Lessons From Underground

by Bryan Methods

  “Easily salable items,” said Mr. Scant. I could tell from the flatness in his voice he wasn’t too keen on the mayor either. “And lackluster security measures.”

  “Now, now,” said Mr. Jackdaw.

  “No, no, we deserve that,” said the mayor. “You’re quite right, sir. Yes, we’re going to make bally sure this never happens again. You have my word of honor.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do an excellent job,” I said, and the mayor beamed.

  “Artwork heists have been on the increase again lately,” said Mr. Jackdaw.

  “Yes, so I read,” said the mayor. “I thought after they locked away that dastardly Ruminating Claw fellow we’d be safe, but it doesn’t look that way.”

  I kept my face carefully still, but it was hard not to laugh at this man calling the Claw dastardly with Mr. Scant only a few seats away from him.

  “In fairness, the Pavilion is an unusual target for the criminals in question,” Mr. Scant said, and I sensed he was talking more to Mr. Jackdaw than to the mayor. “The pattern up until now has been to select artwork with some connection to magic or alchemy.”

  “It could be the fine artistry here!” the mayor put in.

  “Perhaps it’s a sign they’re almost out of funds,” Mr. Jackdaw said, ignoring the mayor. “Surely a good sign? That is, if the different thefts are connected.”

  “There are subtler ways to raise money, if the law is no impediment,” said Mr. Scant. “I have a feeling this was done to get our attention.”

  Mr. Jackdaw frowned. “The Yard’s attention, or something more . . . specific?”

  “That’s what I’m asking myself too.”

  A somewhat awkward silence followed. I decided to break it.

  “I think I’ll have one of those cucumber sandwiches.”

  Since I’d had so little sleep the night before, breakfast was more like a late supper. As we ate, the mayor gave a glowing account of his hopes for the Royal Pavilion in future. I felt my eyes grow heavy. Fortunately, the mayor soon clapped his hands and announced it was time for our reward.

  “As our way of saying thanks . . .” he began, standing up with such ceremony that we were clearly obliged to get to our feet as well.

  Two tall skinny men in powdered wigs—who had evidently been made to arrive early for work and stuff themselves into ceremonial clothes for this moment—came out with plump velvet cushions. Two hinged boxes sat atop them. After lining us up, the mayor said, “It is my great honor to bestow upon you these tokens of our appreciation. Two medals from the people of Brighton, given in thanks to those who do great things for her.”

  He pinned Mr. Scant’s medal to his jacket first and then gave me the same honor. The medals were large gold discs, decorated with what I assumed was the city’s crest.

  “They’ve been in storage for a little while, but it was the best I could do at short notice,” the mayor said, and laughed raucously.

  With that, we thanked him and took our leave. Other workers, free of powdered wigs, were already moving the recovered items back into the pavilion as we left.

  “Did you arrange a car back to Tunbridge Wells for us?” said Mr. Scant.

  “Of course!” Mr. Jackdaw replied, pretending to be offended. “Only the best for the special freelance agents of the Yard, what?”

  “Is that what you’re calling us now?” Mr. Scant asked, rolling his eyes.

  “I just hope I can sleep in the car,” I said. “I’ve got school in the morning. I mean, later on this morning.”

  “No, you don’t,” said Mr. Jackdaw.

  I looked at him inquisitively, but it was clear he wasn’t going to explain the remark until I asked. “Why do you say that?”

  “The Yard has arranged for you to have the day off. You need to get your forty winks. There’s a special meeting at the Yard tomorrow afternoon, and both of you are invited. So of course we’ve made your excuses for you.”

  “You’d better un-make them,” I said, the exhaustion of the day so far no doubt showing on my face. “Latin and double mathematics I can skip, but at one o’clock, it’s the trials for the fencing team. I don’t want to miss it. I really don’t.”

  Mr. Jackdaw’s grin didn’t falter. “We’ll make arrangements for you to attend,” he said. “Anything for the hero of the day.” With that, he turned to show us to our motorcar.

