“I know you,” the Owl said. “Do I not?”
“Pardon,” said Julian, “but Baron Brux speaks no English.”
“Ask him then where I might have seen him before. His face…I know it from somewhere.”
Julian hesitated only an instant. Then, in a clipped and harsh accent remembered from the real Count Pellegar: “Hammer estad ugla kalein, ja?”
“Nein,” Matthew answered past the lump in his throat.
“He says no,” Julian reported, speaking as sweetly as honey from the jar, “that you and he have not to this moment met. It would be impossible, since the Baron and I have spent all our time at the Mayfair Arms. May I ask if you’ve ever travelled to Prussia?”
The Owl had given Julian only the briefest of glances; his attention was focused upon Matthew, who realized the man had looked into his unpowdered face before the fireplace at The Green Spot.
“Move along,” said the Owl, but the way he spoke it held the underlying statement I will be watching you.
Matthew got his knees unlocked and lurched forward, and damned if that head didn’t swivel on its neck to watch him continue to the next checkpoint, where Julian was already doffing polar bear coat, tricorn and giving up the satchel. “Key,” said the man who took the case, saw the keyholes and assumed correctly that all satchels coming through the front door tonight would be locked. Julian gave it up from an inner pocket of his jacket before being searched from backs of ears down to his heels. The satchel was looked into, returned to him and the way clear for him to follow Victor deeper into the house.
“Coat off, hat off, wig off,” said the gent advancing upon Matthew, who had the sense to shrug and make motions in the air until the man removed the items for him.
As Matthew was being searched, he felt the Owl watching him. Damn the man! If he’d had his druthers he would poke those eyeballs out with a sharp stick. He felt woozy. If anyone in this foyer had known the Prussian language, he and Julian would already be on the path to reduction as dogfood.
But with a knock at the door another visitor’s presence was announced, taking the Owl’s attention. Matthew looked back to see what appeared to be a young boy entering the house and displaying his invitation. This person could not be over twelve years of age, was small-boned and slim, sharp-nosed and dark-eyed and completely out of the element here. He wore what was certainly an expensive black greatcoat, gray gloves and a gray tricorn with a single white feather sticking up from its band. He clasped a cowhide satchel under his arm. As Matthew watched, this new arrival—a mere child, at that, and only in height perhaps three inches over five feet—stopped before the wicker basket and, smiling thinly at the Owl, produced from his coat first one pistol, then another smaller than the first, an even smaller pistol from his left boot, and lastly a short sword in a leather sheath from between his shoulderblades.
The man who had searched Matthew used the universal language of a thumb’s jerk to order him to move along, and offered the return of the wig which now looked somewhat like a crushed dead animal.
He put it on, straightened it as best as possible, was grateful that he’d not had to take off his gloves, and again moved forward in a lurch to catch up with Julian. First no carriage, now no weapons…a fine plan, flying to pieces like an old grainsack in a hurricane.
What a house this was! Even with the present dangers Matthew could not help but be awed by the grand elegance of the place. Light woods were tastefully mixed with dark woods, everything was polished to perfection, a beautiful many-hued Oriental carpet graced the floor just past the foyer, and a runner of the same colored the wide staircase. From a large chandelier hung an array of illuminated ship’s lanterns. Upon the sky-blue walls were mounted various paintings of seascapes, and a great white ensign of the Royal Navy was hanging from above. Its red cross served to remind Matthew of Cardinal Black’s signature, and the fact that all this beauty was the smooth white powder on a killer’s face.
“This way, sirs,” said a gray-haired older man in that same dark blue uniform, motioning both Julian and Matthew in the direction Victor had gone. “Allow me,” the man continued with a short bow, taking his place as an escort to the next destination. He opened a sliding door on the right and they were taken into a large parlor set down three steps. In that room the high ceiling was painted to resemble the vista of an evening sky, perhaps as seen from a ship at sea. The logs in a fireplace of sparkling white marble threw light and heat. The chamber was host to what appeared to be a party in progress, yet the mood struck Matthew as being more business than pleasure. He saw Victor across the room taking a glass of red wine from a tray offered by a servant. The others gathered there—five more—were either seated on brown leather chairs or standing, seemingly all keeping to themselves and all with glasses of red wine. Everyone except Victor looked toward Julian and Matthew as they entered.
