Against the Brotherhood

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  I was interrupted by a rap on the door, and a moment later, Mycroft Holmes, in his Oriental splendor, came into the room. “Pity about the girl.”

  “It is,” I said with feeling, for as deplorable as her way of life might be, she deserved a better end than this one.

  “If I had time, I would want the last of the wine in the bottle that killed her, so that I could determine the poison used. But”—he spread his hands wide—“that would draw attention on Kamir, and that might lead to questions that would be awkward to answer. So I will content myself with warning you to be very careful in all that you do. Our enemies, and there are a number of them, are playing for the highest stakes imaginable, and will not let anyone, certainly not you or I, stand in their way.” With this, he bowed deeply and left me alone to my work.

  The chest McMillian had singled out was behind a large valise, and I pulled it out with a little difficulty. It was a sturdy, leather-covered and brass-bound piece, about twenty-four inches long, sixteen wide, and ten deep, and the lock on it was heavy, though it opened readily enough at the turn of the key. I folded the lid back and saw that there was indeed a long, tubular map case in the bottom of the chest, with a small brass lock on the fittings. I shook it carefully and heard the slither of paper inside. Doubtless that was where McMillian had the treaty. At least he had kept it under a double lock; that was a little consolation. I laid his hunting jacket and britches atop it, using the boots to steady the map case.

  There was a sharp sound below and a moment later I heard the main door open, stern voices asking to see Madame Isolde.

  Thinking it was the official from this morning returning, I left my task and went to the top of the stairs. Herr Dortmunder was confronting two men I took to be constables of some sort. I heard his postilion’s spurs ring as he paced, making an invisible barrier with the movement of his strides between the constables and the rest of the house. Realizing I would have to hurry, I went back to packing with more dispatch than finesse. When this was completed, I was satisfied that we could now depart. I went to the room I had been allotted, collected my hat, my coat, and my carpetbag, and used the bell-pull to summon assistance in carrying the luggage down to the carriage entrance, for even if we were bound for the train, we would certainly not go to the station on foot.

  Though I looked for him in a general way, I saw no further sign of Mycroft Holmes, or his Turkish counterpart, Kamir. Much as I wanted to know what had become of him, I knew it would be unwise to ask about him. Perhaps, I thought, I would overhear the servants mention him as I finished preparations for departure. I listened closely without results.

  There was a porter; Madame Isolde summoned him and had him load up the chaise with McMillian’s luggage, apparently as eager to be shut of him as he was to be out of her place. As he went about his work, he whistled a tuneless little four-note song that he repeated endlessly. By the time the trunks and chests and cases were secure, I was heartily sick of the refrain and knew it would echo about in my mind for hours to come.

  At the train station, McMillian attempted to commandeer a car for himself, and was told politely but firmly that this would not be possible. He raged at the stationmaster, demanding an explanation. “I am on a diplomatic mission, I will have you know, and if anything should happen to the documents I carry, the consequences would be heavy for Germany. If I come to any mischance, it will be laid to your lack of assistance.”

  I thought about the singular lack of care McMillian had shown these same documents while he was at Madame Isolde’s, and had to conceal a sour smile. Such cavalier treatment would not be viewed favorably by those who were depending upon him for the safe delivery of the treaty. Not that it was likely they would ever learn of it.

  “There is no order assigning a private car to you, sir,” said the stationmaster, bowing as much as his starched shirtfront would permit, which was not very much. “The best we can do is give you a private compartment with empty compartments on either side of you.”

  “That is hardly sufficient; the arrangements must be better,” said McMillian with terrible scorn. “My mission is much more important than you suppose. You surely know how to take care of foreign diplomats, don’t you? You are not barbarians here, are you?”

  “When we are told to by those with the authority to command us, we perform our duties to a high standard. We do not offer any insult to those not deserving of such. It is a tradition in Germany to give superior service,” said the stationmaster, the very picture of affronted dignity. He seemed about to impale his jaw on the starched points of his collar.

  “Very good,” said McMillian sarcastically. “Then you will attend to getting the private car I require, and then you will see that a waiter and a guard are assigned to it.”

  The stationmaster grew more formidably stiff. “You have no authorization for such specialized treatment. For what reason do you believe you are entitled to such privilege?”

  Realizing that the Scotsman and the German had reached an impasse, I plucked at McMillian’s sleeve, and cleared my throat, hoping it would not be ripped out for my pains. “Sir, if I may make a suggestion ...”

  “What is it, Jeffries?” He gave me a hard stare, as if he had already come to the decision that employing me had been a mistake.

  “It is simply this,” I said, keeping my voice low. “There have been attempts on your life; why make yourself conspicuous? The more distinction you are given, the easier it will be for those working against you to find you. A private car is obvious, and easily isolated. It would tend to attract the very forces you would most want to keep at bay.”

  This argument apparently carried some persuasive weight with McMillian, for he rubbed at his chin and regarded me thoughtfully for a short while. “That is a very telling observation, Jeffries; yes, I take your meaning,” he declared at last, and swung back in the direction of the stationmaster. “Your circumstances here have put me at a disadvantage. Under the circumstances, I will avail myself of your offer of a private compartment with empty compartments on either side, and a guard assigned to the car.” He raised his chin, the better to look down his nose at the stationmaster. “See to it.”

