“No,” I responded. “I suppose you can’t.”
Ten minutes before the train made its final tremulous lurch into Victoria station, Doyle and his secretary were already on their feet, with their luggage removed from the rack and occupying the seats they had vacated.
Drumming his foot upon the carriage floor, Doyle divided his time between consulting his watch and leaning across the window, casting long, searching glances through its dirty glass.
Finally, the train struggled into the platform and juddered to a standstill.
Taking up his hand-luggage, Doyle pushed down the window on the door, and turned the lock on the outside. Throwing it open, he paused, waiting for the steam to clear, and turned to me: “You coming, Mr. Hart?”
“Yes,” I said casually, dragging myself slowly to my feet and stretching lightly. “Don’t wait for me. I’ll catch you up.”
Doyle nodded and turned away, stepping down onto the platform, with Alfred Wood shuffling quickly after him, dragging behind him the heavier items of their luggage and making no small display of the courtesy.
When they had left the compartment, I hovered for a short time, making slow work of putting on my hat and coat and staring across at my untidy reflection in the pitted mirror on the wall above Doyle’s seat. Finally, I picked up my carpet-bag and umbrella, and, kicking the train door open, I stepped down onto the platform’s edge.
Looking across to the barriers at the far end of the platform, I saw, to my relief, that Doyle and Wood had not waited for me—and were standing in the midst of a large queue of people, waiting to surrender their tickets to the guard. Since their faces were turned from mine, I stole across the platform towards a brick stanchion, in the recess of which a bored-looking newsboy was standing with half a dozen rolled-up papers tucked under his arm. Quickly turning out sixpence from my coat pocket, I handed it to the boy, who snatched it from my fingers and slapped one of the newspapers into my waiting hand.
Unfolding the newspaper, I found that I had bought a publication entitled The Illustrated London News, whose patchwork pages seemed to consist almost entirely of advertising campaigns. In the brief moment that my eyes dipped across the front page, I was astonished to see that the paper’s editor had apparently judged a sale on ‘Liberty’s Mufflers’ to be the most significant news event of the day.
Pulling the newspaper open in front of my face, I peered over the top of the pages and continued to observe Doyle and Wood. Having crossed through the barriers, the two men now came to a halt in the middle of the busy concourse of the station floor, putting their bags down to rest at their feet. They remained there for several minutes, talking idly amongst themselves, whilst turning intermittently and craning their necks in the direction of the train—until, finally, Doyle, shaking his head irritably, looked once again at his watch and muttered something to Wood. Then, the two men picked their luggage back up and drifted away into the crowd.
I waited some minutes, giving Doyle and his secretary time to exit the terminus, before walking across to the train guard. Fumbling in my coat pocket, I produced my ticket and handed it across. The guard’s eyes, shaded behind tortoise-shell spectacles, swerved disinterestedly from it to me, before he then pushed back the gate and impatiently hustled me through.
A few metres on, I suddenly felt very short of breath, and so lingered for a moment. Contemplating the vast glass-ceilinged building ahead, a feeling of some trepidation washed over me—as I realised that I would now have to negotiate it. With my shoulders arched and my head lowered, I pushed onwards, through the general bustle and confusion of meandering bodies, and against the shrill score of train whistles and the toneless, mechanical voices of porters shouting out departure times.
It was in this way that I hurried out of the station’s exit and down the steps at the rear of the building, straight into the swirling fog of the London particular. Drifting down into that opalescent yellow reek, I felt like Orpheus descending to the underworld…
The foul-tasting smog entered my lungs and made my eyes sting. Stretching out my arm, I edged hesitantly down each successive step, having no idea how far I was from the pavement below. The occasional blurred and indistinct figure reared up at me through the murky fog, but would then vanish as quickly as it had appeared, hurrying away with the sound of receding footsteps.
As I travelled down further steps, I reasoned that I must be nearing the pavement. Pushing my foot out, I felt tentatively about for the drop to the next step and, not finding it, figured that I must now be on a level with the road. However, as I swung my left foot forward with considered confidence, it met the air and I realised I had misjudged it. Tumbling down the next few steps, I would in all likelihood have ended up prostrate upon the pavement, had it not been for the young serviceman with whom I collided.
Despite the presence of the fog, the soldier was able to quickly perceive what was happening and, standing fast, he seized my shoulder and steadied me. When he finally released his hold on me, I uttered a garbled apology in his direction.
Looking at him, I was able to determine from his uniform and insignia that he was a lieutenant of the Buffs—and, from his eyes, that he had been very recently crying. As he pushed my umbrella back into my hand, I thanked him again, and shot him a sympathetic smile. But he seemed to balk at this—and, turning immediately away, disappeared back into the cover provided by the fog.
I remained on the pavement for some minutes, my eyes unable to make out anything save for a few lighter patches high up in the mist, which I took to be the spotlights of distant street-lanterns. Then, suddenly, I saw coming towards me what were unmistakably the twin beams of a motor car’s headlights, punching through the swirling fog and sweeping across my face. On the off-chance it might be a cab—and that it might see me amidst the fog—I threw a hand up and attempted to hail it—but, without pause, the lights swerved past me, heading low into the distance.
