Jonathan Barnes - The Somnambulist

Moon stared at him, in genuine admiration for the man’s effrontery. “How can you possibly claim to know all this?”

“I’ve lived it,” Cribb said simply.

Moon laughed, a little uncertainly. “Your patter’s good, I’ll give you that.”

Before Cribb was able to reply, an unwelcome figure appeared beside their table and coughed politely.

The albino, Mr. Skimpole, stood before them. He nodded in greeting. “Gentlemen.”

Moon ignored him.

“Skimpole,” Cribb said quietly.

“Have we met?” the albino asked uneasily.

Cribb waved the question aside. “You won’t remember me.”

“No.” Skimpole stared at him. “No, I don’t. Here. My card.” He passed him a blank square of cardboard which Cribb examined with obvious distaste.

Skimpole peered over his pince-nez, a glazed smile hovering about his lips, the very picture of insincerity. “So sorry to interrupt, but I must crave a brief audience.”

Moon glared at him. “Have you been following me?”

“Thank you for the tour. Most instructive.”

Cribb looked back at him with undisguised curiosity. “My pleasure.”

“What do you want?” Moon snapped.

“What I’ve been asking of you for weeks: your help. Nothing more or less. I give you my word you’ll be handsomely rewarded.”

“You already have my answer,” the detective replied, barely able to keep his anger in check.

“Please,” Skimpole pleaded. “The city is in danger.”

“So you say.”

“I’d have thought after Clapham you’d be champing at the bit. Don’t force me to use drastic measures.”

“Never,” Moon spat, his hackles rising at the pale man’s threat.

The albino heaved a melodramatic sigh. “Then I’m afraid you leave me no choice.” He bowed and sloped from the room. “We’ll meet again.”

“Unpleasant fellow,” said Cribb once he had gone, chewing on a muffin. “You’re not friends, I take it?”

Moon shook his head. “Skimpole exploits human frailty,” he explained flatly. “He feeds off petty jealousies and weakness. Believe it or not, he has the full force of King and country behind him. He works for a department in the government. It calls itself — absurdly — the Directorate.”

“You have some history with him?”

“Before I met the Somnambulist,” Moon said darkly.

“Before?” Cribb looked faintly surprised. “You seem as though you’ve been together forever.”

“Before… Years ago, I had a partner.” Moon paused. “A young man. He possessed my critical faculties to a greater degree even than I. He might easily have outstripped me. In a kinder, better world he would have. Oh, but he was so beautiful, Mr. Cribb. Strikingly, heart-stoppingly beautiful.”

Cribb sipped his coffee politely, taken aback by this unexpected outpouring of emotion.

“I shan’t go into particulars, but Skimpole found his Achilles’ heel. An unfortunate incident, a minor indiscretion, a moment’s weakness, nothing more. But the Directorate hounded him for it, blackmailed him into working for them. The dear boy followed the albino’s orders only to avert a scandal — as much for my sake as for his.” Moon closed his eyes in grief. “In the end his sacrifice cost him everything. In the course of his work for the Directorate he was…” Another pause. An embarrassed cough. “He was lost to me. So you understand why I can barely restrain myself from shooting him on sight.”

“I’m concerned as to what he meant… Something about drastic measures.”

Moon shrugged. “I’m well able to take care of myself.”

“Has the Somnambulist mentioned me to you?”

“No. Why? Should he have?”

“I might be wrong, but I thought he recognized me.”

“Recognized you?”

“Impossible, of course. I’m sure I’d remember. But I’m curious — how did the two of you meet?”

“Surely you’ve learnt all about us in the future?” Moon said sardonically. “Am I not studied in the universities of the future? Are there not statues of me in the streets?”

“You’re forgotten, I’m afraid. You’re a footnote, Edward. One of history’s also-rans.” Cribb didn’t seem to notice how hurt Moon looked at this. “But we’ve digressed. You were about to tell me of the Somnambulist.”

“I was not,” Moon retorted. “You were asking.”

“Please.”

“He came to me. I found him one night a few Christmases ago.”

“Snow on the ground?” Cribb asked. “Carol singing in Albion Square? Ragamuffins building snowmen in the street?”

“Yes, as it happens,” Moon said, surprised. “Why?”

“Just setting the scene. Go on.”

“There’s not a great deal to tell. I heard a knock at my door and found him outside, shivering in the cold.”

“Like a stray cat.”

“I prefer to think of him as a foundling. Though I’ve no idea why I’ve told you. I trust I may rely on your discretion.”

Cribb nodded.

Moon rose to his feet. “We must finish. I’ve a performance to get back for.”

Out in the street Moon flagged down a hansom. “Thank you for the conversation,” he said as the cab pulled up sharply before them. “I’m not sure who much I understood but it was certainly diverting.”

“My pleasure.”

Moon stepped into the cab and instructed the driver to hurry back to Albion Square.

“Can we meet again?” Cribb asked, as Moon was settling himself for the journey.

Moon thought for a moment. “I’d like that.”

As the cab began to pull away, Cribb seemed suddenly to remember something. “Mr. Moon! I forgot! I have to warn you! Don’t see the-”

Whatever else the man may have said was lost to the clatter and rattle of the cab’s departure, as it left the financial district behind and carried Moon gratefully toward home.

Detective Inspector Merryweather was in the audience that night, cheering and clapping with the rest of them despite the fact that he must have seen the show a dozen times before. Afterwards, in the Strangled Boy, he congratulated Moon and the Somnambulist, roaring with laughter the whole while, clasping their hands and thanking them effusively for solving the Honeyman-Dunbar murders. “It’s case closed, then?” he asked hopefully.

Moon seemed listless and out of sorts all evening. “I think not.”

“But we’ve found our man,” the policeman protested. “We’ve got him rotting in the morgue.” He turned to the Somnambulist. “Help me out here, lad. Back me up.”

The Somnambulist sat by the bar, his stool tiny beneath him, a half-drained pint of milk in one hand. He shook his head morosely and went back to his drinking.

“There’s no motive,” Moon said suddenly. “He was an itinerant fairground attraction. Why? He wasn’t killing for profit.”

Merryweather brushed these objections aside. “He was escaped from some institution or other, I shouldn’t wonder. People like that don’t need motives. You and I both know he wouldn’t be the first.”

“There’s a connection here. The Fly knew my name. He recognized me.”

Merryweather looked unconvinced. “You were tired. We were all confused. You may have misinterpreted things… Seen and heard things that didn’t happen.” Pleased with himself, the inspector gulped down the last of his beer. “Excuse me,” he said and disappeared into the recesses of the bar.

The Somnambulist tugged at Moon’s sleeve but the conjuror seemed annoyed at the interruption.

“What is it?”

WARE WERE YOU

For a moment he did not reply. Then: “With a friend.”

CRIBB

“Were you following me?”

The Somnambulist shook his head in vigorous denial.

“He thinks you recognized him, you know.”