I recalled how determined von Metz had been, and the armed men who guarded him, and I began to reflect on some of the things Mycroft Holmes had shown me in the time I had been in his employ. It struck me now that the stakes here were huge, for if the treaty were compromised, much of Europe could eventually fall under the shadow of the Brotherhood: even if von Metz’s grandiose plot to thrust all Europe into war failed, the Brotherhood would have insinuated itself into the governments of a dozen countries. I shuddered to consider a Europe where the leaders were daily fed the venom of the Brotherhood, for eventually each country would be isolated one from another—and England by virtue of being an island, most of all—so that no peace could be sustained.
An hour later, I could see the city of Munich emerging from the splendid Bavarian scenery. I have rarely looked upon a place with such mixed emotions as I had at the sight of Munich that day. The setting, with the mountains rising grandly behind it, and the clouds towering above them all, made it appear like a city in a fairy tale, but there was danger there, more than I had ever supposed I would have to face, and that turned the delightful place to a sinister lie, like a trap set in a nightmare.
By the time we reached the train station, it was drizzling, and I was grateful for the bearskin rugs in the back. The day was closing in swiftly, the clouds masking the waning afternoon.
Herr Dortmunder drove us to a warehouse in Ortenburg Strasse, a dark and oppressive building dating from the fourteenth century, by the look of it. He stepped down from the box and rapped sharply in what I assumed was a coded pattern. Less than two minutes later the doors swung back and three armed men, much like the ones I had seen at the schloss, came out to lead the horses and carriage into the interior. Herr Dortmunder was standing in one of a number of narrow doorways that surrounded the central hall; the place was gloomy, and oppressive. I may have imagined that the muzzles of rifles were trained upon me, but I doubt it.
“You will have to disguise yourself. With the eyepatch that will not be easy, so we must improvise.” He signaled me to approach.
I retrieved my carpetbag from where I had shoved it during our flight, saying, “Is there somewhere I can put this?”
“We will show you eventually,” said Herr Dortmunder, his manner testy and abrupt. “You must come with me.”
In this company I was not about to dispute the matter with him. I fell into step behind him, this time making little attempt to hide my curiosity about the place. “Where are we?” I asked as we continued along the corridor to a flight of stairs leading down.
“In Munich. That is all you need to know for the moment, Mister Jeffries.” He was running out of patience with me, and I could not help but notice the tension that existed between him and the men who guarded this place.
We arrived at last in a cellar, with ancient, damp stones keeping the huge chamber perpetually dank, though I realized the chill of the place had more sinister origins than wet stones. At the far end of the large room, I saw a raised dais with what appeared to be an altar set upon it. It was too dim to make out the various accoutrements there, but I was reasonably certain they were not for rituals I knew or wanted to know.
“This is where you will remain until tomorrow. Then you will be disguised and taken to the train station,” said Herr Dortmunder, looking more like a bad impression of Beethoven than ever.
“But I thought—” I began, only to be cut off.
“The station is being watched. It is not safe to go there tonight.”
I did my best to look put-out instead of alarmed. “Who’d be watching, then?”
“The same ones who shot at us. Probably the Golden Lodge, or agents of that braggart von Bismarck.” Herr Dortmunder made a gesture I did not recognize but I clearly understood its intent. I rocked back on my heels and waited for him to say something more. “They are trying to keep us from reaching McMillian.” He nodded in an infuriatingly superior way. “It is not a bad plan. In their place I would probably do the same thing.” This grudging admission was more than he wanted to give, and he did it with ill grace.
“How can I do what you need me to do?” I asked as I followed him into the heart of the cellar. “I won’t be able to convince the Scotsman to take me on if I’m being shot at all the time.”
“True enough,” said Herr Dortmunder. “And that is why I have brought us here. So these men may go out and find the assassin and bring him here. There are some questions I want to ask him.”
The menace in that simple statement was greater than any I had heard from this dire man, and I began to fret that I should be in the hands of these men with no one to find me if my situation became desperate. How the last few days had changed me, I remarked inwardly, that I should find myself in a nest of villains whose purpose was the overthrow of everything I honored, and who were ruthless against their foes, and still not think of my situation as desperate. I noticed that there were half a dozen men approaching the altar, all wearing robes and hooded.
“Who are these people?” I asked of Herr Dortmunder in a low voice.
“They are members of the Brotherhood. They are going to perform a ritual that will aid your efforts. You must witness it, to ensure your success.” He showed me a high-backed chair. “That is for you. Do not stir from it once the ritual has begun.”
“And you?” I asked, not liking being alone in this place with those sinister figures.
“I will join the men performing the ritual.” He started away from me, but paused to reiterate his warning. “Do not move once the ritual begins, no matter what happens. It would be very ... bad for you if you do.”
Looking around at where I was, I thought it could not get much worse. I sat down, my carpetbag between my feet, and tried to find a comfortable place to sit on the chair; none seemed possible, and after five torturous minutes, I abandoned the attempt and took my place squarely on it, hoping that my bones would not ache too fiercely from what was to come. If the ritual was a long one, I might expect to be in this place for over an hour, a prospect that filled me with apprehension.