  III

  En Garde

  ntil a few months ago, I wanted nothing more than to be the fly-half on the Judner’s School rugby team. However, Mr. Prigg the team coach had made it clear—several times over—that he thought I was too small. He suggested I should be a winger, and my training with Mr. Scant meant I had become fairly good at dodging opponents while I ran. But what I really wanted was a say on the team’s larger strategy. I grew frustrated after repeatedly seeing the best play in my mind’s eye and then watching the others do something else.

  After one particularly upsetting match—during which I had explained clearly but perhaps a little too strongly what everyone was doing wrong—Mr. Prigg told me I might do better in individual sports.

  “I just want people to listen to me,” I told my best friend Chudley at lunch afterward. “When I’m right, anyway.”

  “Nobody can be right all the time,” said Chudley. “I mean, you think having salmon in your sandwich is better than having ham. That’s plain wrong. And maybe the play looked different from where Burton was standing. Maybe he wasn’t confident in the kick. Or maybe he just panicked and made the wrong choice. Y’know? Not something to be a rotter about.”

  “I wasn’t being a rotter. I just . . . Ah, maybe I was. I only want people to listen to me sometimes. I know that if they try it my way, they’ll see I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been . . . doing some special training.”

  “Honestly, I miss the times when we just had fun playing,” Chudley said. “We didn’t have to worry about whether we were good at it or not.”

  We ate in silence for a little while, and then Chudley made the suggestion that changed my sporting ambitions forever. “You know, my big brother used to be captain of the fencing team. Might be a good mix for you—nobody tells you what to do, and you go one-by-one, but you get to be on a team as well. Our team’s pretty strong. Maybe you should go for it.”

  I had taken an introductory fencing class in my first week of secondary school, when everybody got to try out different sports, but that class had been all about how to step forward and backwards and nothing at all to do with swords, so I had chosen rugby. But Chudley’s suggestion made sense, so I asked to make the switch.

  At the beginning, I found fencing frustrating, with a lot of rules to learn and the rest of the class far more experienced than I was. But thanks to the lessons I’d been through with Mr. Scant and Dr. Mikolaitis, I picked things up very quickly.

  The coach called my progress “prodigious.” I soon began to look forward to my time in the fencing salle more than anything else at school. I even convinced Chudley to go along with me.

  Five months later, it was time for fencing team trials, which determined who would represent the school in national competitions. Despite my progress, I wasn’t a match for the boys who had trained for ten years and showed natural talent. Still, I could best most of the other students who weren’t already in the team, so I felt optimistic.

  Trying out for the school team meant fencing against the current team members and against the head coach, Mr. Michaelov. Later, they would decide on the new team together. After I was called forward, I stepped into position and saluted my first opponent and the judges. I then noticed Mr. Jackdaw standing by the door. He was alongside Dr. Norman, the deputy headmaster, and was grinning as usual. He gave a little nod as I stared at him in bewilderment, but there was no way I could ask him what was going on, so I pulled down my mask as Mr. Michaelov said, “En garde.”

  I was fencing against Cameron, one of the two team members I was confident I could beat. He was tall, with long arms, but also slow, an
d he often left his arm vulnerable if he missed his attack. At the next signal from Mr. Michaelov—“Allez!”—I rushed forward. Cameron stepped back while thrusting his sword out, which often caught people smaller than him, but I knew it was coming. Parrying the blade and lunging in earnest, I caught him on the shoulder. I had my first hit. The red dye on the blunted tip of my épée sword had left a satisfying dot on his jacket.

  By the end of the bout, I barely knew who had scored what. Cameron had caught me by surprise a few times, but I kept in mind something Mr. Scant had taught me—to think not where your opponent was but where they would be next—and it got me the victory. I managed to snatch a victory from Crispin Major next, but I had used so much energy that I couldn’t beat Richardson after that. Of course Mr. Michaelov beat me comfortably.

  When I took off my mask and saluted the coach after my final encounter, my body felt as though there was a furnace inside it. But someone was clapping. Not Mr. Jackdaw, as I first thought, but Elmsmore, the fencing captain—a broad-chested fifteen-year-old who had to shave every lunchtime or he would have little hairs on his chin by five o’clock.

