Against the Brotherhood (14 page)

“If you say so,” said von Metz in total disbelief. “I would have thought that you would be more willing to defend yourself than you have shown yourself to be thus far, but it may be that I have misunderstood you.”

“Well, you haven’t. August Jeffries don’t turn his back on a real fight, but I’m damned if I’ll get killed for something I have no part in, and for nothing.” I let my indignation override my trepidation. “How do I know you don’t want me out there as a decoy, someone for those other-Lodge coves to shoot at while you do your real work? How do I keep from making another mistake about who’s after me, the next time someone tries to kill me? Tell me that, will you? Do I just ask them who they’re working for before they deliver the coup de grace? Do I offer them a sign to see if they have one to give back? And how do I know that you are going to pay me a single farthing for my services? Oh, yes, you say you will, but what happens to my wife and kids if you lope off and leave me in a pauper’s grave?”

“We would not do such a thing,” said Herr Dortmunder, as affronted as I was.

“How do I know that? Because you tell me so? Because you have a castle and armed men around you? Because of your bloody
Brotherhood?”
I made myself give a bark of laughter. “After the last few days, I don’t find it easy to believe you.”

“You are offensive, Mister Jeffries,” exclaimed Herr Dortmunder.

“But you can’t blame him,” said von Metz in a mild voice, which silenced both Herr Dortmunder and me. He went on. “I will make a deposit in any London bank you stipulate, in the amount of one hundred pounds, for your family, if that would reassure you,” he offered. “This must ease your conscience in regard to your wife and children.”

His very blandness distressed me. “Make it two hundred,” I blustered, now more certain than ever that he would not let me live through this venture; we were haggling over my blood-money.

“Done,” said von Metz with satisfaction. He rubbed his hands together and went to a bell-pull that hung beside the hearth. “We will dine, and then you will rest. Tomorrow you will continue on to Munich with Herr Dortmunder. The Scotsman is there for another two days. Herr Dortmunder will see to the disposal of his valet. The rest will be up to you. Fail us, and you will lose more than your eye.” He indicated my patch, and grinned.

I heard this out with a sinking sensation, for surely I had just heard von Metz issue my death warrant.

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF PHILIP TYERS:

At last it is arranged. M. H. leaves in two hours for the coast, traveling in a private compartment on the night train. He will arrive in France in the morning, God and the Channel willing. The Mercury train will be ready to speed him on his way to Germany. And Edmund Sutton was able to supply the necessary clothing and complements for his other personae for this journey.

Sutton is installed now as M.H., and has elected to use his hours here to learn the role of Angelo in
Measure for Measure.
He has played M.H. enough that he no longer finds the role challenging, or so he claims.

I will visit Mother this evening, and then contact her solicitor regarding the disposal of her house in Redding.

AFTER AN UNEASY
night in a drafty unadorned room with a bed like a sepulchre, a small hearth with an inadequate supply of wood, and an oil lamp with a smoking wick, I found myself grateful for the first time that my codebook had been ruined. I should not have wanted to have to try to conceal it in this place. I thought my few reconstructed notes were as noticeable as smelting ore, and kept them under my shirt the whole night long; they felt massive as boulders. I was awakened at dawn by one of the schloss guards, who told me I had forty minutes to dress, shave, break my fast, and present myself in the courtyard for departure.

Herr Dortmunder was waiting at the calash; the hood was raised and two bearskin rugs were lying on the seat. “It is supposed to rain this morning,” he explained. Those were the first and last words he addressed to me until we approached the outskirts of the old town of Freising, where the Bishop had once maintained his See. There was nothing much to the place now, the greater part of the region having directed its attention to Munich. “Do not show yourself,” Herr Dortmunder said then. “We may be observed.”

There was an old church in the town, not on the Domberg with the Cathedral, St. John’s Church, and the Benedict Church—for, being the center of the Bishopric, the place had more than the usual allotment of churches—but below. We went past it quickly, although it looked to have some interesting stained glass work, having the lines of a building of the late Gothic period. I leaned forward and craned my neck as we went by, hoping to see more of the place.

“That is Saint George’s Church. It is in disrepair,” said Herr Dortmunder, with an underlying satisfaction that caused me distress, for though I do not subscribe to the Roman Rite, I respect the history that building represented. “Sit back. Quickly.”

I did as he ordered, and just in time, for Herr Dortmunder ordered the coachman with a signal to spring the horses. I clung to the arm-strap while the carriage lurched through the muddy streets. When we had to slow down, I was pleased.

