Tales of the Shadowmen 2: Gentlemen of the Night

by Jean-Marc Lofficier

  He seemed almost pathetically glad to have someone to talk to. I suppose I couldn’t blame him. With a family like his, it was probably difficult to have the slightest of meaningful conversations. This was proven just a few seconds later when the door flew open and Alexander burst in.

  “Appleby! We’re going to have to redo the entire seating arrangements! Nayland Smith just cancelled and–what, are you finally up, Peter? Another bender last night? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” He shook his head in contempt. For his part, Peter merely shut his eyes and sighed. Alexander continued, totally ignoring the rest of the staff. “It’s not like I haven’t tried to help, Heaven knows. All the women I introduced you to in India. I even dragged you to a couple of whorehouses, and you know how easy Woggie women are. But no. Still, try at least not to embarrass us at the conference tomorrow, hm? Act like a man for just one night?”

  “I’ll try, Alexander,” Peter said at last, voice low.

  “I should hope so. You know how important this is for my–Father’s career. Oh, Dickson–” He turned, putting the lowered head and red face of his brother completely out of his mind. “The rest of your crew should be arriving sometime around two. Give them the lay of the place and tell them to meet Sir Henry in the drawing room at four. He’ll give you the rest of your orders then. You can handle that, can’t you?” He swiveled back as if to go back into the main rooms, only to find his way blocked. For some reason Kritchna had risen and quietly placed himself directly in front of the door.

  “Well? Out of the way, boy.” There was a pregnant pause, then without a word the young Indian stepped aside.

  As soon as Alexander had gone, he said, “Excuse me,” and left via the servants’ hall

  “I should go, too,” murmured Peter.

  I was left alone in the kitchen, save for Mrs. Mulligan who made a great show of concentrating on the dishes. I tried to absorb all I had just learned.

  Why had Kritchna so obviously placed himself in Alexander’s way? I knew he hated the man, but that was grounds for dismissal. Was he trying to lose his job? And why was he condescending to work here anyway? He was too intelligent for Service, and it was clear his employers despised his race. Something was going on here And what had killed poor Colleen? What was it Darshan had called the stuff? Ectoplasm? I knew what that was–chemical mixtures used by fraudulent Spiritualists to make suckers think something came from “Beyond.” I thought of the upcoming séance at Rutherford Grange. Did that have something to do with it? Had Miss Annunciata been trying to play some sort of prank on us? I smiled grimly. She was a beautiful woman, but was no more a psychic than Roger Rutherford was a real werewolf, no matter what the superstitious peasants of the 17th century had believed. Spiritualism was all rubbish! Rubbish!

  The rest of the day passed uneventfully as I made a concerted effort to keep my mind on my official duties. What had happened 300 years ago was none of my business, what was going on at Rutherford Grange was none of my business, and the relationships between the Westenras and their staff was none of my business. I did not see Kritchna for the rest of the day. I was concerned, but decided that, whatever was happening, he should handle it. He was an adult and did not have to let me into his personal affairs if he wished. I had more pressing matters.

  As Alexander had stated, the rest of the conference’s security force arrived at about two. We gathered for a brief discussion, and I found them much as Mr. Blake had predicted. Good-hearted. Eager to please. Bovine. Most had been expecting Blake himself, and when they found I was merely his apprentice, they smiled, patted me on the head–not literally but the metaphor was annoying enough–and told me how lucky I was. Clearly, I would get nowhere with them. If anything truly bad were to happen, I would be on my own.

  Kritchna reappeared at dinner, making no comment on his odd behavior, and I did not pry. Once again, we bunked together in his garret (now clean with fresh linen) but made only small talk.

  The night passed without incident, and bright and early the next morning I rose, put on the fine suit Sir Henry had lent me, and went downstairs to watch the official guests arrive.

  For all his haranguing, Sir Henry’s rules for our behavior had been quite simple. Keep quiet, do not speak to anyone of the least importance, keep out of the way, and, above all, do not touch the food. The others smiled and nodded like eager puppies, caring only for the wages at the end of the weekend. I simply said I would endeavor to satisfy. Sir Henry stated that remained to be seen.

