Against the Brotherhood

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  I did as I was told; taking a chair to Herr Dortmunder’s left, leaving one space between us so that I would not appear too presumptuous. “I did not want him to think I had disobeyed his orders,” I said, trying for the right mix of servility and sulking. “He might have withheld the money he promised me if I had not done it.”

  Herr Dortmunder sighed heavily. “You are so concerned about money, Mister Jeffries. There are more important issues at stake here.”

  “Of course I am concerned about money,” I answered with indignation. “I haven’t got any, have I? It’s easy to say that money isn’t that important when you have it, but when you don’t, then it is as important as food.” I glanced at the covered dishes, though I had no appetite.

  “Oh, help yourself, Mister Jeffries. There are hot pastries with sausages in this and baked apples in that baroque dish. And baked eggs and bacon with cheese in the far platter with the Bavarian arms on the lid. The crockery dish with the fish pattern contains the fried potatoes. They’re very good. Have whatever you like.” He continued to smile, his version of affability making me feel nauseated. “This is going to be an important day for you.”

  “How is that?” I asked, pausing in the act of raising the lid on the pastries with sausages.

  “Today you are to meet your future ... eh ... employer. Cameron McMillian is in want of a valet, and you will offer him your services, as he has just discovered his man has decamped.” His chuckle was mirthless.

  “How’s that? You’ve arranged it?” I wanted to sound surprised, but my suspicion turned it to apprehension.

  “Certainly.” He regarded me steadily. “Well, surely you guessed?”

  “What?” I was anticipating his answer already.

  “Our sacrifice last night was his man,” came the bland explanation. “I saw no reason for our Brotherhood to lose such a fine opportunity to further our work. You made it possible for us to get full value from the fellow. Had you not been here, we would not have dared to risk killing him because too many questions might be asked about his disappearance. Now that you are here, you will take his place, and so any inquiry as to his whereabouts is going to be cursory at best. He was a foreigner and a servant. Such persons are unreliable when traveling abroad.” He opened the disk of baked eggs and used the silver spatula to remove two and add them to the mess on his plate.

  “You’re sure of that, are you? Someone will notice he’s gone. Won’t my arrival look a trifle too convenient, coming on the heels of the ... other cove’s departure?” I made myself put pastry and sausages on my plate.

  “No. If the Scotsman were another sort, the authorities might question it, but McMillian is known to be difficult. His servants do not remain in his employ for long.” He picked up his fork. “But a man down on his luck, as you appear to be, can be expected to try to gain the help of such a man as he.” The certainty with which he said this chilled me.

  “I don’t know,” I said as I took my first bite; it was like eating sawdust and blotting paper. “If he’s difficult, he might want a replacement he knows. Why should he accept me as his valet?”

  “He is in no position to choose, at least not at present. He will not find a manservant where he is now.” He took a long draught of beer. “He has been spending the last few nights at a very exclusive brothel. He will not want it known that he visited such an establishment while on so urgent a mission as he has undertaken.”

  “Probably not,” I agreed, thinking of the stern demeanor of the Queen in regard to such things, urgent mission or no.

  “So, as soon as you are done, we will take you to the place. You will say you encountered Angus at a biergarten, playing cards and drunk, who told you about his intention to leave Munich at once. You, not being one to waste a possible advantage, decided to present yourself to the Scotsman in his valet’s stead. That should do well enough.” He looked very satisfied with himself.

  I sat at the table and ate as much as I could bring myself to take, thinking as I did that I might be nourishing a corpse.

  We were away from the old warehouse in less than an hour after I finished shaving. It was a chill morning, and mists from the river made the city almost as foggy as London, but without the penetrating smell of saltwater. The calash went through the streets at a steady trot, and around us I heard more than saw the people of the city. All the while, Herr Dortmunder did his best to prepare me for our destination.

  “It is King Ludwig who has made the city mad for Orientalia. He has a Turkish room at his hunting lodge, and there is a Moorish kiosk being built at Linderhoff, his latest building effort. Who knows what he will want next—an Indian castle, perhaps.” His account smacked of condemnation of these excesses.

  I thought of George IV’s fantastical pavilion at Brighton, the one Beau Nash, or one of the other great dandies, had described as Saint Paul’s having littered and brought forth cupolas, and for which I had a tasteless but genuine affection. “It could be a right treat,” I said as if approving of the venture.

  Herr Dortmunder rolled his eyes upward in disapproval. “If he cared for anything but buildings and the opera, Bavaria might have played a more important role in the war. As it is, Ludwig has no thought of any glory but what his architect and Richard Wagner can supply. He has gone to Bayreuth to hear every new work at least once.”

  “They say Otto, the Prince, is mad,” I remarked.

  “How do you know about that? Where did you hear it?” demanded Herr Dortmunder. He swung around to look at me, ignoring the guard driving the carriage.

  Too late, I recalled it was in a dispatch on Mycroft Holmes’ table. I covered my error as best I could. “Well, they put him in the loony bin, didn’t they? That’s what the Mirror said,” I responded in a quarrelsome tone. “Putting the Prince away like that, he’s got to be daft. Though how anyone would notice, given how royals are, I’m—”

  Herr Dortmunder interrupted me. “If you are not willing to listen and learn, you will be of no use to the Brotherhood when we reach Madame Isolde’s. Pay attention to what I tell you.”

