another name for you.”
“What is it?”
“Have you heard of a fellow named Stephen Carrick?”
“Son of the soap magnate?” Forbes asked. “I haven’t heard that name in ages.”
“What do you know of him?”
“He was kicked out of Oxford six or seven years ago for consorting with a fallen woman and had a row with his father, who cut him off without a cent. He’s had to make it on his own ever since. I believe he’s had a few rough starts and has moved about a lot. Is he in London?”
“He’s got a wife and runs a photographic emporium in Bethnal Green.”
“Became a tradesman, has he? I’m sure his father left him no alternative, poor chap.”
That poor chap was doing better than I, I thought. By Forbes’s standards, he had accomplished nothing, yet from mine, he had a wife and ran his own business.
Forbes gave a thin smile. “Would you care for another game?”
“Thank you, no.”
“What is wrong? You don’t care for a game where one must play by the rules?”
“Let us say I prefer games more evenly matched at the outset. You are far too clever for me.”
“I doubt that, Cyrus,” he said, giving a cool smile.
The waiter came and asked if we wanted another mocha, but Barker put his hand over the mouth of his cup.
When he was gone, Forbes resumed the conversation. “You are playing a dangerous game, Cyrus. You could get yourself killed making the wrong sort of enemy.”
“Death has no sting for me, Pollock. I am more concerned about you. How is your health?”
“About the same. My most recent physician has warned me about the dangers of absinthe and opium smoking, and then he doses me with a treacle syrup laced with laudanum. He also thinks I should take a long voyage to a warm climate. Tahiti, perhaps, or Mexico.”
“And will you?”
“Of course not. You know I cannot leave when there are important issues plaguing the nation. Stay for dinner, won’t you?”
Those were the words I had been waiting to hear. We hadn’t had a proper lunch. Forbes had invited us once before, but the Guv had turned him down, stating that Mac had dinner waiting. Now we were away from our residence, with nothing but the possibility of cold food from the hamper to look forward to. I missed Etienne’s pigeons sur canapes. Surely my employer would accept a meal from one of London’s foremost French restaurants?
“Some other time, Pollock,” Barker said. “It does not sit well with me to sup richly when somewhere Miacca is planning more deviltry. Thomas and I are sleeping rough until this fellow is caught, and only then shall we take our ease. Besides, Thomas is in training.”
Forbes read the expression on my face. “In that case, gentlemen, I wish you both good hunting.”
We left Forbes gathering up his dominoes and stepped out into the street again.
“So I take it that Forbes is some sort of high rank among the Freemasons,” I said. “Isn’t he rather young for the position?”
“He is young, but his time is precious. An exception was made in his case. Actually, he is the leader of an order within the Freemasons, which also has a long and secret history. There’s an old saying, ‘Scratch a Scot and you’ll find a Mason.’”
“Do you think the Masons in London know who Miacca is? Is there a chance they are helping him?”
“Like Her Majesty’s government, the Masons have occasionally needed to make alliances with unsavory persons or organizations.”
“Are they are shielding him, then?”
“Not necessarily, but we shouldn’t expect much aid from Scotland Yard in this inquiry lad. In fact, I think we should tread lightly. There is little within the structure of English society that the Masons don’t have a hand in, and the pyramid goes all the way to the top.”
21
I tried seven ties and three collars before I hit upon a satisfactory combination for the evening’s outing. I was out of touch with the fair sex and wanted to impress Miss Potter, who was a cut or two above me. I tied my tie with too much material on one side and then with too much on the other side, and finally got it right on the third try. I was out the door in twenty minutes, and if Miss Potter could fault the man, she could not fault his appearance.
At the Egyptian Hall, I looked about for some time before I saw her. I assumed she would be seated toward the back, where any sensible person would be at a public lecture, with the opportunity to slip out the door at the soonest possible instant, but, no. She and Miss Levy were seated near the front.
The placard announced that Vernon Lee was going to lecture on the subject of the supernatural and aesthetics. I had never heard of the fellow, but I had to congratulate him on connecting two of the most popular topics of the day. Mr. Wilde, whom I noted was in the audience, had been causing a stir in society with his own artistic discourses; while the spiritualists had been thrilling fashionable London with the claims of past lives and communication with the dead. I would sooner shoot my own foot than attend a public lecture, but this seemed slightly more tolerable than most. Then, of course, there was the company.
“Good evening, Miss Potter, Miss Levy,” I said, coming up to them. “Is this seat taken?”
They unfolded like a fan in the stalls there, first Beatrice, who looked beautiful in a blue jacket and straw boater, then Amy Levy, leaning forward and fixing me with a sardonic eye. Then Zangwill beyond, waving a long- fingered hand in my direction.
“Hello, Israel,” I said over the noise of the crowd. “What are you up to?”
“I’m keeping these two young ladies safe,” he called back. “I heard there was a masher about. I see the rumors were not unfounded.”
I sat down in the seat next to Beatrice and could not help but catch the scent of gardenia she wore. I think it is my nose that gets me in trouble most. Nothing turns my head like a fine scent.
“You came,” Miss Potter said, looking pleased.
“As you see,” I responded with a bow.
“I wasn’t certain we could expect you.”
“I am delighted to attend. I enjoyed our conversation in the zoological gardens very much.”
“I hope you don’t think badly of us for coming here on the day of the funeral. Amy is awfully keen to see Vernon Lee, and tonight is the only lecture. I’m afraid you must think us the most forward girls in London.”
“In fact, I don’t,” I told her, “but then I suppose it would be better to be thought forward than backward. At least it is progressive.”
Beatrice was going to respond, but suddenly Miss Levy seized her wrist and leaned forward. There was a faint flush in her cheeks.
“She’s arrived!” she announced.
I wondered who she meant. Just then, a tall, thin woman mounted the platform. She wore pince-nez and her hair was cut so short that she looked mannish. She was a girl, really, not much older than we. She wore a man’s collar and a black cape like a university gown. This was Vernon Lee. Miss Vernon Lee.
“So, what is she?” I asked Beatrice. “Socialist? Aesthetic? Medium?”
“All of them at once. She is Vernon.”
Miss Lee spoke for a good hour. I recall enjoying myself, but I don’t remember the substance of her speech. Perhaps it was more the company I was with. The speaker made Beatrice laugh once or twice, and I liked the sound of her laughter. It would be easy, I thought, to fall under Miss Potter’s spell.
Afterward, Miss Levy was all atwitter, having had a brief moment to speak with the Amazon herself. Israel
