Against the Brotherhood (12 page)

“That’s quite a bruise you have on your face,” said the parlor maid as she led me up to the second floor.

“Hazards of travel,” I said, speaking my German with a stronger English accent than I had been taught to use.

“Certainly is,” said the parlor maid with a speculative look at me. “Do you want to sleep alone?”

Given where I was I should have expected this. I did my best not to appear shocked, and instead I said that another time I would be interested, but just at present, what I wanted was to lie down on something that wasn’t moving.

She laughed and winked, and indicated a room with one high, small window, a bed, a dresser, a shaving stand, and precious little else. There was a faint-but-pervasive smell of malt and barley in the air. “If you change your mind, I’ll be up another two hours.”

I could think of no reply other than to hand her a few coins as I closed the door, taking care to set the bolt in place. This was one night I had no wish to be disturbed.

But much as I yearned for sleep, it would not come. There were too many questions haunting me from the last few days. What had Mycroft Holmes sent me into? I had had no concept of what dangers I would encounter, and, in my exhausted state, I began to think myself very hard-used by my employer. Treaty or no treaty, I grumbled inwardly, I had been sent as a lamb to the slaughter. That reminded me afresh of my narrow escape, and the killings in Luxembourg, and a shudder went through me. I did
my best to persuade myself that my worries were as much a product of fatigue and sore joints as any other factor, and I was able to convince myself sufficiently to fall asleep so that the trepidations I held at bay now had free rein in my dreams.

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS:

For the first time since the trouble with the Admiralty has come to light, M.H. has been hopeful of resolving it. This morning he has sent for two men who manage accounts for the Admiralty who remain under suspicion, and they are to arrive this afternoon at two-thirty. After his meetings of yesterday, M.H. is certain that one of the two is the guilty party, and he is determined to resolve the matter as soon as possible. “Had I the leisure, I would discover the man on the evidence, but I haven’t the time to do it. Guthrie is too much at risk for me to indulge in deductive games. I will have to confront the two men and observe them carefully.”

I am to carry a message round to Edmund Sutton, advising him to present himself at M.H.’s flat after one in the morning, prepared to undertake his replacement for a period of at least a week. I am also to order that the Mercury train be standing by in Calais for M.H.’s use as soon as he can depart for the Continent.

“We have either a very dangerous man to apprehend, or a venal one,
”
said M.H. to me as he finished writing his note to Sutton.
“
I will hope the man is dangerous. It would be galling to think that I have put Guthrie in danger for nothing more than a small mans greed.”

WE LEFT NUREMBERG
without incident, and I arrived at Augsburg no more than two hours later than the train from Ulm pulled into the station. Satisfied that I had made good time, I went in search of Herr Dortmunder, pausing on the way to stop at the telegraph desk to inquire for any messages that might have been left for me, giving Mycroft Holmes’ brother’s address for identification. While the agent went through his records, I noticed two men of military bearing standing on the platform, scanning the crowd with narrowed eyes. I knew that sort of soldier from times past, and I could find it in my heart to pity whomever it was they sought.

“Herr Jeffries?” said the agent, and handed me a packet roughly the size of two books bound together. “Sign for it, please.”

Ah, the German love of order, I thought to myself. When I had done that, I did the one thing I had decided was prudent to do: I sent a telegram to Vickers at the Cap and Balls, telling him of my forced change of travel plans and informing him of my belated arrival in Augsburg. At least if my actions were ever questioned, I would have this to defend myself. That is, if men of this sort gave a damn about such things. Still, it was a precaution against his promise that I would be hunted in did not keep to the schedule provided me. Satisfied that I had done what I could in the way of self-protection, I went away from the telegraph desk and the presence of the two watchers.

I looked around once more, and went toward the waiting area to see if Herr Dortmunder would find me, as I had been told he would. While I waited, I opened the package, and, trying not to appear too eager, I examined its contents. First was a telegram from James, sent with the material from Zurich, where a British exporter had added the requested information:
In hopes you arrive as per schedule. Press of work delays action. Contents should explain. When should I expect payment?