  I took the rebuke as well as I, as Jeffries, could—that is, petulantly—and I said, “You wanted to know how I knew.”

  He did not dignify this with an answer. “You will begin with Madame Isolde. She will introduce you to McMillian. Madame Isolde is the name Lottelisa Spanner gave herself five years ago, to suit the fashion. She has turned her establishment into an Oriental paradise, or so she claims. Occasionally she entertains Arabs and Turks there, so she must have achieved some success.”

  I wondered if there was another reason for selecting the place, but I said nothing more as Herr Dortmunder went on.

  “In a way we of the Brotherhood are grateful for King Ludwig’s passions. He reminds the populace of the glorious past of the German people, and he is so preoccupied with his projects that he leaves the affairs of state to others. Two of his ministers are members of our Brotherhood, and they have promoted our interests without impediments.” He frowned. “I suspect that there are members of the Golden Lodge buried in the government as well.”

  “Why is that?” I asked, hoping to learn what I might be running into. I did not want to have another encounter like the one in Luxembourg.

  “Because some of our efforts have been thwarted,” said Herr Dortmunder in so threatening a tone that I recoiled at it.

  “Tough on you, Captain,” I made myself say. Playing August Jeffries was becoming more automatic even as it became more hazardous. “They probably think the same of you.”

  Herr Dortmunder shook his head twice. “They will answer for it.” He made a sweeping gesture at the fog. “Be grateful for this, Mister Jeffries.”

  “Why? So like England?” I knew it was dangerous to be sarcastic with this man, but I could not bring myself to care.

  He gave a vile chuckle. “Not exactly. Because no one
can see us well enough to stop us.” This announcement had all the unpleasant effect he had been striving for. “We have received word that the assassin from the Golden Lodge has been sent to stop us from getting the treaty. He is supposed to have arrived in Munich yesterday.”

  “The assassin?” I repeated, disliking the sound of it. “Who is it?”

  “We don’t know that, or the assassin would be in our sight,” Herr Dortmunder admitted unhappily. “Which is why you must be particularly careful. You may be known to them already, judging from the incident in Luxembourg.”

  “You mean that the way you will find this assassin is when he tries to kill me? And it might not matter much to you if he succeeds?” I did not like the rising tone of my own voice.

  “It may come to that, yes,” said Herr Dortmunder.

  If only I had some way to reach Mycroft Holmes. I had to know more about the Golden Lodge and this supposed assassin, or I suspected this first mission of mine would also be my last, and Mister Holmes would be in need of another secretary. Which put me in mind of another unpleasant matter: what had become of the man I replaced? At the time I took the work, I had been informed that the fellow had received a more satisfactory offer for his services, and had departed. But I had inquired no further—why should l? Now it seemed I had overlooked something I needed to know.

  “Do not go into panic, Mister Jeffries,” advised Herr Dortmunder with a slight, contemptuous smile. “Your pay for risk will more than make up for this minor danger.”

  “Minor, you say,” I scoffed, and realized I had let myself be lost in reflection. “You’re not the ones being shot at, are you?”

  “Not by the assassin, I should hope,” said Herr Dortmunder, with great meaning. “You cannot ignore the possibility.”

  “If your Brotherhood doesn’t kill me, then this Golden Lodge assassin may do it,” I said, speaking my thoughts aloud.

  “Exactly,” said Herr Dortmunder.

  FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS:

  Inspector Cornell is once again asking for M.H.’s assistance. Thus far I have been able to put him off, saying that M.H. is busy with Admiralty affairs, but I will not be able to continue this ruse forever, and Edmund Sutton has said he wants no part of deceiving the police. I have produced the original letter sent to M.H. by the dead woman—MH said I should if pressed—and that ought to satisfy them for the time being. In time, the Inspector will return and will not be willing to accept the temporizations Sutton and I must provide.

  M.H. has wired to inform us that he will be in Germany shortly, and has located McMillian.

  NEVER VISIT A brothel early in the morning; it is more disillusioning than being backstage at the ballet, and just as odorous. Beyond the discreet entrance to Madame Isolde’s establishment, there was clutter everywhere: abandoned glasses, tankards, plates, cigars, and, in one corner, a pair of patent men’s shoes. A sleepy butler in a Moorish tunic provided our escort through the refuse, muttering only a few words to us to prevent us from adding to the shambles. I noticed that a few servants were beginning the awesome task of setting the whole to order in preparation for another evening of license and revelry. The Oriental finery looked tawdry in the wan morning light, the peacock fans were dusty, and the gilding on the Moorish arches leading into the main parlor was flaking, showing the rough wood beneath.

  Madame Isolde herself greeted us, decked out in a pink negligee with elaborate Japanese sleeves and feather trim at the neck. Her finery could not conceal the slackness of the opulent flesh beneath her garment, nor the lines fretting her sharp blue eyes. She wore kohl on her lashes and rouge on her lips and cheeks, and an overpowering attar of roses. Her greeting to Herr Dortmunder was a shade too effusive for genuine good feeling. “What an unexpected honor. It has been too long,” she cooed as she took him by the arm. Her accent was more Prussian than Bavarian. “It is always a pleasure to have you here with us.”