Pushing blindly on down the pavement, I moved slowly, with the carpet-bag pressed up against my chest and the umbrella thrust out in front of me, but the visibility was so bad that I felt forced to come a halt again, wondering if it might be better to head back up the steps and return to the station—when I heard a distant voice calling out from the darkness ahead.
“Cab…”
I paused, pricking up my ears, but, for a minute or so, there was nothing more.
“Cab…”
There again.
“Yes?” I called out. “Here.”
Throwing my hand about the shifting fog, I thought for a moment that I could make out a dim light up ahead, but then there was nothing—and I could not be sure it had not been entirely the work of my imagination.
I moved on, hoping that, if there had been a light, I might see it again, and maybe use it to get my bearings. However, though it turned out not to be simply a delusion on my part, and I did see the light again, it became just as quickly apparent that this campaign would not succeed.
Coming to a standstill, staring through the dense mists before me, I saw that the light was not a fixed point—and was, in fact, moving wildly about. For a minute, I remained poised, dazzled by the strange dancing ball of light twisting through the air. Like some will-o’-the-wisp, the light drew me on. I was caught in helpless fascination watching it, moving towards it quite unconsciously—it continued to swoop up and down, growing larger and brighter, until I was suddenly upon it.
As I advanced on the light, I suddenly saw that it was caused by a cab-driver, standing beside some manner of old-fashioned chaise-carriage, raising and lowering a lanthorn.
“I can’t really leave the cab,” the man explained, as I came towards him. With a qualifying note entering his voice, he added: “Or I might never find it again.”
“It’s fine.”
“Where you going?” he asked, reaching for my bag and umbrella and then dep
ositing them at the far side of the chaise’s seat. I stood there for a moment, feeling immeasurably relieved, before reaching out and brushing my hand across the rounded belly of the horse.
“Pall Mall?”
“Right you are, sir.”
With perfunctory courtesy, the driver turned the lantern’s beam on to the chaise, so as to present me with a better idea as to its shape. Pushing down on the foot-stand, I levered myself up and climbed onto the carriage, where I sat for a moment, shifting about uncomfortably on the cold, leather chair. Seeing that I was settled, the driver leapt up onto the gig and hooked the lantern to the centre of its frame, before coiling huskily around and taking his own seat. With the crack of a whip, the chaise then reeled forward, and slowly we began to thread through the London streets.
Having accustomed myself to the jolting motion of the cab, I reached my hand into my jacket and took out the photograph that I had surreptitiously lifted from Doyle’s collection. However, the light from the lantern proved inadequate, and was, in any case, directed onto the road ahead; I was able to make out little more than the print’s shimmering glaze.
As the carriage made its way through St James and on towards Pall Mall, the thick atmosphere outside began to gradually dissipate. Though I was still being knocked about considerably in the back of the cab, I could at least now make better sense out of the photograph jerking about in my hand. Looking down at the picture of the little girl surrounded by gambolling fairies, it suddenly struck me that the events on Broadstairs beach had been similarly impossible—and, as the thought registered, I began to smile.
By the time we had pulled up outside the Hyperborea Club, the fog had cleared completely.
CHAPTER XI
One for the Road
OPENING MY EYES, I gazed out across the dimly-lighted room, half-registering the wrinkled bindings of the collection of Tauchnitz novels that lined the shelves beyond the fireplace. I shifted my head—rolling my neck across the high-backed armchair—and stared up at an electric light in an opaque shade, which was flickering and buzzing above me. Stretching out my arm, I flicked the switch on the lamp, and, as darkness set in, closed my eyes and sank back into sleep.
I was awoken, forcibly, some hours later, by a hand shaking me roughly by the shoulder. Responding to this with a flurry of defensive arm movements and ragged obscenities, I thrashed about in the chair for a minute—only stopping, mid-flail, and becoming still, when my eyes opened and focused on the dark figure standing over me.
Releasing her grip on my shoulder, Sibella straightened her neck, lifting the loose-weave veil that had been obscuring the upper portion of her face. As she adjusted it, I glimpsed the full extent of her pale, delicate features—and even a few strands of the blonde hair that she always seemed at pains to keep hidden. Her blue-grey eyes fell back in my direction and she regarded me distantly for a moment—but, then, even as I watched, some change entered them and in a distinct, yet utterly indefinable way, she was suddenly staring down at me with an air of amused sympathy.
“How are you?”
“I was asleep,” I responded.
“How was Kent?”
I waited before answering, watching Horrocks, who had arrived between us carrying a silver tray loaded up with a pot of coffee, a sugar-basin, and two large white china cups. Depositing the tray upon a nearby table, he then gently manoeuvred it to the side of my chair.
“It was fine,” I murmured, as Horrocks turned and airily departed.
Sibella nodded.
“Is that all you have to say on the matter?”
“It’ll do for now.”
