Against the Brotherhood

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Herr Dortmunder rushed to the door, tugged it open and squinted out into the morning glare. He raised his pistol and fired it once, swearing as he did.

  Mycroft Holmes was bending over me, still in the character of Kamir. “Are you hurt, good sir? There is blood in your eye.”

  “Small wonder,” I muttered. “What the devil was that all about?” I demanded in English as I tried to sit up; my head rang like a smithy and my eyepatch was once again smirched. “I’ll be right enough in a moment,” I said, hoping it would be so.

  “Good sir, I cannot understand you,” said Mycroft Holmes, whose Kamir was not intended to speak English.

  I made myself change languages. “I assume I will be better directly.”

  Herr Dortmunder slammed the door closed, and then came to my side, putting his pistol back into his coat as he neared me. “That was too close, Mister Jeffries.”

  Madame Isolde was bending over me, fussing. She lifted the corner of my eyepatch, made a face of repugnance, and restored the patch to its place. I was again relieved that I had taken the precaution of giving the lid the appearance of severe scarring. “I will send for a basin, so we can wash ... that away.”

  I had taken the napkin offered by Mycroft Holmes. “I would be grateful if you would.”

  “But Herr Jeffries,” said Mycroft Holmes in Kamir-bafflement, “who is shooting at you? Good sir, you must be in some danger from evil men, to have them take so bold a step against you.”

  “So you must suppose, sir,” said Herr Dortmunder for me. “It has been the misfortune of this young Englishman to be attacked three times since he has arrived on the Continent. I have taken it upon myself to see he is not exposed to such hazards again.” This was directed as much toward me as to the Turkish version of Mycroft Holmes.

  “I cannot think who has any reason to do me harm,” I added in an injured tone, in English. “I came here on commission of a gentleman in London, and in the hope that I could make my way back home by taking employment with an English gentleman in need of a servant, so that I would have payment for the second leg of my travels. And thus far all I have received for my troubles is attempts on my life.”

  “A horrible state of affairs,” said Herr Dortmunder.

  I finished wiping the worst of the blood from my face, and discovered that the wound was still seeping. Pressing the napkin to my forehead, I did my best to get to my feet. My whole face felt raw, and my muscles were watery.

  “Let me help you, good sir,” Mycroft Holmes offered, holding out his large, long hand to me. I took it and felt him haul me to my feet. “There. Now you can look at that wound for yourself Madame Isolde will provide a mirror.”

  Madame Isolde was grateful for something to do. She hurried off to fetch a mirror for me as I swayed on my feet, shaking as with sudden cold.

  “Bring more coffee,” ordered Mycroft Holmes to the gawking servants. “At once.”

  “And put schnapps in it,” added Herr Dortmunder. “You will need to sit down a moment, Mister Jeffries.”

  “So I think,” I said, and was grateful for the chair shoved under me, as much as I was embarrassed by the attention.

  So great was the confusion that no one heard footsteps hastily descending the stairs, and we were all startled when we heard a voice speaking German well but with a pronounced Scots burr demand, “What the bloody hell is going on here?”

  FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS:

  This morning we—that is, Edmund Sutton and I—sustained another visit from Miss Roedale of Twyford, G.’s fiancée. She is most upset that she has had no further word from G., especially since his absence at a family gathering has caused her great embarrassment. She has said that he must make himself available for the wedding of her cousin, which takes place in four days, and she wants no excuses offered. Apparently there are those in her family who are not pleased that G.’s government service should require so much time and effort from him. She has left a note for him, warning him of her dissatisfaction with the turn recent events have taken.

  MCMILLIAN WORE A lavish robe in his own tartan with wide velvet reveres with apparently nothing beneath it. The excesses of the night before marred his countenance, leaving dark circles under brilliant blue eyes. In spite of that, he was an arresting figure. He had luxurious, brindled muttonchop whiskers that blended into an extravagant cavalry moustache, though his rusty red hair had begun to recede, leaving him with a pronounced widow’s peak. His nostrils were chiseled and the bridge of his nose so prominent that looking down it came easily. Just at present his wide, thin-lipped mouth was set in a hard line. He pulled a small pistol from his pocket as he looked around the room.