  As per my instruction, I hung back in a little alcove off the Great Hall as the officials arrived, mentally checking each one off as they came. There was Hale, usually connected with China but brought in from previous experiences in India. D’Athys, well-known explorer of Indochina. Ingles, the writer. A dozen others, all their hordes of faceless assistants. They milled about, smiling, joking, renewing old acquaintances though the formal introductions would not come until dinner. And then, at the end, the most important and famous of all. The Duc d’Origny.

  He must have been an astoundingly handsome man in his youth; now age had faded that somewhat but even so, he carried himself with an air of poise and dignity that many of his much younger compatriots lacked. But it was neither cold nor self-important; his was the confidence of a man comfortable with both his strengths and flaws, a man who knew what he was capable of but who was not afraid to laugh at himself. The Duc d’Origny neither wanted nor needed any prestige, and it was that, more than anything, that made him such a natural leader. He accepted Sir Henry’s gushing welcome and posturing with good grace, clearly realizing here was a weak man with little to offer, but willing to suffer him for a while for the greater good. Still, it was a surprise when he caught a glimpse of me out of the corner of his eye and instantly diverted his steps to come and shake my hand.

  “The Duc d’Origny, young fellow. And you are?”

  If my eyes were raised, Sir Henry’s were practically bulging. Any more and his optic nerves would rip themselves out. Still, my mother had raised me to be honest. “Harry Dickson, Your Grace. I’m afraid I’m not a guest, just a security officer.”

  “There’s nothing ‘just’ about it, young man,” the Duc replied in his perfect English. “Every position is an important one in some way or other, and nothing to be in the least shamed over. Remember that. And now, Sir Henry, you were saying something about my quarters?” He smiled again, turned and rejoined his host, who by this time was suffering from massive eyestrain. I couldn’t help but grin. This was going to be an interesting conference after all.

  I had no idea.

  The dinner was finished, the brandy and cigars broken out, and the guests shuffled slowly out of the dining room into the main hall. The hired musicians started up their instruments as Appleby and the other servants, dressed in their best, moved in unobtrusive grace among the crowd, refilling glasses and ready to answer every need. About them the guests mingled, sipping their brandies, chatting blandly about general politics, the weather and other such mundanities. The real discussions would not begin until the morrow. This was merely an after-dinner party, not the conference proper.

  I hung back a reasonable distance from the main crowd, keeping a sharp eye on the proceedings. So far, all had gone well, if you discounted the fact most of the rest of the “security” had been surreptitiously helping themselves to the liqueurs for quite some time now. A few were just teetering out now to go on “patrol.” I sighed. It was so hard to find good help these days.

  Among the crowd, I noticed Darshan; the handsome Indian cutting a striking figure in his finery. Not that anyone was paying much attention to him. He was merely a servant, and a Hindu at that. The fact that they were there to discuss the future of his own homeland mattered not one jot. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder why some young maid back in Bombay hadn’t snapped him up yet. Ah, well. It was none of my business, really. If Kritchna wanted to tell me his secrets, he’d do so on his own time. Still, I was supremely grateful when he sidled u
p to me, casually handed me a brandy and said, “You look as bored as I feel.”

  “Worse,” I replied, sipping the drink. “I need a smoke. But Sir Henry made it clear we mere detectives were to keep out of the way and not have any fun at all. Not that it’s stopped any of the others.”

  “True,” Kritchna grinned. “Two of them have been taking turns kneeling on the floor of the loo since the brandy came out. God, what help. But if you insist on doing things on the cheap, you get what you pay for. Present company excepted, of course.”

  “Of course,” I smiled. “Have you seen the Duc yet, by the way?”

  “As a matter of fact, he actually spoke to me for a moment. I was giving him a drink and he insisted on asking me what part of India I was from, what I thought of the Russian threat and so on. Charming man. If only half the rest of these were like him rather than the host. And look, there’s the Great Man now, lording over his court.” He nodded toward the center of the room, and, sure enough, there stood Sir Henry, pontificating to anyone within earshot of the sorry state of Empire and how the Lower Classes didn’t know their places anymore. At his right hand waited Alexander, nodding at whatever his father had to say, while a few paces back stood Peter, shuffling his feet and looking like he very much didn’t want to be there.