Going over the telegram, I realized that there was more information still to be delivered, and he wanted to know when I would reach McMillian. I was puzzling out how to answer that when I noticed a stiff-spined man with a face like something off a bad statue of Beethoven. He was looking over all those of us in the waiting room, scanning each person in the place with an increasingly serious glower. I made note of him, then began to read the contents of the bound notebooks provided by the exporter in Zurich. What was written here were catalogs of the records of criminal and political activities of members of the Brotherhood. I scanned the pages, realizing that I would have a great deal of reading to do tonight, most of it distasteful. First among the men of this list was a sinister man who styled himself Luther von Metz, though it was thought he had taken this as his own after he had started his career with the Brotherhood. That name caught my eye and held my attention for some seconds as I tried to bring to mind where I had come across it. It did not take me long to narrow the time. Somewhere in the confusion of the last several days, I had heard von Metz, perhaps more than once. If my thoughts were not so disjointed, thanks to the developments of the last few days, I knew I would recall it at once. The memories slithered away from my attempts to grasp them as readily as snakes. It was quite frustrating, and I glared at the page where I was studying the entry under von Metz’s name when the Beethoven-faced man approached me, bowing a little before he spoke. He wore a long suit-coat in the German fashion, and a heavy neck-cloth. In addition, he affected riding boots and heavy postilion’s spurs, with the chain leathers.

“Your pardon, but are you waiting for a Herr Dortmunder?” He spoke English like a machine, and I realized he had learned it from a book. “Are you Mister Jeffers?”

“That’s Jeffries. Yes, I am,” I said, aware that any questioning of the man could cause more trouble than I wanted to deal with. I also suspected that his slight mispronunciation of my assumed name was intentional, done to throw off any spy or imposter.

“I thought you would be on the train from Wurzburg.” He made this an accusation. “I was told you would be on it.”

I answered him in German. “My train from Luxembourg was delayed, and I was not able to reach the connecting trains, so I made my way to Nuremberg and from there to here. I did not want to delay on Mister Vickers’ errand. He told me it was urgent, and so I came as quickly as I could.” If I had expected praise for my initiative, I did not receive it.

“You were told to come on the Ulm train,” he said, his German as bookish as his English.

“I would not have arrived until tomorrow, if I had done that. My instructions were that I was to arrive today, and I endeavored to comply,” I said at my most reasonable as I did my best to appear casual, tucking the two bound volumes into my carpetbag as I talked. “I regret that I did not arrive until a short while ago.”

“I would have come back.” He inspected me in that abrupt way I have always associated with Germans. “Your face is damaged, and your coat is brown, not black. I was not told to expect that. I am Herr Dortmunder; a pleasure,” he added with feigned cordiality.

“Nor was I,” I countered, beginning to weary of the man. “Expecting these things.”

Herr Dortmunder stared hard at me. “Is that a witticism?”

“Apparently not,” I said, my fatigue increasing with every word we shared. “I was attacked in Luxembourg by two men.”

“Attacked?” Herr Dortmunder exclaimed. “Who were they?”

“I have no idea,” I answered. “They did not give their names or their mission; they tried to kill me.”

“And what became of them?” Herr Dortmunder’s tone demanded an answer.

“They failed in their mission,” I told him, reluctant for some reason I could not define to relate the whole tale to this brusque man. I did not relish having to recount how I happened to kill one of them.

“That is fortunate,” said Herr Dortmunder. “We must leave at once, before you are too closely observed.” He indicated my carpetbag; as his coat swung back I saw he had a pistol tucked into a pocket of his waistcoat. “Is that all you carry? Just that one bag?”

“Yes, that is all,” I assured him, rose and picked up my luggage and said, “Lead on, MacDuff,” in English.

Whether he understood the remark or its contents, Herr Dortmunder did not find it funny. He sneered at me and stalked ahead of me toward the front of the station where carriages were drawn up, some for hire, and others private. He indicated a covered calash drawn by two strengthy seal-brown horses of a breed I did not recognize. “Put your bag under your feet,” he recommended as he paused to make a series of signs to the coachman before he climbed into the carriage and said, “The man is deaf.”

“Poor fellow,” I said automatically, and looked at the man beside me. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll learn that soon enough,” he told me gruffly as the calash started off through the traffic at the station. “We will not arrive for a while; you might as well make yourself comfortable.”

It was a day of uneven temperament; when the sun peeked through the clouds, it was warm, but all shadows were cold, and there was a chill in the wind that whipped color into my face and made it stiff at the same time. I tried not to let this dismay me, but I could not wholly rid myself of the feeling that all the world was warning me of my current predicament. I sat back against the low squabs and did not speak as we rolled off into the German countryside.