Leaning over the table, Sibella picked up the coffee pot. Pouring out two cups, she then pushed a cup and saucer across the tray towards me. Picking it up, I lifted it to my mouth—but, as the aroma of the coffee lifted through my nose, it proved too rich, and I was forced to settle the cup back down again.
“You’ve bought new clothes,” Sibella said, her eyes drifting approvingly across my suit. “You’re looking much better, you know? Healthier. Going to Kent has obviously done you some good.” Moving to the chair opposite me, Sibella halted, discreetly re-arranging her bustle, before perching awkwardly on the seat. “I was worried about you getting there.”
“I’m sure you were—you think I’m a complete clot.”
“No, I don’t,” she replied swiftly, “far from it, as a matter of fact. But I do think that the things that make you clever are…” she paused, considering, “well—they’re theoretical, mathematical, abstract…
“They’re definitely not practical.” Sibella’s eyes fell from mine and with a subdued smile, she added: “Anyway, I don’t suppose that even having the most logical mind in the world would necessarily aid one in comprehending the complexities of a train timetable.”
Sibella swept her eyes over me once more—this time pausing at my feet. Following the direction of her gaze, I looked down and saw that she had caught sight of the carpet-bag lying upended at the foot of my chair.
“You still have my bag then?”
Leaning down, I picked it up and handed it across to her.
“Here. Take the thing.”
“Well, I hope it was useful,” she remarked, accepting the bag from my straining hand. “If nothing else, I’m sure you were pleased with the bottle.”
There was a pause; I looked at her with a frown.
“Bottle…?”
“Yes? I put in a bottle of—–” Sibella paused, sighing deeply, then shook her head. “You didn’t actually open it, then?”
Without waiting for a response, Sibella threw open the catches on the bag and began to pull out various items from within. For the most part, this consisted of a tangle of discoloured undergarments, which she then proceeded to arrange—with unnecessary care—upon the seat of a vacant chair by her side. Further digging produced a soiled canvas wash-bag, and, finally, came the stem of a broken glass bottle—around which a stained envelope was attached with a piece of purple ribbon.
“Oh,” Sibella pouted, holding the corked bottle-top between her gloved fingertips. “I suppose that means you didn’t read my letter either?”
Unsure how to respond in a way that would not elicit further disapproval, I reached over and snatched the dishevelled-looking envelope from the ribbon. “I’ll read it now.”
Sibella had fortunately used an envelope of good quality, which had, for the most part, protected the paper inside—though there were still occasional lines where the ink had run and the words were made more difficult to decipher.
Written on club stationery, the letter was penned in Sibella’s usual sprawling hand. Its major theme seemed to be her wish that I should remain out of ‘harm’s way’ and contact her directly if I needed anything. The sentimental language employed was further compounded with a series of mawkish oaths and entreaties, which, one imagines, would have better suited an overbearing nanny’s harangue to a beleaguered charge on its first day at preparatory school.
“Thank you,” I nodded, without looking up. Folding over the page, I slowly returned it to the envelope.
“Well, there you have it,” said Sibella finally. Taking up the carpet-bag, she then rose from the chair and, collecting up the jumble of soiled undergarments, emptied them into the bag, before quickly turning the catches.
Pushing her arm through the bag’s straps, Sibella hoisted it onto her shoulder and took her leave of me. Retreating across the room, she drifted away, with her bustle swaying gently behind her.
I remained seated for some minutes, thoughtfully turning the envelope between my fingertips. Then, getting to my feet, I pushed the letter into my pocket and crossed to the bar.
“Shop!”
Wheeling around from the glasses he had been arranging on the back counter, Horrocks looked positively askan
ce. For a charged moment, he looked straight at me, and I observed his shoulders sink. Then he came across the bar towards me with a deliberate languor that he made no effort to mask.
“It’s very good to see you, you know, Horrocks.”
“That’s very good of you to say, sir,” he remarked blandly. “I trust your trip was a successful one?”
“Well, there’s the rub…” I said thoughtfully, pushing an elbow onto the bar and massaging my eyes. “We shall have to see about that.”
Without further word, Horrocks reached for a bottle of Morella and a brandy balloon. Pouring out a good-sized measure, he swerved back to where I was standing and placed it on the bar before me.
“I’ll tell you something though, Horrocks,” I said, bringing the glass to my nose and breathing in the bouquet. “When you go travelling, it is always the comforts of home that you miss…”
Horrocks nodded, responding drily: “I’m pleased that you had a good weekend, sir.”
I pushed my hand into my suit jacket and pulled out my cigarette case. Opening it on the counter, I wavered suddenly.
“Don’t suppose you have any Ogden’s on you, do you, Horrocks?”
The barman slid his hand into his jacket pocket, and though I could tell from its shape that there was certainly a cigarette box inside it, it returned empty. “It would appear I’m all out, sir.”
I nodded and smiled, but made nothing more of it.
“I need you to do a few things for me, Horrocks.”
“Of course, sir.”
“If you have some paper and a pencil, I’ll write it down for you.”
Reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket, Horrocks plucked out a note-book and took up a pencil from the bar, handing them both across to me.
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