  I was so covered in red dots, especially on my chest, that I looked like a child with chicken pox. Other hopefuls were worse off than me, but I suspected some had fared better. When the last boy had been defeated with a flourish, Elmsmore rounded us up. He told us we had all done well and should continue to work on our basics, and then we were dismissed. After thanking the coach, I went to see Mr. Jackdaw.

  “Ah, it’s Diplexito’s boy,” he said, feigning surprise. “You remember me? Your father’s friend, Mr. Billingsworth?”

  With that, I knew that whatever story he’d given Dr. Norman, the deputy head, it wasn’t the same story I knew. “Hello, Mr. Billingsworth,” I said. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “Well, this is what I do,” Mr. Jackdaw said with his usual grin. “Inspection of standards, including facilities. I saw you fence, though. You did well.”

  “I’m still a beginner.”

  “You must be a fast learner, then.”

  I shrugged. “I can only do my best.”

  Mr. Jackdaw looked at Dr. Norman and nodded politely. “I think I’ve seen all I need to here. Excuse me just for a moment.” Before Dr. Norman could say anything, he turned away and guided me with one hand behind my neck to the corridor. Even as we walked, he said, “Master Diplexito, it really is time to go. There are people in London we cannot afford to keep waiting.”

  “I’ll change quickly.”

  “No time.”

  “I haven’t even showered.”

  “You never shower after games. You just splash water on your hair.”

  “For Heaven’s sake, how do you know that?”

  “An informed guess. It’s what I used to do at your age. Now I really must insist.”

  With that, he seized both my shoulders with an iron grip.

  “Ouch, that hurts!” I said.

  “Then walk faster,” said Mr. Jackdaw. “Your clothes and belongings are all in the vehicle.”

  Outside the school gates, a black motorcar awaited us. The driver wore a cap and glasses and had a bushy moustache. Very little of his actual face was visible. As soon as I was bundled into the back with Mr. Jackdaw beside me, the driver set the car into motion. On the ledge behind our seats was my fencing bag.

  “Where are my clothes?” I asked.

  “They’re not in your bag?”

  “They were hanging on my peg.”

  Mr. Jackdaw chuckled just a little. “If you want something done properly, do it yourself,” he uttered with a dark look toward the driver, who sank down in his chair.

  “Our apologies,” he said to me. “I’m afraid it would probably be best for you to stay in your fencing clothes.”

  “But I’ve got all these marks all over me.”

  “I’ll be sure to explain if anybody asks. It’s not such a strange thing to see a boy your age out and about in sports clothes.”

  “With this many marks, they’ll probably think I’m terrible,” I said. Mr. Jackdaw showed no sympathy.

  We reached our destination after about an hour and a half, but it wasn’t where I was expecting. “I thought we were going to Scotland Yard,” I said, as the driver brought the motorcar to a halt. Mr. Scant and I had visited Mr. Jackdaw there several times already, in the grand new buildings overlooking the River Thames near Big Ben.

  “Quite,” said Mr. Jackdaw as he opened his door. “The actual Scotland Yard. You must be thinking of New Scotland Yard.”

  I didn’t know London all that well, but I knew we were in the city center, surrounded by the grand buildings of Whitehall. I could see Trafalgar Square not far away, with the statue of Admiral Horatio Nelson silhouetted against the cloudy sky. “I’ve never thought how strange it is to have such a big column underneath a statue until just now,” I said to Mr. Jackdaw. “Nobody can see Admiral Nelson properly.”

  “I like it,” said Mr. Jackdaw. “You look at it and you know at once how important it is. It does exactly what it’s supposed to do, immediately. A fine thing, wouldn’t you say?”

  Mr. Jackdaw led me away from Whitehall, into a side road and toward a cobbled courtyard. The road signs said it was called Great Scotland Yard. I had wondered before how Scotland Yard got its name, not being located in any such a place, and I supposed I had my answer.

  To my surprise, Mr. Jackdaw then led me to a public house named The Rising Sun. When the landlord saw us, he nodded and pulled up a part of the bar for us to pass through. Mr. Jackdaw nodded at him, and I did the same, though the landlord was obviously confused to see me in my breeches. We went down into the cellar, past numerous barrels of beer and bottles on racks. At one of the biggest barrels, Mr. Jackdaw stopped.