Matthew’s attention went first to the sleek and quite beautiful black woman who stood at least six feet three inches tall, her long ebony hair adorned with combs of bleached bone. She was wearing a scarlet gown with a midriff section of that tawny animal skin, and Matthew reasoned the gown went with the similarly-skinned coat on its hook in the foyer.
A stocky, bald-headed man with the rough and pockmarked face of a brawler turned a cold eye upon the false Prussians, then sipped his wine and looked away. He wore an ill-fitting dun-colored suit and boots with metal tips, the boots currently propped up on an ottoman before his chair. Owner of the nail-studded knuckle-duster, Matthew assumed.
The next man was tall and thin, had a long almost cadaverous face, wore a dark blue suit with a white waistcoat and a white cravat, and possessed a full head of reddish-brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard more red than brown. He lifted his glass of wine toward Matthew and Julian.
The fourth man, standing with the black woman, was sporting a wig nearly as high and elaborate as Matthew’s. He wore a gray suit with a blue-checked waistcoat and was of medium height and square of build, his chunky face ruddy-cheeked and the eyes reduced to small black holes. The cuffs of his gray blouse were explosions of lace. He regarded Matthew and Julian with a curled lip and an attitude of dislike that could be perceived across the room.
The fifth man wore the standard uniform and stood in the corner beside a table on which rested the satchels the others had brought in. Matthew and Julian’s escort motioned toward that table. “You may trust that your offerings are safely watched,” he said, and as soon as Julian placed the satchel down, the satchel-watcher set it flat and put upon it a card with the number five upon it. Matthew saw the others were numbered from one to four, and the case done up in the tawny skin bore a card with the number two. The shiny black item Victor had brought in was number four. Matthew reasoned that the satchel the boy was carrying would be number six. So…who in the room had not brought an ‘offering’?
A servant came up beside Julian with two glasses of wine on a silver tray. Julian took one, as did Matthew, who was still thinking about that word offerings.
Then the twelve-year-old boy sauntered in behind his own escort—the Owl himself, which made Matthew feel the sweat starting up at his hairline beneath the wig’s weight. The boy’s curly light brown hair was shiny with pomade and tied with black ribbons in a double queue down his back. He wore an amber-hued suit with a cream-colored blouse and a yellow cravat, bright yellow stockings and boots that appeared to be made of snakeskin. In one arm was cradled his cowhide satchel.
The boy’s eyes flashed as he took in the gathering. He stopped in the doorway and grinned, showing front teeth that looked too large for a child’s mouth.
“Is this a fucking funeral?” he asked, in the thin high voice that suited his age. “Who died?”
three.
the malignant
seven
sixteen.
The twelve-year-old boy with the mouth of a thirty-year-old sailor added h
is satchel to the table, took the glass of red wine from the silver tray that was offered to him and drank it down in one swallow. Then he put his hands on his tiny hips and again surveyed the other occupants of the room.
“Everyone here seems to have died,” he remarked. “Why don’t we liven this up?”
“Suggestions?” asked the man in the room’s second outrageous wig. He also had an accent Matthew could not identify; he sounded mush-mouthed.
“Introductions. I’ll go first. My name is Miles Merda. Merda with an ‘e’. Representing French interests.” He strolled over past the wig-man and the tall black woman to warm his small hands before the fire. “I am thirty-three years old and at birth was struck with a malady that at first would appear to doom my life yet has worked out perfectly for the occupation I have chosen. Or, let us say, has chosen me. I am an expert at appearing to be what I am not. I can’t say the same for some of you.” He cast a bemused gaze upon the pockmarked brawler. “All right, then. Next?”