  “Well, I’d better get back to the guests,” Kritchna said. “But, gad, this is tedious. I’d almost rather be at that séance they’re holding at the Grange. At least, it would have to be more interesting than this.”

  “Please,” I rolled my eyes.

  “Not interested?”

  “Several years ago, my father was approached by a man who showed him a frog. He said this frog had the ability to put on a little top hat and sing ragtime. Needless to say, all that frog did was sit there and croak. And that’s all the dead can do. Sit there and croak.”

  Kritchna snickered. “All right, Dickson, all right. You sound just like my father–eh?” His head swiveled toward the front door. Nor was his the only one. A sudden hush had fallen over the entire crowd and everyone was turning to stare at the new arrival who had just stepped majestically into the foyer, closing the door behind him. A tall, erect figure, radiating self-importance, who gazed out calmly at the crowd with the slightest glint of amusement in his eyes. A figure who had definitely not been invited.

  I knew, for I had made a point of going over photographs of every one of the official guests. None even approached the appearance of this man. Tall, as I said, with a patrician, hawk-like face that held an air of dignity and intelligence I had seen in few others. His features were definitely European in origin, but with his darkly tanned skin, as bronzed as Roxton’s, his neat, immaculately groomed beard and spotless white turban resting comfortably upon his dark hair, he would’ve passed easily for an Arab or Sikh. Nor was this his only concession to the East. While his suit was European in fashion, and of the finest cut, around his waist rested a long, multicolored kilt-like garment I would later learn was called a lungi, a decoration from India. The combination of attires was jarring enough in this sea of cummerbunds and tuxedos, but there was something else, an aura of knowledge and dominance about the man that was unnerving. At his feet rested a large, perfectly ordinary carpetbag.

  “I truly apologize for disturbing your soirée,” he stated in a pleasant voice, “but no one answered the door so I was obliged to let myself in. Tell me, does anyone know if the Duc d’Origny is present? I just endured a most tedious train ride to get here and would like to see him.”

  Darshan leaned close to me, frowning. “So who thinks he’s Doctor Mystery, then?”

  “I don’t know,” I grunted, “but he’s about to leave.” I began roughly pushing my way through the throng. Sir Henry was going to roll someone’s head over this, and I was determined it was not going to be mine. Murmurings were already shooting up and down the gathering: “Who is that? Some damned native lover, it looks like,” but none dared confront him.

  It was Appleby who reached him first, taking a card the stranger produced smilingly. The butler peered at it curiously a moment, then, in an uncertain voice, announced, “The, ah, Sâr Dubnotal. The Great Psychagogue, Napoleon of the Intangible and Conqueror of the Invisible!”

  The Sâr Dubnotal? Good Lord! What was that pretender doing here? Shouldn’t he be at Grange, if anywhere? I had to get him out of here, and quickly. “All right, sir,” I started as I reached him, “kindly explain yourself and why you have just intruded into a private conference…” I stopped in my tracks. For as I spoke, the patrician features had turned to me and I had to take a step back. His eyes. They were the deepest I have ever seen, glinting like sunlight on water, yet dark, boring, hypnotic, locking onto yours as drawing you in until you feared you would be lost in them forever.

  “I never explain myself, young man,” he said to me calmly. “It’s entirely unnecessary. Suffice to say that I am the Sâr Dubnotal and that I am here.” His smile grew broader. He didn’t seem angry, just that his very presence should answer everything. It didn’t, of course, and I was about to tell him so when I was interrupted:

  “Doctor! Doctor, is that you?”

  Immediately, the Sâr had turned his back to us, throwing out his arms in welcome. “Michel! My dear dear friend!” And he was embracing none other than the Duc d’Origny as if he were a long-lost brother!

  “Doctor!” the Duc exclaimed, hugging the new arrival with the greatest of enthusiasm. “How long has it been?”

  “Six years, ever since our adventure at the Devil’s Gate, old friend! Far too long! How are you?”