  “We don’t officially use these buildings anymore,” he said, producing a key and then twisting aside the tap of the beer barrel to reveal a keyhole. “In fact, there’s no way to use the front door. But the rooms here still have their uses.”

  The barrel was a fake, and after its key was turned, it swung open on hinges, with a whole section of the wall attached. Inside was a tunnel through the earth, which led to a small wooden door. Once through the door, we climbed a flight of stairs back to ground level and found ourselves inside a building much like any other. A lady waiting at a small desk smiled at us as we passed. Up another set of stairs was a door that led into a spacious office.

  When I saw who was waiting for us, I couldn’t help but smile. Of course, Mr. Scant was there, but two others stood to greet me as well.

  “Miss Gaunt! Miss Cai!” I said. Elspeth Gaunt gave a polite nod while Cai Zhao-Ji grinned and got to her feet. After the last time we spoke, I wasn’t sure this was a sight I’d see again. But she walked over to me with the help of two walking sticks topped by jade carvings of little birds.

  “Wonderful to see you again, Ollie!” she said, taking her walking sticks in one hand and embracing me with the other. “My, you’ve grown! But what in the world are you dressed up as?”

  IV

  Interruption

  the many people in the room, only Miss Cai smiled and shook my hand, but somehow I couldn’t help but smile too, as though I had just stepped into a birthday party rather than a blank-walled room with a big square table.

  The other attendees were not what you would generally call happy people. Mr. Scant was there with one eyebrow raised. His niece, Miss Gaunt, looked on with her usual reserved expression. Mr. Jackdaw went to take his place at an empty seat at the far side of the room, nodding respectfully at an old man at the head of the table. There were a few other strangers there as well, with faces like chess players.

  I mumbled an explanation for why I was in my fencing gear—with no help from Mr. Jackdaw—and took my seat next to Mr. Scant.

  “So . . .” I said, clapping my hands together like businessmen always did in plays.

  “Let me make introductions,” Mr. Jackdaw said. “First, our chair
today is Sir Frederickson, my superintendent.”

  Sir Frederickson was a man with a lot of hair on his chin and none on the top of his head. Heavy wrinkles across his forehead made him look like one of those funny pictures of a face that you can turn upside down to see a different face.

  After that, Mr. Jackdaw went around the table, introducing various other police officers, personal secretaries, and other officials with jobs I’d never even heard of. There were also representatives from France, Germany, Austro-Hungary, Russia, Egypt, Canada, and the United States. What was remarkable was how similar they looked—all older men going a little bald but with thick beards and moustaches. Only the American man looked approachable, if a little uninterested.

  After Miss Cai had taken her seat again, she and Miss Gaunt were introduced as the “Chinese representative and her associate,” and Mr. Scant and I as “the independent agent we mentioned earlier and his apprentice.” The strangest part was Mr. Jackdaw’s remark that, in present company, he was “Mr. Richards.” I had always known “Jackdaw” wasn’t his real name, and I supposed he had a variety of them, but a name as plain as “Richards” didn’t suit him at all.

  Sir Frederickson, the chair, took charge after the introductions. “Now, we are here to continue discussions commenced February of this, the year of our Lord 1912, regarding the hypothetical foundation of an international police force.”

  I caught Miss Cai’s eye and realized I must have let my feelings show on my face, because she almost laughed. This was a very important meeting, but it didn’t sound like it was going to be at all interesting. She leaned over to Miss Gaunt and whispered something to her, whereupon Miss Gaunt also looked over to me. As the French representative began to object to some particular word of what Sir Frederickson had said, Mr. Scant’s niece got up, came over to me, and nodded to the door. Nobody paid the slightest attention when an associate and an apprentice slipped out.

  “Thank you,” I said as we made our way over to a little window. It had metal bars, as if we were in a cartoon prison, though presumably to stop anybody from breaking in rather than out. “I’d rather talk with you than sit in there in silence. It’s good to see you!”