  Of all the ways I had imagined presenting myself to this man, I had never considered it would be in this manner. I tried to bow, but vertigo overcame me and I clung to my chair as if to keep the world from moving. I saw my carpetbag lying on its side under my chair. I knew I would have to retrieve it before anyone could examine its contents.

  “I thought I heard shooting.” He winked in the direction of Madame Isolde, who had just come from the rear of her establishment carrying a mirror. “Dueling for your favor, are they?”

  She blushed and hurried to my side, paying this interloper no notice.

  I took the mirror and stared at the gash along my forehead. It looked to be about eighteen inches wide and five deep, but I knew that it was actually no more than three inches long, and not deep enough to do anything but bleed a great deal, as so much of the face does. I sighed and took the cloth I was offered in place of the napkin. As I pressed it to the wound, I knew I should have the thing stitched closed so that it would not become infected, and the scar would be as minor as possible. I handed the mirror back to Madame Isolde. “Many thanks.”

  “You should have that looked at,” she said, echoing my own thoughts. “It is a bad cut.”

  “So I think,” I agreed, and noticed that McMillian had moved closer to me.

  “I am able to do this,” volunteered Mycroft Holmes. “It is a skill we are taught.”

  “Good Lord,” exclaimed McMillian as he saw the sodden napkin and had his first real sight of my forehead. “How bad is it?”

  “Not as bad as it looks,” I answered, trying to sound calm; I realized some of the glass from the window had embedded itself in tiny shards in my forehead and cheek. “But you know how it is with wounds on the face.”

  “They’re the very devil,” said McMillian, regarding me askance. “Do you work here?”

  Recalling my mission, I said, “Not precisely. I came here in the hope that you, sir, would employ me.” I had managed to stand up without being too shaky on my legs, and I tried to reassure the Scotsman that I was an acceptable manservant. I spoke in English, to the disgust of Madame Isolde and the apparent confusion of Mycroft Holmes. “I met Angus last night, who was leaving on the first train this morning. He had pressing business at home, or so he said. I thought that with him gone, you would want someone to take his place, so I came along to find out if—”

  “What’s this about Angus leaving?” he demanded. “He said nothing of it to me.”

  “Well, he did to me. Said you were busy. Didn’t want to disturb you while you were here. Said he had to tend to an estate.” It was vague enough that I hoped it would not be questioned. I hooked the carpetbag with my toe and pulled it nearer. This was not the time for any curious person to make an idle exploration of its contents.

  “That tangle with the uncle again?” said McMillian in exasperation. “I thought that was settled at last.”

  “Apparently not,” I said, glad my ruse was successful. I noticed that Herr Dortmunder was looking pleased in that hard-faced way of his. “He was confident that he would have his inheritance at last.”

  “What man wants to run an inn?” scoffed McMillian. “He will be nothing but a
servant until the day he dies, if he continues that way. Still,” he went on with a condemning shrug, “it is what he was born to.”

  “If it is what pleases him,” I ventured, “he will be well satisfied.” I swabbed my brow once more. “But his leaving puts you at a disadvantage, sir. I would hope you might be willing to take me on, for a trial period.” I did my best to neaten my coat and shirt. “I don’t think you’ll find another more willing Englishman in all Germany than I am.”

  “But men are shooting at you,” McMillian protested reasonably.

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but I suspect they were trying for the Turk.” I indicated Mycroft Holmes, and lowered my voice. “Probably up to no good, for all he says he’s traveling to see castles.” From what I had been told of this man’s character, I supposed he would be convinced that Turks might expect to be shot at for no other reason than being Turkish.

  “You’re probably right,” said McMillian, putting his hands into the pockets of his robe as if to avoid contamination.