  “I will have to get permission to assign you a guard,” said the stationmaster, unwilling to compromise even on this point.

  “Then do it, man,” he ordered. “The train for Karlsruhe leaves in twenty minutes and I have my luggage to get aboard yet.” He scowled at the platform, where the locomotives were drawn up.

  “The Karlsruhe train will not leave for an hour yet,” said the stationmaster in the manner of one confessing a fault. “It has been delayed by order of King Ludwig.”

  “Oh, my God,” muttered McMillian in English. “That delusional madman.” He rolled his eyes upward as if petitioning heaven to aid him.

  If the stationmaster understood, he did not admit it, though he spoke more sharply. “His Majesty is sending a messenger to France on the Karlsruhe train. This messenger will have a private car.”

  “A private car,” repeated McMillian as if counting this against the stationmaster. “Very good for him, getting the approval of a man like Ludwig,” said McMillian, once again speaking German. “Well, let him enjoy it. Make note of this, sir: I will change at Karlsruhe for Mainz and then to Bonn. At Bonn, I will change for Liege. At Liege I will change for Ghent. I expect you to wire instructions ahead so that I will not have to repeat this farce again.”

  “I will endeavor to do as you instruct,” said the stationmaster.

  I noticed that there was a strange emblem on the watchfob the stationmaster wore, an Egyptian eye, of the sort I had seen over the gates and fireplace at von Metz’s schloss. My heart beat more quickly. I did not know if I should warn McMillian, and if I did, how I would account for my information. I was beginning to fear that everything I had been told about the Brotherhood was not only true, but an understatement. Would i
t be safe to alert McMillian in any way?

  I was still puzzling over this when McMillian rounded on me, whiskers bristling. “And Jeffries, from here on out, making these arrangements will be your responsibility. If I am kept waiting or if I am given inadequate accommodation, it will be on your head.”

  “Certainly,” I said, doing all that I could to look prepared for the task. “Just tell me who you want me to talk to.”

  “There is a private waiting room,” the stationmaster announced as if divulging a state secret. “You may wait there until the train is ready to depart. No one will disturb you.”

  “And my man?” asked McMillian with a negligent wave in my direction. “I will need him to tend to me.”

  “He should remain in the public waiting room.” The stationmaster heaved a little sigh. “But if you require him, he can be with you while he is fulfilling your commissions.”

  McMillian was pleased at having scored this point, and so pressed for one more advantage. “And as there has been no time for breakfast, you will see that we have pastries and coffee.”

  The stationmaster set his jaw. “I will tell the baker who has his wagon outside to bring you his best.”

  “And quickly,” added McMillian, starting down the corridor the stationmaster indicated.

  No sooner had McMillian settled himself in a high-backed, overstuffed chair than the door opened, so suddenly that I spun about in a crouch, expecting trouble and prepared to defend myself. The events of the last few days had truly taken their toll on me.

  It was the messenger who had come to Madame Isolde’s that morning, armed with nothing more than a walking stick and an overlarge valise. He strode toward McMillian purposefully. “I was told you would be here,” said the messenger. “You have led me a merry chase.”

  “Oh, it’s you, Zimmerman,” said McMillian blandly after he had regained his composure. “You have been on my heels for three days. What do you want?”

  “I have a message for you, something that I must tell you in private,” he said with a quick glance in my direction.

  “I will leave you; I want to have a bite to eat,” I said at once, the more to reassure Zimmerman than to appear subservient to McMillian. I preferred selecting my own food, now that I thought about it; this situation was too exposed and I had to assume we were being watched. I wanted to be certain I did not eat anything detrimental to me.

  “You are such a fussy old hen of a man,” said McMillian with a sigh of ill use. “Though I suppose government needs fellows like you, to tidy up after the real work is done.” He waved me away with a weary flap of his hand. “Come back in ten minutes.” His gaze rested on Zimmerman. “I don’t suppose you will need more than ten minutes.”

  “If you have no questions, it should suffice,” said Zimmerman, trying not to sound too put-upon.

  “And bring pastry and coffee when you come,” McMillian added as I went out the door, taking care to close it.

  The platform was busy, with travelers, porters, and railroad employees bustling about. The activity was invigorating, the kind of sensible work that had not been my lot for some time. How tidy it all was, this determined industry, how simple and direct. The engines hissed like tame dragons as they were stoked and readied. Ruddy-faced men loaded fuel into the car immediately behind the engine, and I watched these efforts with a degree of envy that surprised me. Porters with handcarts carried crates and bales to the waiting trains, stowing them with the ease of practice. Those men were not being hunted by unknown cabals, the targets of assassins, sent on missions that grew hourly more convoluted and dangerous. None of them had thrown a man to his death. None had stood helplessly by while an innocent man was ritually slaughtered. At the end of the day they went home, having done an honest day’s labor, to an uncomplicated family and the pride of achievement. Even as I thought this, I knew it for the simplification it was, and found little solace in it.