  I hung back, not knowing what to do. How could I face Elizabeth after being in this place? This was not like the English brothels I had some little experience of, where gaming and drinking were as important as wenching and tupping. Here the emphasis was on entertainment, of what nature I could only speculate, though the evidence suggested an abandon not often found in the acceptable London establishments. At my feet I could see a number of wine stains on the Turkish carpet; I supposed that they would blend into the intricate pattern with time. The discarded cigars were another matter, and I could see that the burns they made would mar the carpet forever.

  “This is the man I mentioned.” He added in English, “Mister Jeffries, come here,” he commanded me, all but thrusting me forward. “He is to be presented to the Scotsman. Be good enough to kiss Madame’s hand, Jeffries.”

  I did as he ordered; trying to walk with the slight swagger I suspected Jeffries would have in these circumstances.

  “Good morning, Mister Jeffries,” said Madame Isolde in German, extending her hand to me, and waiting until I bowed over it.

  “Good morning, Madame,” I said, also in German, and added, “You have a very unusual place here.”

  She laughed. “I like to think so,” she said with a simper that I supposed was meant for a show of modesty.

  “Mister Jeffries is here to enter the employ of McMillian, as we have already arranged. The Brotherhood is depending on you to make the introduction. He is still here, isn’t he?” This last was more an accusation than an inquiry.

  “He is asleep with Gretchen and Francoise. He had quite a night with them. They are in the Chinese room, second door on the left at the top of the stairs.” She spoke hurriedly, as if she feared a slow answer might gain his disapproval. “Neither girl was remiss in her work, mein Herr.”

  “Excellent,” said Herr Dortmunder as he patted Madame Isolde’s arm, for all the world as if rewarding an obedient dog.

  “He had four bottles of champagne opened last night; he poured all of one over Francoise, and then licked it off her himself. Like a great, randy puppy. Francoise said his moustaches tickled something fierce.” Her laugh was high and nervous. “After such a night, I doubt he will be moving before noon, and then slowly. And his head may ache.”

  “Good, good,” said Herr Dortmunder. “Then he will be less likely to turn away a new servant. He will have to be attended quickly. Did any of your other guests spend the night?”

  “Just the Turk,” she said apologetically, and hurried on with her explanation, as if delaying punishment. “He refused to leave at the end of the night. He spent the whole evening playing chess. Winning, too. Nothing to drink. No whoring. He said in his country he would not receive such poor hospitality as I would show by requiring him to leave. And he paid very well for the privilege. Didn’t even take a girl with him. Didn’t have any boys to offer him. For all he did here, he might as well be a monk.”

  “And you do not want it said that your house does not serve its guests well,” said Herr Dortmunder, looking ill-used.

  “Not at this house, no, and not a Turk. What would they say if we would not allow him to sleep here?” said Madame Isolde, as if defending herself before the bench. Just what threat did Herr Dortmunder hold over her to gain so timorous a compliance as she provided? Perhaps she had seen something as hideous as the rite I had witnessed the night before, while McMillian was pouring champagne over a whore named Francoise and licking it off her.

  Again the satisfied pat. “Never mind. The Turk might prove useful.”

  The relief on Madame Isolde’s face was so great that under other circumstances it would have been comical. I decided to take what advantage I could of this development. “Tell me about this Turk then.”

  Herr Dortmunder shot me a critical look. “Why do you ask this?”

  “Because,” I said, improvising, “if the man has any position in the world he might be able to convince McMillian he needs me.”
I looked about as two more servants began to clean. “I think it would be a good idea, if this McMillian is as touchy as you say he is, if I made it look as if I would uphold the honor of the Queen, don’t you know?” As I spoke I was getting a better idea of my own stratagem, and my enthusiasm for it grew. “If the Turk were made to pay respects to a mere fellow like me, your high-in-the-instep Scotsman would be more likely to employ me.” I smiled. “And I think I can show this Turk a thing or two.” I had not yet the slightest notion how, but I trusted I would find suitable means as I went on.

  Herr Dortmunder stared at me as if I had just sprouted an extra pair of arms, or some appendages more alarming still. “Go on, Jeffries,” he prompted. “There may be some merit in your plan.” If his dog had spoken to him, he would not have been more astonished.

  “Well,” I said, growing bolder. “If this Turk were to come down to dine, then it might fall out that he and I would have a word or two, particularly if I pressed the matter. And we have a few bones to pick with the Turks, any road.”

  “Not in establishments like this,” said Herr Dortmunder, prepared to dismiss the notion completely.

  “Then I could catch his attention,” I went on, letting my improvisation grow bolder. “I could challenge him about certain irregularities in our dealing with the Turks, and ask for some explanation as to how such things came to be. I could make it clear to him that I won’t be put off.” Again, the vision of my affianced bride came to my mind and I was chagrined at what my work was leading me to do. Nothing I could tell Elizabeth would save me from her scorn.