several minutes, and then he crossed to the corner, where he stood for several minutes more, and he is now standing outside with his face pressed to the window….” As one the three companions swung around to meet the surprised gaze of a strange apparition: a smallish man, seemingly cloaked in rags and wearing an outlandishly tall pointed hat. He was indeed pressed to the window, his nose pushed flat and his handlebar mustache askew with dampness. The tatterdemalion at the window abruptly disappeared. Almost immediately came a solid rapping on the door. “…and now he’s at the door,” finished Jack. “Bother,” said Charles. “This is a members-only club. We can’t simply be catering to every vagrant who hasn’t the sense to be home on such a night.” “Oh, come now, Charles,” said John, rising to answer the door. “If it wasn’t for you, Jack and I would be in the same boat, and we’ve only just met.” “That’s different,” Charles sniffed. “You’re Oxford men.” “I haven’t actually begun yet,” admitted Jack. “A technicality,” said Charles. John opened the door and the strangest little man any of them had ever seen stepped inside and shook himself like a mongrel, spraying water all throughout the entry hall. His appearance was what might result if you shredded an illustrated edition of the works of Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, then pasted the pieces back together in random order. His coat and trousers were equal parts Old Sultan, Rumpelstiltskin, and Hans-My-Hedgehog; his shoes, the unfulfilled aspiration of a hundred cobbler tales. And his hat was some ruthless combination of The King of the Golden Mountain and The Shroud. His eyes twinkled, but his hair and mustache were sopping, and he looked as if he’d been beaten about the head and shoulders with some sort of shedding forest mammal. The only organized aspect of his appearance was a large parcel wrapped in oilskin, which he clutched tightly under one arm. “Dreadful night,” said the man, still dripping. “Dreadful. Twenty pounds of misery in a ten-pound sack. If I’d ever known such a night was going to come about, I’d have told my own grandmother not to bother having my father, just to avoid the trouble.” “Well, once you’ve dried off a bit, you’ll have to leave,” said Charles, covertly hiding the good bottle of brandy behind the inferior brands. “This is a private club. What were you doing watching us?” “Is this a question for a question?” asked the man. “I answer yours, then you answer mine?” “Can’t say that isn’t fair, Charles,” said Jack. “All right,” said Charles. “Good,” said the strange visitor. “I was watching to make sure no one else was.” “What kind of answer is that?” sputtered Charles. “That’s not a proper answer.” “Oh, come on,” said John. “Be a sport.” He turned to the little man. “Your turn. So what’s your question?” “I thank the gentleman,” the man said with a slight bow. “And now my question: “Which one of you is John? And do you know that Professor Sigurdsson is dead?” Chapter Two After a brief stunned silence, John regained his composure. “That would be me,” John said, standing and proffering his hand.
The apparition grasped his hand in return, pumping it frenetically. “At last, at last!” he exclaimed. “So happy to make your acquaintance, John, my dear, dear boy. And what better place than here at Sir Arthur’s home-away- from, eh? So grand, so grand. Yes…”
Jack and Charles exchanged skeptical glances, and Jack twirled a finger at his temple.
The little man continued undeterred. “I trust you can take it from here, correct?” he said, thrusting the oilskin-wrapped parcel in John’s direction. “You know what must be done. The professor would not have left you unprepared for this.”
John waved the parcel away. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you are talking about. We’ve only just ourselves come from the professor’s house, and I haven’t known of his death for but the last day.”
“I see. Well then, if your apprentices might help me unwrap the Geographica, we can get down to business.”
“Assistants?” said Charles. “I’m not—we’re not—sorry, Jack—his assistants—apprentices,” he sputtered. “I’m an editor for the—”
“I trust you can take it from here, correct?”
“Yes, I’m sure you are, and a fine one at that,” the little man interrupted. “But that can only mean…John, tell me, are you—were you—the professor’s only student? Were there others?”
John shook his head. “Not with the war going on. We had to prepare well in advance just to meet. I don’t think he had the time for much correspondence and private tutoring with anyone else.”
“Interesting,” said Charles. “How did you come to such an unusual arrangement?”
“Hard to say, really,” said John. “He came upon a few stories I’d written—trifles, really—and took a liking to them. He found I’d been billeted in Great Haywood after my return from France and came to see me with a proposal that he tutor me.”
The little man did not respond to this but simply nodded, watching. “It is a terrible loss for you, I’m sure,” said Charles. “I now regret even more the lost opportunity to meet him. He sounds like an extraordinary man.” “He was,” said the strange visitor. “We only came here tonight because of Charles’s membership in the club,” said Jack, “but you came specifically seeking John. How is that?” “Happenstance. Turned the wrong way and saw you enter. I can’t keep these streets in order any more. Always lose my way. But even that is providence, for if I’d found the harbor earlier, when I was supposed to, I’d never have found you.” “What’s at the harbor?” asked Charles. “My ship is anchored there. Now, we must—” “One moment,” John said. “For all we know, this could be the murderer. He knew of Professor Sigurdsson well enough to know of me, but we know nothing of him.” In response, the little man rooted around inside his thread-bare cloak for a moment before locating a crumpled note, which he proffered to John. It was, save for the person to whom it was addressed, identical to the one John had received from the professor. “I trust that will suffice as evidence?” he asked. “I arrived from my travels abroad just yesterday and