  At the baker’s cart, I selected four pastries, two of them filled with soft, sweet cheese and a berry comfit that looked delicious. At any other time I would have bought some for myself, but my appetite had not truly returned, and though it was early afternoon, I could not think of eating without feeling queasy. I paid for the pastries with a flourish, and then wondered if anyone was watching me.

  What was Zimmerman telling McMillian? And what difference could it make to me? I began to walk back in the direction of the private waiting room, pastries wrapped in paper.

  I halted at the beginning of the corridor, realizing that I was witness to something important. The stationmaster was standing just outside the closed door of the private waiting room, head slightly inclined for concentrated listening. I had no idea how long he had been there and what, if anything, he had overheard. The notion that one of the Brotherhood had information I could not obtain troubled me greatly. Remembering his watch fob, I hesitated, trying to decide what would be the most truly Jeffries thing to do. Should I challenge the man, or appear to ignore what I had seen? The decision was made for me.

  A whistle sounded from outside the station, and the stationmaster raised his head, like an animal testing the wind. He saw me then, and had the temerity to nod at me as he made his way to the front of the station to greet the new arrival.

  Watching the stationmaster walk away from the door, I caught a glimpse of a woman in the crowd, a slight, young woman with light-colored hair that reminded me briefly of Penelope Gatspy, though with so many fair women about, it was odd that she should have worked such a powerful response from me. For an instant, I wondered how she was doing with her brother, for surely she had reached him by now. Then I made myself think of more pressing matters. Then I turned my thoughts to Elizabeth, and tried to imagine how I would tell her of all I had done. It struck me then that I might not be permitted to tell her anything of my experiences, which would be bound to displease her. I reminded myself philosophically that I could not deal with the future when the present was so precarious.

  I made my way back to the private waiting room and held out the paper with the pastries to McMillian. “I hope these are satisfactory, sir,” I said. “I purchased four in case you wished to offer one to Herr Zimmerman.”

  “Why would I want to do that?” asked McMillian sharply, his attitude suggesting I had taken leave of my good manners if not my senses. “And do not think you can tell me that you don’t want one for yourself.”

  “I have had mine,” I lied. “They are excellent.”

  “You need a taster, do you?” challenged Zimmerman, whose face was redder now than when he had first arrived. “Not that I blame a man for being careful of enemies; you have many to be wary of.”

  “Meaning that you are one?” suggested McMillian. “Perhaps when all this is over you and I will have leisure to enjoy our animosity.”

  “It is a shame that so much depends on a man like you,” said Zimmerman with no apology for his insult. He rose, bowed stiffly and all but clicked his heels. “I will leave you, mein Herr.”

  “At last,” said McMillian with a studied, languid manner. He had looked at the pastries and then set them aside as Zimmerman departed. “Jeffries, my coffee.”

  As I went to do McMillian’s bidding, I kept wondering how—or if—I would get him to tell me of Zimmerman’s errand.

  FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS:

  Information is expected from Germany momentarily. What M.H. intends to do regarding travel is not yet apparent, but he has asked that the Mercury train which brought him to Germany be sent back to Paris, but held there in readiness against any sudden need. The Mercury train has performed extremely well, according to M.H. The real trouble is the quality of track over which it travels, for it limits the speeds the train can reach safely.

  Edmund Sutton has reported that three men have asked for M.H. at the Diogenes Club, which causes him some trepidation. He fears that som
e of M.H.’s enemies may suspect his use of a double and are hoping to find out the truth of the matter for themselves.

  Word brought from the Admiralty indicates that the matter of pilfering is now wholly concluded and the scandal is averted.

  I am once again called to hospital. The signs are grave.

  IT WAS THIRTY minutes later that the stationmaster summoned McMillian to take his place in the private compartment, with the assurance that the compartments on either side would be empty, and the railroad guards would ensure our protection. I looked at his Egyptian eye watch fob, and could place little trust in his assertion.

  “That is fine,” said McMillian, motioning me to hold his greatcoat for him, which I did. “We will have a pleasant autumn day, at least, now that the fog is gone. Nothing is so dismal as looking at river fog, mile after mile.”

  “It is pretty country,” I allowed, thinking that were it not for the danger around me, I should probably enjoy all I saw.

  The stationmaster waited impatiently. “It is the third car, immediately after the baggage cars, the middle compartment.”

  “The Germans are very sentimental about nature,” said McMillian, ignoring the stationmaster. “Forever prosing on about it.”

  I made sure everything of his was gathered up, and went to hold the door open for him, suspecting that such attentions were demanded by him.

  He regarded these acts with a lack of concern, which only confirmed my suspicion that he expected them. “And which is our compartment?” he asked as we entered the corridor.

  “Third car, middle compartment,” I said, repeating what the stationmaster had just said.

  “Middle compartment. There are five compartments, I presume?” He looked out toward the platform. “And who is that, going into the fourth car?”

  “That is the private car,” said the stationmaster in a cold tone.