Without thinking, he deployed a sleek, professional smile. “Dedlock.”
They shook hands. Skimpole’s palm was damp and sticky from his exertions and Dedlock was far from successful in masking his discomfort.
“Forgive me,” Skimpole said, taking off his coat and passing it without a glance to a hovering lackey. “I had business at the hotel.”
“Ah.” Dedlock’s eyes glittered with undisguised inquisitiveness. “Mr. Moon?”
“That’s right,” Skimpole replied stiffly.
“Sit down, old man, and tell me all about it.” His curiosity had dissipated and Dedlock sounded bluff and jolly again, like a retired colonel proposing nothing more vexatious than a post-prandial round of gin rummy.
They sat opposite one another at the round table, Dedlock busying himself rustling a sheaf of official-looking papers, Skimpole reaching for a cigar and lighter only to return them reluctantly to his pocket when he remembered that he had already enjoyed his little piece of luxury for the day.
Dedlock had the meaty look of an ageing rugby player about him, the kind of man (and the albino knew this for a fact) who had excelled at games at school — one of those heroes of the playing field who possessed in spades that particularly English composite of brutishness and impeccable manners. An unsightly scar intersected the space between his nose and left ear, a relic from some long-ago conflict. It was so vividly colored and Dedlock took such perverse pleasure in displaying it that Skimpole had long suspected him of exaggerating its ferocity with greasepaint and make-up — a touch of vanity far from uncharacteristic of the man.
“Drink?” the scarred man asked.
Skimpole hauled out his pocket watch. “It’s a little early,” he said, in a voice which clearly indicated his willingness to be persuaded.
“This may take some time. Why not indulge yourself for once?”
The albino acquiesced. “Very well.”
Dedlock snapped his fingers and one of the Chinamen stepped forward. Dressed as a butcher, his face was a strikingly lurid shade of yellow, his hair styled into glossy black pigtails and he had tied about his waist a filthy apron spattered with gristle and blood. The man bent close to Dedlock and whispered obsequiously: “Yes, sah? How may I help?” Unlike the proprietor, he had a strong, all but unintelligible accent, speaking his halting, uncertain English as though he were saying each word for the first time.
“A whisky for me,” Dedlock said. “You know the way I like it.”
“Whis-kee?” the Chinaman repeated doubtfully.
Dedlock leant across the table toward Skimpole. “You?”
Thinking it unwise to commit himself to any more complicated order, the albino asked for the same.
The Oriental screwed up his face perplexedly. “Same?”
“That’s right.”
“Velly good, sah.” The Chinaman scurried away, but Dedlock stopped him before he reached the door. “Now, now, what do we ask?” he chided, as though he were addressing a small child still being trained in the niceties of the adult world.
The man looked horribly confused before understanding flooded across his face. He giggled. “Yes, yes. Mistah Simpole want ice? Ice?”
The albino was transparently amused. “No ice, thank you.”
“Incidentally,” Dedlock said, before the man could disappear, “I think we can dispense with the accent, don’t you?” Mr. Skimpole’s not likely to be impressed.”
Embarrassed, the Chinaman stood up straight, cleared his throat and spoke at once in an English accent so plummy and rich that it could only have emerged from one of our most prestigious public schools. “Terribly sorry, sir,” he said briskly. “Had no idea. Thought I was doing rather well, as it happens.”
Skimpole sniffed disparagingly. “I’m sure you could afford to be a little less theatrical,” Mr….?”
“Benjamin Mackenzie-Cooper, sir.”
“Well, then, Mackenzie-Cooper, at present, your delivery’s pure music hall. It’s corn, frankly, and silly with it. And your make-up… florid and overstated.” The man looked disappointed and Skimpole softened. “Still. It’s a promising start.”
Mackenzie-Cooper thanked him and left the room.
“New man?” Skimpole asked.
Dedlock nodded. “Eton and Oxford. Just come down from Oriel. Promising, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I think so,” Skimpole said (though of course he didn’t).
Dedlock adopted a curt, businesslike tone. “What news of Moon?”
“He’s proving a little recalcitrant. You know he and I have… history?”
“You have history with us all.”
Skimpole bristled.
“I gather the Bagshaw woman’s left the country. Dear, dear, poor Lister will be disappointed.”
“She knew something,” Skimpole protested. “One of our best leads and we’ve lost her.”
“Another mess, then?” Dedlock tutted. “I’ve warned you before about your obsession with Moon.”
“Edward Moon was not the man who exposed her. We believe it was a member of the Vigilance Committee. You know yourself they’ve shown no compunction about framing psychics in the past.”
“This committee member — do we have a name?”
“As I understand it, the woman was in disguise. I’ve no direct evidence but I believe her to be an associate of Moon’s — possibly more.”
“A friend?”
“Perhaps.”
Mackenzie-Cooper returned with their drinks, set them discreetly down upon the table and vanished. Skimpole took a demure sip of his whisky; Dedlock swallowed half of his in the first gulp. It was the albino who spoke first.
“Moon seems to have struck up a friendship with a man called Thomas Cribb.”
“Can’t place him. Is he affiliated?”
“He appears to be an independent. I suspect their association’s rather set the cat amongst the pigeons with the Somnambulist.”
Dedlock grinned. “Oh yes? Has he spoken yet?”
The albino shook his head and Dedlock brayed a laugh — a callous sound, devoid of any genuine mirth.
“And you?” Skimpole broached the subject carefully. “Any movement?”
“The Okhrana have been busy,” Dedlock said flatly, as though he were describing nothing more thrilling than team tactics to his favorite center forward. “They’ve been getting reckless of late. Something’s got their agents excited. We suspect they’ve got wind of the conspiracy. Perhaps they have access to an Innocenti of their own.”
Skimpole drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the table. “Agents?” he said. “By which I take you to mean
“Oh, I do hope not. I’ve had enough of men making a nuisance of themselves up on the Embankment to last me a lifetime. I had to scrape the last one off the pavement myself. Little bits of him got stuck between the cobbles. Besides, it isn’t who they send we need to worry about.”
“No?”
“We know who they are. We can track their movements as soon as they enter the city. Our biggest problems are the sleepers.”
“Sleepers?”
“The Russians have seeded agents in this country, dormant for many years. I do wish you’d read the files.”
Skimpole ignored the rebuke. “Do the Okhrana know of our involvement?”
Dedlock looked away. “It seems likely.”
“How did that happen?”
Dedlock muttered something about a mistake.
“Then we may be in trouble.”
“I know,” he replied, and there was a moment’s bleak silence. A heartbeat later, Dedlock continued