  I determined to take full advantage of McMillian’s prejudices. “And the windows are not the best glass. It is not unlikely that the man firing the gun had not so clear an aim as he hoped.”

  “Very true.” He sighed. “Well, when you’ve had that injury properly dressed, come to my room. I’ll be having breakfast. We’ll discuss what you are to do.” He made a sweeping gesture. “Servant you may be, but you are British, and it wouldn’t be fitting to leave you in Bavaria with whores and Turks, and the men who shoot at them. All right. We’ll discuss the terms of your period of trial, and what wages you’ll receive, if you give satisfaction.” He turned to Madame Isolde, who was supervising the cleanup efforts of her staff. “Send breakfast up to me. The tea with milk, not cream. Make sure the porridge has no lumps.” With that, he cast a look of intense dislike at Mycroft Holmes and left the room.

  “If you will follow me, young sir,” said Holmes, his Kamir mannerisms flamboyantly displayed as he salaamed to the room at large. “Acts of charity are required by the Koran. Let me do as my religion commands me.”

  “Go along. It is preferable to bringing a physician here, for then the police might learn of these events,” said Herr Dortmunder in a warning tone. “If this ... gentleman can stitch you up, so much the better.” He frowned at Madame Isolde and began to upbraid her for permitting the attack to occur.

  “But how was I to know—?” she protested.

  “You hear rumors all the time. I rely on you for that....” The rest of their dispute faded as I started warily up the stairs in Mycroft Holmes’ wake, my carpetbag feeling like a leaden weight at the end of my left arm.

  In his room I saw that he had put a small rug atop the carpet. “For prayer. They know here that Moslems have such rugs. The incomparable Mister Sutton provided it.”

  “God knows how he comes by these things,” I said, leaning back on the door to assure myself it was closed.

  “He’s an actor. Actors require props of all sorts, or so he has often explained it to me. Right now, he is essaying the role of Mycroft Holmes, man of strict habits, as he has done so many times before. It is a part he plays particularly well, I think, so long as he does not have to speak. Do come over here to the window and let me have a look at that wound of yours.” He chuckled. “And don’t fash yourself. I have sewn up more than a few bullet holes in my time. I have tweezers to get the bits of glass, though they’ll probably hurt like the very devil. Oh, yes, I noticed them as well.” He waited for me as I did as he instructed. “Tell me who was shooting at you, and why? Do you have any idea? And how do you come to be with Dortmunder dogging your heels? Is he responsible for the shot, do you think? Or have you been discovered? There had to be a reason for that botched attempt at murdering you. It would be best if you told me all about it. And let’s have none of that farrago of yours about Germans taking potshots at random Turks.”

  “I had to say something; it convinced McMillian.” I lowered my eye and fussed with the patch. “This is the damnedest nuisance.”

  “Keep it where it is, if you please. I will work around it.” He opened the leather case set out on the nightstand and pulled out a small bottle. “Peroxide. It will hurt a bit, but it will stop infection.”

  I nodded, and set my jaw as he set to work on me.

  “While I’m at this, tell me what’s taken place these last few days.” He continued his cool, methodical treatment of my forehead, and made a quick inspection of the other minor cuts on my face. “By the look of it, you have been active.”

  “That is one word for it,” I said, and as concisely as I could, recounted all that had happened since I left England. I tried not to dwell on the man I killed, though my distress was surely evident in how I spoke of it. My narrative faltered while he set four stitches in the gash, closing it expertly. I clenched my teeth until the worst of the pain was over, and went back to my account. When he was finished dressing the stitches, I had reached the murder I had witnessed the previous night. Mycroft Holmes’ mouth grew increasingly stern as he listened.

  “I never thought this mission would become so terrible. It seemed simple enough at the outset.” He set his medical supplies aside. “I apologize for placing you in such danger. But it was not my intention to do so. Nor was it my intention to leave you without any support in the field. However.” With that, he favored me with a careful look. “It would be more dangerous still to withdraw you from the assignment at this time. If you want to be certain that you are safe, you must persevere.”