  “Fine! Whatever are you doing here? Were you invited?”

  “No, no–I was in London visiting a friend on Cheyne Walk. We were interviewing an archaeologist about some very interesting occurrences on the Siberian Express a few years ago. But when Gianetti called and told me you’d be here, I just had to drop everything and come and see you!”

  “Well, I’m glad you did! You’re right, it has been far too long! Oh, by the way, may I present M. Dickson? He has the honor of heading security for the conference.” He gestured kindly toward me.

  “Yes,” the Sâr beamed, giving a slight bow. “My assistant told me I might have the pleasure of meeting you. The Rational Skeptic.” He made an amused little clucking sound in his throat. Clearly he had met “Rational Skeptics” before.

  This more than a little irritated me, so despite the presence of the Duc, I flushed and responded hotly, “I am, sir. And proud of it. It is the Rational Skeptics that made the advances that pulled the world out of the Dark Ages, not those who claimed to follow the guidance of so-called ‘spirits’ and ended up dragging themselves and everyone who would listen into the black pit of superstition and occultic nonsense.”

  “Like me, of course,” the Sâr’s smile didn’t fade.

  “Yes.” Every eye in the Hall was upon me, but I ignored them, turning instead to the Duc. “I apologize, Your Grace, if this man is indeed an old friend of yours. But I will not have myself and the teachings of my mentor spoken down to by anyone who fancies himself the ‘Conqueror of the Invisible.’ ” I wheeled back toward the Sâr, daring him to reply.

  He did. He burst out laughing. “Excellent, Dickson, excellent!” he clapped his hands. “Well-spoken, indeed! Shake hands, sir; I’m glad to know you!” Before I could protest, he was pumping my right hand vigorously. “I see Gianetti did not lie when she spoke so highly of your spirit! And I’m certain Michel takes no offense, do you, Michel? Indeed, I find it an absolute pleasure to meet such a determined unbeliever in the Ab-Normal. As, I can plainly see, you are as well, sir.” He glanced toward Appleby.

  “I?” The butler frowned. “I am a follower of the Lord Jesus Christ, sir. I refuse to have any truck with such satanic claptrap as the raising of spirits.”

  “And very wise, too, for the raising of spirits is far more dangerous that the popularity of Spiritualism would have to believe. But the fact you are a Christian nevertheless means you believe in so
mething supernatural, does it not? No? Yes? Well, no matter. I am by no means a Christian myself, but better to have faith in something beyond yourself than faith in nothing at all.” His eyes flicked pointedly toward me “Nevertheless, you are correct for the most part, Dickson. Most of so-called ‘occult phenomena’ is merely delusions or frauds specializing in smoke and mirrors. Ninety-nine percent, at least. But it is the remaining one percent that make all the difference.”

  “Perhaps,” I started, “But I–”

  “Mr. Dickson,” the Duc suddenly said. “I can guess how odd my friend’s methods must seem to you. But believe me when I say they work. With this man I have seen… wonders. And terrors. He does not boast when he says there is more out there than Man can fathom.”

  I sighed. This was getting out of hand. “Be that as it may, Your Grace. But the fact remains I have a duty and this man is a trespasser at a sensitive Government Conference. If you do vouch for him, something may be done, but if not, I am afraid I must ask him to leave before–”

  “Dickson!!!!”

  “That happens.” But it was already too late. The rotund form of Sir Henry Westenra loomed over us like a just-awakened bear while everyone else in the area quickly turned their heads and started making their way to the far sides of the hall. Alexander, ubiquitous as ever, hovered at his father’s side as he roared, “Who is this man, Dickson? What kind of security do you call this? How did he get in, and why hasn’t he been removed?”

  He made as if to physically grab at the Sâr but the tall, regal man turned his deep, intense eyes right upon him. Sir Henry froze instantly.

  “I realize that I arrived here without an invitation, Sir Henry,” the Sâr began in a cool, quiet voice. “But I was certain my dear friend the Duc here would speak up for me. My actions were admittedly rude and I fully intended to apologize for them, but I have not met my friend here in so long I simply could not pass up the opportunity to see him again.”