Then a shot rang out, and the fabric of the hood tore as a bullet ripped through it. The off-side horse neighed in distress and tried to rear, preparing to bolt. He flung his head up, attempting to wrench free of the reins. With vociferous and incomprehensible oaths, the coachman got the horses under control while passersby in the street ran for shelter, many of them shouting as they did. One woman all but swooned and had to be carried from the street. Other drivers strove to move their wagons and carriages aside. Children screamed and wailed.

“What the devil—?” I asked.

There was a second shot, and a third. This one struck the coachman, who roared with pain and outrage, then collapsed onto his side. There was blood on his neck-cloth and the side of his face.

“Down on the floor. At once. Cover yourself.” Herr Dortmunder shoved me hard as he scrambled onto the coachman’s box, his postilion’s spurs jangling, flinging the man aside without ceremony as he grabbed the Hungarian reins and seized the whip, and shouting to people and vehicles to clear a path for us.

“Who is shooting at us?” I demanded. “And why?” I was startled to realize the team had not bolted. “Your horses—“

“Are army-trained. Gunfire doesn’t frighten them. They will hold as long as we need.” He looked around quickly as if to assure himself no one was coming up behind us.

“Who?” I cried.

“Later!” Herr Dortmunder thundered as we rushed through the last bits of the town, hurrying beyond the limits, and racketed along the road on the bank of the Isar toward Munich. Only when we were three miles or so from the city did Herr Dortmunder rein in his weary team and let them walk, though he continued to glance over his shoulder, as if in anticipation of pursuit.

“What was that all about?” I got up from the floor of the calash, and looked condemningly at the rents in the hood. “And don’t try to fob me off with easy tales and vague comments.”

“Of course not,” said Herr Dortmunder. He had lost his hat in our precipitous escape and I noticed his face was flushed to an unhealthy degree. As he spoke, he kept up an uneasy surveillance, his eyes never fixing on any object for long. He made the horses walk out, though the off-side bay was beginning to flag and I could see he was favoring his on-side front foot. “That is why I told you not to let yourself be seen. There are many who do not want you to reach Munich. You will discover they are ruthless, the men of the Golden Lodge, to say nothing of the agents of the German and British governments who operate here in Bavaria. As a Servant of the Valley of Kings knows better than I.” He laughed once. “But they like to think themselves as patriotic gentlemen, and often lack the will to do the things that must be done. They suppose that they will smirch the honor of their countries, and are of little concern. The Golden Lodge has no such compunctions.”

“And what of your coachman? Have you no thought for him?” I did not like what that fellow’s treatment implied where I was concerned.

“He cannot speak. And if they attempt to force him to reveal his knowledge some other way, he has a vial of poison, and he will use it.” The cold confidence with which Herr Dortmunder spoke was truly frightening.

More than anything I wished now I could speak directly with Mycroft Holmes. I knew that he would be able to unravel this coil. I cleared my throat. “Well, if I’m going to be set upon by men of that sort, you had better let me send a telegram to my solicitor at once. So I can arrange to file my will with him.” I had wanted to sound disgusted and brave, but to my own ears, my words seemed hollow, petulant and frightened.

“We will arrive there shortly. When you go to the train station to send the telegram, you will have to go in disguise. Whoever is following us, they are no longer fooled by that new coat of yours. We will have to find some other costume for you.” He spat, and whipped up the pair to a trot, though the foam on their coats from the maddened rush from Freising had not yet dried. “We will be there shortly. And I will search out the Scotsman, to take care of his valet. The rest is up to you. I advise you not to fail.”

I recalled how determined von Metz had been, and the armed men who guarded him, and I began to reflect on some of the things Mycroft Holmes had shown me in the time I had been in his employ. It struck me now that the stakes here were huge, for if the treaty were compromised, much of Europe could eventually fall under the shadow of the Brotherhood: even if von Metz’s grandiose plot to thrust all Europe into war failed, the Brotherhood would have insinuated itself into the governments of a dozen countries. I shuddered to consider a Europe where the leaders were daily fed the venom of the Brotherhood, for eventually each country would be isolated one from another—and England by virtue of being an island, most of all—so that no peace could be sustained.

An hour later, I could see the city of Munich emerging from the splendid Bavarian scenery. I have rarely looked upon a place with such mixed emotions as I had at the sight of Munich that day. The setting, with the mountains rising grandly behind it, and the clouds towering above them all, made it appear like a city in a fairy tale, but there was danger there, more than I had ever supposed I would have to face, and that turned the delightful place to a sinister lie, like a trap set in a nightmare.

By the time we reached the train station, it was drizzling, and I was grateful for the bearskin rugs in the back. The day was closing in swiftly, the clouds masking the waning afternoon.

