to make a mental list of all I could remember from the night before. Were these men enemies of Vickers’ Brotherhood, or were they attempting to stop a mission ordered by Mycroft Holmes? I dared not put my thoughts on paper, for I was certain now that I was being observed by at least one group of men who were suspicious of me, if not two.

The landlord did not strike me as dangerous in himself, more an unfortunate pawn in the hands of ruthless opponents. The German must have been waiting for me at the inn prior to my arrival, for he was too providentially placed to have stumbled upon me by accident. Therefore someone other than Mister Vickers knew of my travels and had pursued me. The implications of this last realization did nothing to restore confidence in my soul.

I decided I had better look through the jumble of my clothes and bag, as well as make an attempt at setting the room to rights before the chambermaid brought me coffee and pastry for breakfast. My joints objected as I rose, and I felt as if I had aged four decades in a night. My hands shook as I reached for my clothes, and my shoulders were stiff as rusted hinges. Grimly I set about putting all in a semblance of order, and then went to the basin to shave.

My razor was missing. That was the one item, aside from the gun, I had not been able to find, and now, as I contemplated the stubble on my jaw, I wondered why they should want to take my razor. Then a nasty thought occurred to me: the razor was imprinted with my initials. My own initials, not those of August Jeffries. I scowled at my image in the glass, and tried to anticipate what use could be made of this, and how I could prevent it happening. Thinking was an effort still, but I was spurred on by dread, and by the time the chambermaid knocked on the door, I was ready with my tale.

“Is the landlord up?” I demanded as the young woman came in with a tray. “I want to talk to him.”

“He ... he is at breakfast,” she said hesitantly.

“Tell him I want a word with him. As soon as he is done. I will be ready to leave in an hour and I expect to speak with him before that.” I glared at her. “My razor was stolen.”

“Stolen? Your razor?” she said, as if she were uncertain of the meaning of the words. “But...“ She put the tray down and made a hasty departure, her eyes huge in her young face.

The coffee was very strong and the cream provided was thick and yellow, so that when I tried to mitigate the harshness of the coffee, the result was an unappetizing jaundiced mixture that I could only endure a few sips of before giving up on it entirely. Had I felt more the thing, I might have attempted to get through the whole of it, but not that morning, with my head still aching and my residue of fear making me apprehensive at the sight of unfamiliar shadows.