No one spoke. The Owl took an empty chair and Matthew thought he was being watched, the Owl trying to place the face beneath the makeup.
“Come now, don’t be shy!” Merda chided. “Tall lady! You don’t look the shy type.”
She smiled, but it was tight and held no humor. “Very well,” she said, in a rather husky and well-educated, English-inflected voice with another deeper singsong accent behind it. Matthew had the impression that such a voice could be quite beguiling. “I am known as Lioness Sauvage,” she went on. “Representing a consortium of African interests. I am a free woman and intend to remain so, and I will say that I have killed several men to gain that status.”
“Bravo for you!” Merda grinned again. “My, you’re a big one. You wouldn’t fancy a small quick one, would you?”
“Too small for me,” Lioness answered.
“You never know.”
“Oh,” she said, “I know.”
“I turn from that crushing rejection to you, sir.” Merda lifted a chin toward Victor. “Your name and affiliation?”
“Victor. As in ‘the’,” came the response. “Affiliated with parts unknown.”
“A mysterious man,” said Merda. He shrugged. “As you please. You two! Dressed in your best, I see. Pardon me if I take my eyeballs out to shield them against the glare. But I think I must know who you are! Count…what is your name?”
“Pellegar,” Julian said.
“Oh, let’s be friendly and do Christian names! Don’t mean to offend, but you may call me Miles, if I may call you—?” He waited.
Matthew had a start. His mind raced. Back in the Grand Suite…had Pellegar’s first name been mentioned by—
“Karlo,” Julian said, and only Matthew could hear the small rush of relief in Julian’s voice, that he’d remembered Brux saying Karlo! Sie haben unsere fehlenden Falle gefunden? whatever the rest of it meant. “But you may refer to me as Your Excellency,” Julian added. “Baron Brux does not speak English, only the Prussian language.”
“Well, what’s his first name?”
“Baron,” Julian replied, and having established his haughty bastardom to this room of like spirits he was dismissed by Miles Merda with a wave of the diminutive hand.
“You, sir?” Merda inquired of the red beard.
“Me? Oh…well…I am Lazarus Firebaugh.” The man took another sip of his wine before he continued. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other as if he were standing on a bed of coals. “Doctor Lazarus Firebaugh,” he said when he’d lowered the glass. “Chemist by trade and nature. I am simply…available to the winner.”
Julian shot a quick glance at Matthew, who simply responded with a barely perceptible nod. Firebaugh was the one who’d not brought a satchel, because he was part of the prize.
“Splendid!” Merda next turned toward the brawler. “Sir?”
“Sandor Krakowski.” This one’s accent was thick. “Polish interests. I am a student of politics.”
“Yes, I can tell you’ve carried out many studies. The school of politics is quite rough in Poland, I would venture. And you, lastly but surely not leastly?”
The bewigged gent had been addressed. He drank his wine and took his own good time in answering. “I am Bertrand Montague.” His voice was like the first wheeze from a squeezebox before the notes issue forth. “Who I represent is my own business.”
“All right, Berty, have it as you please. Now! Don’t we all feel better, knowing who we’re up against?”
Matthew didn’t feel any better; in fact he felt as if the situation had tipped from the wildly difficult to the solidly impossible. Obviously this was to be a bidding for the book, with Lazarus Firebaugh to go along for whatever purpose was necessary. An auction, carried out by what must be an insane naval admiral and a child-killing demoniac, with members of assassins’ guilds, criminal organizations, corrupt royal houses and whatever else in attendance on a scale far beyond the shores of England. Matthew thought that if he could sit on the floor and weep for the loss of Berry Grigsby he would do so, for this was a hopeless case.
Yet…there was something.
The gold bars and the plans for the winged dragon in the satchel. Was it possible—just possible—that such items might constitute the winning bid?
His heart, which had tumbled into the cellar during this exchange of dark pleasantries, now lifted a little toward the lamp in the attic. Yes, he thought. Play this game out, present the bid and if all goes well walk out of here with both the book and a chemist supplied for its use.