Another ten minutes passed as the hooded figures brought various items to the makeshift altar: a large basin made of brass, a small mace, a pair of braziers which smoked more than they gave off light, a dagger, a large crystal, a towel with an odd design embroidered on it, a broken staff, and a set of restraints made of chain. These last made me shudder as I caught sight of them.
Then a gong sounded from somewhere along one of the echoing corridors.
The cowled figures at once took up positions at the corners of the altar, their heads lowered as I heard chanting, distorted by constant echoes, come from three of the entrances to this huge cellar. A short while later, three processions of other habited figures made their way toward the altar, all taking pains to pass through the portals set up at the far end of the altar.
I decided the language they used must be German, but an older form of the tongue than any I knew. I recognized a few words, but not enough to be certain I understood the purpose of this ritual.
Finally a man in a long red cowl made his appearance. I recognized his voice as that of Herr Dortmunder. He went to the altar and lifted up his hands, saying something in the archaic language about the power of sacrifice. The rest of the men intoned a response about the might of their work. Then Herr Dortmunder asked for the offering.
Three of the cowled men went into the nearest corridor, and I heard a great struggle, a few oaths, and then a man with a badly bruised face was half-carried, half-dragged out to the altar. Even in this light, and in spite of the blood matted in his unruly hair, I could see it was, as my mother would have said, red as a fire in a hay-rick. His mouth was too swollen for him to be able to do more than make incoherent screams. His hands were purple and badly distended from repeated blows. I suspected that all his knuckles were broken. The look of him made me queasy, for I was helpless to co
me to his aid, and I despised myself for not doing so. I steeled myself for what I was afraid might come.
“This is the plunder we bring,” intoned Herr Dortmunder as the man was bound to the altar.
I wanted to protest, but the words stuck in my throat as I felt the hand of one of the cowled figures descend on my shoulder, and a slim blade was pressed lightly against my neck.
“Watch,” the figure commanded. “And remember. Those who cross us will all die as this man dies. Do not forget.”
As if I would ever forget that place and the hideous acts I witnessed. I could not believe what I saw. I sat, transfixed with fear, as Herr Dortmunder stripped the man, and with the implacable assistance of the rest of his fellow-devotees, cut out the man’s tongue, and then emasculated him, putting these grisly tokens into the basin to the approving cries of the cowled men around him.
There was blood everywhere. It splashed, steaming, onto the floor, and it reddened the cowled habits of the men performing the heinous rite. The victim of this atrocity had fainted; I hoped for his sake that he would remain unconscious until he bled to death. The hideous ceremony went on, the cowled men chanting in a rough monotone as Herr Dortmunder continued his ghastly work.
The man on the altar suddenly struggled and cried out aloud, the sound of it causing my very marrow to freeze in my bones.
“This will be your fate, if you fail us,” said the man beside me, as if he were speaking of a notice in the paper. “Watch and remember.”
There were other terrible things done to the man on the altar. Signs whose importance I did not understand but by implication were cut into his chest, his abdomen, and his forehead. I was finding it difficult to breathe.
I stared at the altar as Herr Dortmunder declared that this life would bring into his power and the power of the Brotherhood the life of Cameron McMillian, and make him the willing tool of their cause.
Then, with a great cry, Herr Dortmunder took the mace and dashed the man’s brains out.
FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS:
Word has come that M.H. has reached France safely, and assumed one of the three identities Edmund Sutton has supplied him. He will not send word again until he reaches Germany, for fear of having his messages intercepted as well as wishing to take the utmost advantage of the Mercury train.
Arthur Upton has signed a full account of his wrongdoing and will face first the Admiralty and then, if it is decided that it would be worthwhile, the Bench. Acting upon M.H.’s instructions, Harold Worthing has resigned his position and is now retiring to his hunting box in Yorkshire, to wait out the worst of his disgrace. His family have done all they can to put a good face on it, but it is clear to all that they are keenly dismayed by what has transpired.
Countess Nagy has been informed by certain men in government that she might prefer Paris for the next few years. Her voluntary departure would spare her and the Hungarians the misfortune of having certain of their activities brought to light in a way that would please no one.
Inspector Cornell of Scotland Yard has sent word that he would like more information on the unfortunate young woman whose identity has still not been established. It seems that there are some odd marks branded into her body which give the Inspector grave reservations about the case. One of them, his note informs me, is the representation of an eye, and this is what is proving the most troublesome, for with so many high-ranking Masons in the government, he must tread carefully, if this eye is the same as the one the Masons represent within a triangle. I have sent word back saying that M.H. will be informed of these matters by telegram, and he will send his response directly to Cornell at Scotland Yard.
Mother was lucid for a short while today, and I can only thank God for the opportunity to see her then.
I HAD JUST witnessed a murder of utmost ferocity. I was stupefied, unable to move. There was nothing I could do or say that would change anything of what I had seen. Again my danger struck me, but with renewed force, for as a witness to this unspeakable ritual, the Brotherhood could not afford to let me live. Surely they would do away with me when my work was done, possibly in a fashion as hideous as the atrocity was.
