“Well, if anyone can crack the case, I’m sure it’s you.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“I must say, you’ve recovered wonderfully well from that dreadful business in Clapham. Most unpleasant. A lot of men in your position might have given up after that. Thrown in the towel.”
Moon did not have time to respond before Lady Glyde stopped beside a small group of women gathered about a young man holding court. Moon caught a little of what he was saying — from the sound of it, something unnecessarily contentious about America.
Squat, freckled and sporting an ugly shock of ginger hair, the fellow cut an unprepossessing figure amongst Lady Glyde’s social elite. Stoop-shouldered and stuffed into an ill-fitting tuxedo, he seemed an alien there, an interloper, a moth amongst the butterflies. His face was made up of an unusually revolting set of features and he appeared to be missing a finger on his left hand.
“Enjoying the party?” asked Lady Glyde.
The ugly man beamed. “It reminds me of a marvelous little soiree I went to once before in Bloomsbury…” — he paused before delivering his punch line- “in 1934.”
Moon took an instant dislike to the man. Lady Glyde giggled in a manner quite unbecoming for her age.
“Mr. Moon,” said Lady Glyde, with the air of an impresario introducing a music hall act. “Meet Thomas Cribb.”
“We’ve already met,” Cribb said quickly.
Moon glared. “I doubt it.”
“He won’t remember me, but I know Edward well. In fact, I think I’d go so far as to say we’re friends.”
Lady Glyde laughed and Moon eyed the man with a good measure of confusion. The Somnambulist’s reaction, however, was unexpected. On seeing the stranger a kaleidoscope of emotions crossed his face — what almost seemed like recognition, then suspicion, then anger, then rage, then fear. He turned away, and disappeared back into the party. Nobody saw him leave.
“Mr. Cribb,” said Lady Glyde, “it sounded as if you were having the most fascinating conversation when I arrived.”
“Oh yes. Go on, do,” squealed one of the women, and the others chattered their empty-headed approval.
Cribb made an unconvincing dumb show of embarrassment before bowing, inevitably, to their demands. “I was speaking of America,” he explained, “of what she will achieve a few short years from now.”
“And what is that?” one of the women asked. “Civilization at last?” She snorted at her own waggishness.
“She becomes a great power,” Cribb said soberly. “A mighty nation that eclipses our own. Our empire withers and dies.”
With the exception of Moon, everyone laughed at this. Lady Glyde all but whooped in delight. “Oh, Thomas,” she gasped. “You are wicked.”
The man gave what he mistakenly believed to be an enigmatic smile. “I’ve seen the future, madam. I’ve lived it.”
Thomas Cribb was an enigma.
As is often the case with men like that, there are innumerable rumors and theories about his origin. He may have been a genuine eccentric, a man with simply no conception of his oddness. He may have been a professional charlatan, a canny self-publicist who had started, disastrously, to believe his own press. More plausibly, he may just have been someone who made up stories to get invited to parties.
He claimed to have knowledge of the future, to have lived there and seen the city a century from now, but whether anyone actually believed this is irrelevant. What mattered was that his stories granted him a color and theatricity which would otherwise have been quite beyond his grasp. Whenever he spun those yarns, women hung on his every word for what was almost certainly the first time in his life. Middle-aged widows like Lady Glyde adored him. He had cut a swath through polite society and become a fixture at these events, where he was regularly brought on as a kind of semi-comic turn. Above all, they made him interesting.
The is the outside possibility that he was something altogether more significant, but I’ll come to that in time.
I met him only once or twice and, frankly, thought very little of the man. But I insist you make up your own mind.
Once Lady Glyde, whispering huskily into his left ear, had told Moon exactly who and what Cribb claimed to be, the detective was so singularly unimpressed that he called the man’s honesty into question.
“Mr. Moon!” his hostess exclaimed in mock indignation. “I believe every word he’s told me.”
“You disappoint me.”
Moon stayed for another hour or two, mingling half-heartedly with the other guests, yearning all the while to continue his investigations. The Somnambulist, meanwhile, had found himself an empty chair and a jug of milk and had settled down for some serious drinking.
Moon quit the party as soon as politeness allowed, upon which Lady Glyde took barnacle-like hold of his arm to escort him to the door. They passed Cribb on the way.
“Goodbye, Mr. Moon. I shan’t see you again.”
“I suspect I’ll stand the disappointment.”
A sly grin. “But you misunderstand. This may be the last time I see you but it most certainly is
The conjuror just stared. “You’re gibbering.”
“I’m a two-legged contradiction, Mr. Moon. You’ll learn.” Cribb gave an oddly wistful little smile, bowed his head once and disappeared back into the crowd.
“Quite something, isn’t he?”
“I’m glad he amuses you,” said Moon, as Lady Glyde squeezed his arm a little tighter than was really necessary. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive me. I must go.”
“So soon?”
“I’ve work to do.”
“See you again?” she asked hopefully.
Moon offered a final, tight half-smile. “Goodbye, ma’am.”
His obligation for the evening satisfied at last, Moon stepped out into the night.
He had gone barely five paces before he was stopped by a voice, whining and almost familiar. “Edward!”
He turned around. Someone stood silhouetted at the doorway — the ugly man.
“What do you want?” asked Moon, not bothering to hide his irritation.
Cribb grabbed the conjuror’s left hand and clasped it in his. It was almost certainly his imagination but Moon could have sworn that the ridiculous little man actually had tears bulging in his eyes.
“Mr. Moon.” He trembled, his voice thick with feeling. “Edward.”
Moon did his best to extricate his hand but Cribb held it tight. “Please, let me speak. Let me say this. We’ve been through so much together.”
“Nonsense. We’ve barely met.”
“Oh, we’ve faced death together, you and I. We’ve looked the worst this city has to offer in the eye and lived to tell the tale. I’d like to say what an honor and a privilege it has been to know you. To…” Choked with emotion, Cribb stopped, gasped in desperate lungfuls of air. Recovering his composure, he finished forlornly: “To have been your friend.”
Moon assumed the man was drunk and tugged his hand away.
“You don’t understand me now. But you will. I promise. You’ll regret this. You’ll regret not saying goodbye.”
Moon strode swiftly away. The ugly man chose not to follow but, sadder and more solemn than before, turned and walked slowly back inside.
