I gave my hat, coat, and cane to the doorman and left the name Mr. Foxford Robins with him to ensure Cavell could enter unmolested. Maybe it was wishful thinking and against my better judgment, but I also reserved one of the bedrooms in case I had a little too much to drink, or required a safe place to escape to. Then I made my way to the drawing room where I would await my guest.
The drawing room was large, with lofty high ceilings decorated in ornate plasterwork relief. It was laid out with comfortable chairs to encourage relaxation and conversation. I paused inside the doorway and saw that this evening the room was occupied by around forty men—politicians, Lords, military men, clergymen, and men of industry. The atmosphere was relaxed and all were doing as they pleased. Some members sat alone with their thoughts; others read a newspaper and smoked a cigar or pipe. Two elderly members slept, their snores counterpointing other members engaging in rambunctious conversations about politics and foreign affairs.
I noted a circle of men in the far corner of the room. They appeared to be paying court to a tall willowy man whom I did not recognize. His face was striking, and as he began to speak his voice rose confidently above all other's voices in the room. His accent was American, which was unusual as our club was a distinctly British affair, and although I did not hear the full extent of his speech, from what I did catch I understood that there was some kind of spiritual aspect to his oratory.
“Gentlemen, I believe that spirit is infinite and eternal, given a home within the shell of man.” He said succinctly. “I have seen with my own eyes how the spirit leaves the vessel with the final breath. It is humbling to witness that tenuous link between the corporeal and the incorporeal—.”
The members began to offer counter-arguments but I did not listen in any further. I was disturbed by what I had heard, and so I continued into the room.
I did not want to attract the attention of any members who would begin a conversation so as I took my seat I removed my new red leather book from my jacket. I did not know why I had pocketed this book before I left the house, but I liked a puzzle and this book puzzled me. I did my best thinking while I was at my club and so I settled in a sturdy chair by the window overlooking Pall Mall.
The smog was dreadful this evening and visibility, very poor. Barely detectable carriages and omnibuses passed down The Mall with just their blazing lamps and the ghostly echoes of the gentle clip-clop of horse’s hooves as a warning. I couldn’t believe how nervous I was feeling at the thought of dining publicly with Sebastian. I placed the book on my lap and then checked my pocket watch. This evening I was wearing a lovely Henry Perry silver fob watch, made in the year 1700. It kept excellent time and when I looked at the engraved dial it read as quarter-to-seven. Cavell said he would meet me at seven o’clock. I hope he would not be late.
I pocketed the watch and opened the book, and as before, I saw the Latin Bible verse in black spidery script. As I inspected each waxy page I saw that every single one remained empty. I fingered the spine and endpapers wondering who could have sent me such an expensive item, and why? Was there something special with the paper, or the leather binding? The binding was exquisite, honed by a master craftsman. Every maker leaves their mark, and so I would ask my business contacts to see if anyone recognized the sublime craftsmanship.
I looked up at the men sitting around the drawing room minding their own affairs. I wondered if one of them had sent me this book. Was I to use it as a journal? The idea of taking pen to paper in this volume and filling it with my diary of thoughts did not appeal, not until I knew who had sent it.
“Ah, I say, Mr. Hannan, do you have a moment? I shuddered from my introspection as Diccan Faraday, grandson of the famous engineer, Michael Faraday marched toward me. It appeared that seeing me deep in thought holding a book had not put him off! He absently thrust his hand out to be shaken as he would with any other club member, and then, as if suddenly aware of whom he was addressing, he pulled his hand back and stood in a military rest stance with his hands behind his back. I had attended the Athenaeum for twenty years and all members were instructed respectfully not to touch me in any way as it would bring on an attack of my illness—which was never specified. I understood there were whispers as to my affliction but not one man was brave enough to ask me directly.
“I hear there was some to-do at the private sale of Lord Ardmillan’s effects. Do you know what occurred?”
As an auctioneer, it was clear that Mr. Faraday expected me to know the ins-and-outs of the dreadful business. Even though I was in attendance that fact was not common knowledge and I did not want it to become so. I did not want to be associated with the fiasco, and therefore, I feigned ignorance.
“Ah. Good evening Mr.