In mid-afternoon we stopped at a country inn and were given a meal of savory wurst, cheese, and bread, and one of those yeasty German beers to wash it down. Herr Dortmunder ate with a steady, mechanical determination, without any sign of relish or disgust for his food. We exchanged no more than a dozen words over our repast, a thing that is harder to do in German than English. Then we were back in the calash, bowling down the road at a smart trot. About an hour later, the coachman turned his pair off the public road onto a narrow track that led toward a spinny of oaks mixed with pines. Herr Dortmunder offered no explanation for this diversion and I asked no questions, not wanting to cause any problems with the fellow. A quarter of an hour later, I could see the vague outlines of a large country house, which I think the Germans would call a
schloss.
The building was hidden among the trees, and I realized it was also of an age and design that was intended to withstand siege warfare, from the days when Germany had been a collection of minor states all at war with one another. This impression was confirmed as we neared the schloss itself
,
which was larger than I had first supposed, and nowhere near as welcoming; a drawbridge was lowered to admit the calash. We passed under an emblem carved in stone: an Egyptian eye.

I saw men standing inside the portcullis who carried weapons of three hundred years ago—crossbows and pikes—along with formidable sidearms of more recent manufacture. They watched the carriage as it drew up, and I saw the coachman wince as two of these formidable guards came up to take the pair in hand from him. Although they wore no uniforms, they had the look of seasoned, professional soldiers. This schloss was an armed camp, and I was the enemy inside it. The notebooks in my carpetbag suddenly seemed about to burst into flame.

“You may step down, Mister Jeffries,” said Herr Dortmunder. “I think you would do well to bring your own bag. We have few servants here.”

Obediently I left the calash and took my carpetbag, filled with relief at his suggestion. The last thing I wanted to do was surrender the bag. Tempting as it was I did not look around with too much curiosity because I had the strong impression that such obvious interest would not be welcomed by the people here. I watched Herr Dortmunder for some indication of where I was to go.

At last he turned to me. “You will come with me.” With that he set off through the massive oaken doors of the schloss. “Stay close behind me. If you do not, the men will shoot you.” With that for encouragement, I followed after him, trying to take in as much of the place as I could without seeming to do so. After traversing a drafty room, we entered a stone corridor that led to what I supposed must be the heart of the building, to a baronial hall with a huge hearth with a blazing log set within it. On the chimney was another representation of the Egyptian eye. For decorations, the arms of what I assumed were noble German houses were displayed on the walls. Here was the gold-and-black lozengy of old German Württemberg rulers, and next to it, gules with argent per fess of Austria, followed by the quartered arms of Hungary; beyond that, the displayed black eagle of Prussia, and then the three crowned lions’ heads on an azure field of Dalmatia. It was then that I realized what was troublesome about the arms: all were upside down. That was clearly no oversight or accident. This place was dedicated to their defeat.

Herr Dortmunder stopped and pointed to me to sit down. I did this, on an odiously uncomfortable wooden chair with a high, straight back. We remained there for the better part of an hour, Herr Dortmunder occasionally relieving the tedium by pacing the length of the hall, then pausing to stand before the massive hearth, hands behind his back, about as forbidding as the stones around him.

I spent the time trying to place the various reversed arms. I was reasonably certain that the golden goat with the red horns and hooves on the azure field was for the Margrave of Istria, but the attenuated argent goat rampant breathing fire on vert puzzled me, as did the red device like an English label or a bishop’s mantle on an argent field. The black bull’s head on the per pale azure and gules also was unfamiliar to me; the colped arm emerging from a cloud and wielding a scimitar I eventually recalled was Bosnia and Herzegovina. So it appeared—if this display meant anything—that the Brotherhood was determined to bring down every noble house from Moscow to London, just as Mycroft Holmes had implied when he put me in the way of meeting Mister Vickers.

Finally, as my nerves were beginning to fray and the hall was growing dark, the far door opened and an emaciated figure entered the room, striding purposefully forward, his hand extended to Herr Dortmunder. I rose, anticipating an introduction.

None was offered. The two men spoke quickly and in whispers, then the very thin man departed again, leaving us once more in the gathering dark.

“We will have lamps brought soon,” Herr Dortmunder told me, as if this were a great concession to me. “And something to eat, as well. It is growing late.” He went to face the flames.

“Well, I won’t say they aren’t welcome,” I told him, making sure my German was not as good as it could be.

“Von Metz will come shortly. He wishes to speak with you for himself.” He said this as if he were offering me a high treat. I remembered then that Mycroft Holmes had warned me about the fellow back in London, and there had been a mention of him since then. I tried to remember it. It came to me at last: one of the men at the edge of the canyon in Luxembourg had said the name, calling him a devil. I once again wondered who those men were and why they had made that desperate attempt on my life. The fear that they were not simple thieves determined to prey upon a traveler returned tenfold, and left me shaken.