And if all does not go well? Follow whoever wins and murder him—or her—before the night is done, seize the book from dead fingers and travel on? Because he was fairly sure the only way to get that book from the auction’s winner was by bloodshed.
Oh my God, he thought. He was sounding in his own mind far too much like the bad man, but of what use at the moment was the good man?
He wondered when the admiral and Cardinal Black would make their appearances, and it struck him that the term ‘cardinal’ could be used to describe the primary colors from which all other colors are mixed. Black would be the darkest color, a shade without light or hue. He had the thought that if black could be termed a cardinal color, it ruled in this room among those assembled here. Black: the cardinal color of death.
Matthew was interrupted in these musings by someone else entering the room. Not the bearlike admiral with the flame-painted beard, nor the dark cardinal of evil, but a lithe sinewy young woman with short-cropped brown hair, a pretty heart-shaped face, expressive brown eyes and a warm smile. Matthew guessed she was in her mid-twenties. She wore a deep purple silk gown with a stitching of bright yellow flowers at the neckline. Her hands and forearms were adorned up to the elbows by silk gloves the same color as the dress, and it was difficult not to notice a striking musculature in her upper arms, not overly so but there all the same.
“Good evening to all,” she said. “My name is Elizabeth Mulloy. Vice Admiral Lash wishes me to welcome you to his home.”
Vice Admiral, Matthew thought. Lash? He glanced at Julian, whose painted face was as still as stone.
She went on. “Samson will be joining you in the dining room in due time. For the moment, I’d like to announce that dinner is served.”
There was the name: Samson Lash. Again Matthew glanced at Julian to see if there was some recognition, but if there was Julian didn’t show it. Then Matthew happened to look at the Owl and saw those damned weird golden eyes staring holes through him.
The Owl abruptly stood up. “Please, everyone, follow Miss Mulloy to the dining room.” It was not so much a pleasantry as it was a command.
The dining room was festooned with greenery hanging from the exposed oak beams of the ceiling, along with a number of lanterns and naval signal flags. Logs burned in another marble fireplace. A long table was set with plates and silverware, but the f
ood was not yet in evidence. Upon entering the room Merda stood next to Lioness, who was a true giantess in comparison. He pointed upward. “Mistletoe, I believe,” he said, giving her a hopeful grin.
“In my country,” she answered without a smile, “we kill under the mistletoe.”
Which brought a shrug but did not diminish his cheerfulness, for he sat down next to her and puffed his chest out as if he were next in line for the kingship of the world.
“The places are not marked. Sit as you wish,” Miss Mulloy said, though Victor had already seated himself across from Merda. Matthew and Julian sat down side-by-side, with Matthew facing Montague at one end of the table and Julian facing Lioness, while Krakowski chose the chair on the other side of Victor facing Doctor Firebaugh. The Owl had not entered the chamber, much to Matthew’s relief. Where he’d gone, Matthew did not wish to know. Miss Mulloy waited until they were all settled at their places and then she said, “We’ll begin in just a moment,” after which she left the room by another door at the far side of the chamber.
Almost at once two servants appeared to pour more red wine into the glasses that were set beside each plate. Suddenly Julian lifted his glass. “A toast, if you will. To the great success of myself and Baron Brux.”
“I’ll toast that you fail miserably,” said Merda, who lifted and drank. The others simply sat in silence.
But then Lioness Sauvage levelled her steady and transfixing gaze across the table at Julian. “How is it that a Prussian speaks the English so fluently?”
“Born English. Raised and educated in Prussia,” Julian replied, parroting what the real Count Pellegar had revealed in the Grand Suite. “And I would say your grasp of the language is also exemplary. You had an excellent teacher, I think?”
“I killed the man who taught me English,” she said. “That was all he was good for. He was a brute. Let me correct myself…I executed him for crimes against me I should not wish to relate at this table.”
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