Herr Dortmunder drove us to a warehouse in Ortenburg Strasse, a dark and oppressive building dating from the fourteenth century, by the look of it. He stepped down from the box and rapped sharply in what I assumed was a coded pattern. Less than two minutes later the doors swung back and three armed men, much like the ones I had seen at the schloss, came out to lead the horses and carriage into the interior. Herr Dortmunder was standing in one of a number of narrow doorways that surrounded the central hall; the place was gloomy, and oppressive. I may have imagined that the muzzles of rifles were trained upon me, but I doubt it.

“You will have to disguise yourself. With the eyepatch that will not be easy, so we must improvise.” He signaled me to approach.

I retrieved my carpetbag from where I had shoved it during our flight, saying, “Is there somewhere I can put this?”

“We will show you eventually,” said Herr Dortmunder, his manner testy and abrupt. “You must come with me.”

In this company I was not about to dispute the matter with him. I fell into step behind him, this time making little attempt to hide my curiosity about the place. “Where are we?” I asked as we continued along the corridor to a flight of stairs leading down.

“In Munich. That is all you need to know for the moment, Mister Jeffries.” He was running out of patience with me, and I could not help but notice the tension that existed between him and the men who guarded this place.

We arrived at last in a cellar, with ancient, damp stones keeping the huge chamber perpetually dank, though I realized the chill of the place had more sinister origins than wet stones. At the far end of the large room, I saw a raised dais with what appeared to be an altar set upon it. It was too dim to make out the various accoutrements there, but I was reasonably certain they were not for rituals I knew or wanted to know.

“This is where you will remain until tomorrow. Then you will be disguised and taken to the train station,” said Herr Dortmunder, looking more like a bad impression of Beethoven than ever.

“But I thought—” I began, only to be cut off.

“The station is being watched. It is not safe to go there tonight.”

I did my best to look put-out instead of alarmed. “Who’d be watching, then?”

“The same ones who shot at us. Probably the Golden Lodge, or agents of that braggart von Bismarck.” Herr Dortmunder made a gesture I did not recognize but I clearly understood its intent. I rocked back on my heels and waited for him to say something more. “They are trying to keep us from reaching McMillian.” He nodded in an infuriatingly superior way. “It is not a bad plan. In their place I would probably do the same thing.” This grudging admission was more than he wanted to give, and he did it with ill grace.

“How can I do what you need me to do?” I asked as I followed him into the heart of the cellar. “I won’t be able to convince the Scotsman to take me on if I’m being shot at all the time.”

“True enough,” said Herr Dortmunder. “And that is why I have brought us here. So these men may go out and find the assassin and bring him here. There are some questions I want to ask him.”

The menace in that simple statement was greater than any I had heard from this dire man, and I began to fret that I should be in the hands of these men with no one to find me if my situation became desperate. How the last few days had changed me, I remarked inwardly, that I should find myself in a nest of villains whose purpose was the overthrow of everything I honored, and who were ruthless against their foes, and still not think of my situation as desperate. I noticed that there were half a dozen men approaching the altar, all wearing robes and hooded.

“Who are these people?” I asked of Herr Dortmunder in a low voice.

“They are members of the Brotherhood. They are going to perform a ritual that will aid your efforts. You must witness it, to ensure your success.” He showed me a high-backed chair. “That is for you. Do not stir from it once the ritual has begun.”

“And you?” I asked, not liking being alone in this place with those sinister figures.

“I will join the men performing the ritual.” He started away from me, but paused to reiterate his warning. “Do not move once the ritual begins, no matter what happens. It would be very ... bad for you if you do.”

Looking around at where I was, I thought it could not get much worse. I sat down, my carpetbag between my feet, and tried to find a comfortable place to sit on the chair; none seemed possible, and after five torturous minutes, I abandoned the attempt and took my place squarely on it, hoping that my bones would not ache too fiercely from what was to come. If the ritual was a long one, I might expect to be in this place for over an hour, a prospect that filled me with apprehension.

Another ten minutes passed as the hooded figures brought various items to the makeshift altar: a large basin made of brass, a small mace, a pair of braziers which smoked more than they gave off light, a dagger, a large crystal, a towel with an odd design embroidered on it, a broken staff, and a set of restraints made of chain. These last made me shudder as I caught sight of them.

Then a gong sounded from somewhere along one of the echoing corridors.

The cowled figures at once took up positions at the corners of the altar, their heads lowered as I heard chanting, distorted by constant echoes, come from three of the entrances to this huge cellar. A short while later, three processions of other habited figures made their way toward the altar, all taking pains to pass through the portals set up at the far end of the altar.

I decided the language they used must be German, but an older form of the tongue than any I knew. I recognized a few words, but not enough to be certain I understood the purpose of this ritual.