A short while later, my guard dragged me to my feet and directed me toward a room off one of the corridors leading to the chamber. I was able to keep my wits about me only to the extent that I carried my carpetbag with me, for more than ever, the notebooks it contained heralded my guilt to the Brotherhood.
The chamber assigned for my use was little more than a cell, containing an unmade army bed, a small chest with a gate-leg writing table at one end, and a commode. About eight by nine feet, it had two high, small windows which looked out on the ruins of a kitchen garden lit by three torches: I was below ground level at the rear of the building, and so isolated I might as well have been in the grave. I sat down on the cot provided and tried to make my mind work. The unsteady light from the torches in the courtyard provided irregular illumination that was much in accord with my wavering thoughts. At last one notion came to me—that I must do something about my covered eye. Desperately I tried to recall the tricks I had seen Edmund Sutton do, and set myself the task of using what my observations had taught me.
In my toiletry kit I found a wad of cotton lint. I took a little of this, my concentration driven by dread and the need to do something so that I would not feel so utterly in the power of the Brotherhood. I took also my iodine bottle and stained a little of the cotton with it. Then I rummaged in my things for my mucilage for stamps. I spread some of this vile-smelling glue on the cotton and pressed the cotton onto my closed eyelid, holding it with my fingers until it dried in place. The appearance, once the whole was set—at least as much as I could determine in the shine of the torches—was of a badly puckered scar. Satisfied that the effect might stand a superficial inspection, I then put the patch back in place, trying to find some reason for optimism in the efforts I had made.
Tempting as it was to try to find a place to conceal the notes I had been keeping somewhere in the room, I was unable to convince myself that this was wise, for any disruption of the room might bring unwanted attention to my activities, and I suspected the tattoo would not banish all doubts from the minds of my captors. I went to the chest and looked inside it for the bedding, and found old, discolored though freshly laundered sheets, a blanket—the moths had been at it—and a pillow stuffed with spent barley with a sour smell that pervaded the whole of the cell. Not very promising, I thought, doing my best to cheer myself with these mundane reflections. I set about putting the bed to rights, and wishing I had been provided a lantern, or a candle, for the darkness was oppressive and my efforts clumsy.
The night went by interminably, and I found myself sinking to the depths of despair. If these men had disposed of that poor man so unspeakably, what would be my fate if they discovered my mission? The more I tried to dismiss such concerns from my mind, the more determinedly they stuck there, like an aching tooth. I tried to convince myself I was hungry and cold, and those things accounted for my state of mind, but I knew it was not so. When I tried to sleep, I was visited by images of the man in Luxembourg falling into the abyss. By morning, I was groggy with fatigue and melancholy, and I rose feeling stiffness in my joints when I heard others stirring in the hall beyond me. I decided I should shave, and wished I could have a proper wash.
“You are to come with me,” announced one of the guards who appeared unheralded in my doorway as I was shaving. As I had my eyepatch raised, I was glad I had taken the precaution the night before of making it appear the covered eye was hideously injured. I trusted that the light was insufficient for him to realize the makeshift nature of my supposed disfigurement.
I continued with my razor—the one I had bought in Paris—and prayed my hands did not shake. “I will be with you as soon as I’m finished here.”
He clearly did not like this, but he remained where he was
, unwilling to move until I completed my work and had put my razor away in my case and returned them all to my carpetbag. “Herr Dortmunder is expecting you.” His English was good but his accent was thick enough that under other circumstances he might have sounded comical, something Edmund Sutton would use for a music hall revue about the stiff-rumped Germans. In this setting, I could find little amusing about it.
I put my eyepatch back in place. “Not surprising,” I said, trying to sound unmoved by this information, as if the ghastly dealings of the night before had made no impression on me. “Well, I’m ready.”
“Nasty scar you have there,” he observed as he started down the corridor ahead of me.
“Better than having my brains shot out, I suppose, or so I thought at the time,” I answered as casually as I could. “Thought it would be easier to lose an eye than my life.”
“No doubt,” said the guard, unimpressed with my sangfroid.
I followed after him, my carpetbag feeling as heavy as if it contained anvils; those notebooks might yet reveal my ruse. I was attempting to think of some way to explain them when we arrived at last on the upper level of the building, in a good-sized dining room paneled in dark oak and made cheery by a blazing fire in the hearth and a half-a-dozen east-facing mullioned windows letting in the watery morning light.
Herr Dortmunder was seated by himself in solitary state at the head of the glossy table, which was designed to accommodate twenty-four people at least. He had a number of covered dishes in front of him and a tankard of beer in one hand. His own plate was filled with fried sliced potatoes and bits of egg and cheese. “Good morning, Mister Jeffries,” he exclaimed, indicating the seat beside him. His heartiness did not convince me, not after what I had seen the night before. “I have just had a most interesting telegram from Vickers.” He held up the document and smiled at me. “He informs me that you notified him of your change in travel arrangements.” His expression turned granite-like. “You may think this was clever, or you may have only been hoping to please him as the one who first employed you. But you will understand that Vickers as well as I takes his orders from von Metz.” He nodded to my guard, who gave a kind of salute and left us alone. “Sit down.”
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