  “If I must,” I said, feeling both conviction and ill-use as I spoke. “I am appalled by the Brotherhood and I will do whatever I must to stop them. But I cannot tell what to think of the Golden Lodge.”

  “No,” said Mycroft Holmes speculatively. “No more can I.”

  “You mean you are unfamiliar with them?” I asked, alarm making my pulse hammer in the wound on my forehead.

  “Oh, I have heard whispers of them, but I know relatively little about them. I wish, in fact, that I knew a great deal more, so I would be able to assess their role in all this.” He began to tick off alternatives on his long fingers. “They might—one—wish to continue the status quo and desire nothing more than to assist our efforts.” Mycroft Holmes’ pained smile revealed how little stock he put in this possibility. “Two: they could wish to expose our work with the same intended result of the Brotherhood, but with themselves becoming the rulers of Europe. Three: they might wish to use the treaty to ingratiate themselves with the leaders of Europe, either for their own direct gain or for the opportunity it would afford them to destroy the Brotherhood. It is wise to remember they are as fanatical as those they oppose. Four: they might be honestly patriotic and wish to warn von Bismarck of the secret accords of the treaty.” He rocked back on his heels. “If they are patriots, however, they have a most quixotic way of demonstrating it, at least to date. Should this be their motive, it would be disastrous for England.” He regarded me with a quizzical stare. “Five: they may wish to sell the treaty to the highest bidder. I suspect that Whitehall would be forced to prevail in such an auction, no matter how grievous the cost. We cannot afford the consequences of that treaty being made public, and no matter what we would have to pay, war would be more costly still. And finally, six: the Golden Lodge may not care about the treaty but as bait to lure members of the Brotherhood into a trap, in which case they may want to encourage von Metz to continue his attempts to steal it, so long as it would allow them to bag a good number of the Brotherhood. That would be the most precarious for us, for if the treaty means nothing to the Golden Lodge, the Brotherhood may achieve their hoped-for results by chance. Or mischance.”

  “Then the treaty is at more risk than we supposed?” I inquired, wanting to define my own apprehension.

  “Possibly. It is all a question of which of the motives are truly those of the Golden Lodge. What I particularly di
slike is this business about an assassin. Until now, I supposed that all we had to worry about are political machinations, but now that they are killing ... And using an assassin I am unaware of.” He clicked his tongue in self-condemnation. “I thought I knew all those who were operating in this part of Europe. And this is the first I’ve been aware that the Golden Lodge makes use of them. I knew about the activities of the Brotherhood, as you are aware, but not the Golden Lodge.” This confession clearly distressed him. “There is a greater hazard here than we realized, Guthrie, and that is most disquieting.”

  “Then it is vital that I keep close watch on McMillian, isn’t it?” I did not need to hear his answer.

  “Crucial,” said Mycroft Holmes, folding his arms and slipping back into the character of Kamir. He salaamed. “On your way, young sir. McMillian is expecting you. It would not be wise to keep him waiting.”

  FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS:

  According to Inspector Cornell, he does not have sufficient material in M. H.’s file to link the death of the unknown woman to Vickers, or anyone else for that matter. Were it not for the severity of her wounds, all administered before death and her dumping into the Thames, he would regard the death as a suicide. I have the impression that he would prefer to dismiss the case as that. But as there is little or no water in her lungs and the high degree of blood loss, to say nothing of the brands and other wounds on the body, he must list it as murder, and try to discover who has done it.

  “THAT EYE OF yours will be black tomorrow,” said McMillian as I stood beside his breakfast table, trying to make myself appear useful to him.

  “Better than having a split skull, sir,” I responded, doing my best to ignore my headache. At my feet, my carpetbag seemed to radiate my duplicity.

  “No doubt,” said McMillian, and looked me over critically, then heaved a sigh of disappointment. “Have you ever tended to a gentleman before?”