Jonathan Barnes - The Somnambulist

Outside it had begun to rain heavily and before Moon had run for more than a few yards he was sodden and drenched. Ahead he could see Mrs. Erskine dashing desperately through the rain, seeking sanctuary in the murky streets and mews of Tooting Bec.

The action of the chase took no more than five or six minutes but it seemed to both of them to last for hours. As the rain pelted down in unforgiving sheets, Moon could see no more than a few yards in front of him, but dashed on regardless, pushing past umbrellaed pedestrians, pursuing Erskine by sheer instinct, a tracker dog after a scent.

He finally cornered her in an alley. Like weary boxers after the final bell, they stood panting and embarrassed at his anticlimactic finish to their flight. Mrs. Erskine’s make-up had been all but obliterated by the rain — dye, powder and greasepaint streaked down her face, its thick lines of color lending her the appearance of a clown caught in a thunderstorm. From behind the remnants of Mrs. Erskine a much younger woman peered out — in her early thirties, not quite pretty (she had too large a nose for that), but the hint of a pulchritudinous figure was apparent in the sopping, clinging silhouette of the old lady’s clothes.

Moon stared, his suspicions confirmed, and caught somewhere between shock and elation, he felt violently sick. “It is you!” he cried. “Oh my dear. You’ve come back to me.” He sank to his knees. “Oh my darling. Oh my angel.”

She looked down, her eyes cold and devoid of pity. “You’re embarrassing yourself,” she said. “Get up, Edward.”

Mr. Skimpole had spent much of his life trying to be good. Naturally he’d had his lapses and temptations, as a younger man in particular, but nowadays he strove for a pure and virtuous existence, a life of temperance, decency and moderation, free from sybaritism and excess. But he allowed himself a single luxury — once a day, every day, he smoked a cigar. Of course, there was nothing ordinary about his vice; these cigars belonged to an exclusive brand beloved of the connoisseur, imported at great expense from an obscure region of Turkey and sold only to a select few customers through a deliriously overpriced shop in the center of the city.

Skimpole took out his cigar and rubbed it beneath his nose, making a great show of smelling it. He had never entirely understood the necessity of this olfactory ritual but he always did it anyway, going through the motions for the benefit of any cigar experts who might coincidentally be watching. He pushed the thick brown tube gently into his mouth, felt it slide smoothly between his teeth and let out a small sigh of pleasure.

Moon and the Somnambulist sat opposite him at the edge of the bar observing his performance, their expressions pitched somewhere between amusement and distaste.

“Forgive me,” the albino murmured. “A small failing.” He savored the sensation of the smoke as it coiled its way down his throat, the rich, dry scent of it sinking deeper into his body, and he shuddered a little with joy. “The Innocenti problem. My sources suggest that she and her husband left the country two days ago, just after you caused that fracas in her parlor. We think they were bound for New York but I’m rather afraid we’ve lost them.”

“It was not my doing,” Moon said tightly. “She was exposed before I could act.”

Skimpole dabbed self-consciously at the corners of his eyes. “I gather there was some involvement from the Vigilance Committee.”

“Correct.”

“What’s your opinion? Do you think her warnings were real?”

“I ought not to. I should be able to dismiss her as a charlatan and a fraud. But there are questions. The things I saw… The Fly…”

“I consider myself a man open to the improbable,” Skimpole went on. “I don’t see how Bagshaw could have obtained the information she did without some kind of — how shall we say? — some supernatural advantage. Some etheric help.”

“I agree.”

Skimpole snorted. “I should say that the Vigilance Committee have a reputation. I’ve heard it suggested that if they can’t uncover their evidence by conventional means, they’re more than happy to fabricate it. Just last year they planted sheets of muslin on a psychic we believe was capable of producing genuine ectoplasm.”

“The veracity of the woman’s exposure is not in question,” said Moon. “But her warnings… bother me.”

Skimpole shifted uncomfortably in his chair and sucked on what was left of his cigar, teasing out those final precious few drags.

“She told me I was being used,” Moon continued. “Said something about a sleeper. Danger underground. In point of fact, Mr. Skimpole, she told me that you were just a pawn.”

The albino finished the last of his cigar and left the butt to smolder in the ashtray before him. “I know my place.”

“Something worries me.”

“Madame Innocenti?”

“There’s a connection we’re missing.”

“What do you intend to do? You should know that whatever you decide, you have the Directorate’s full support.” He smirked. “We’re not an agency entirely devoid of influence.”

“I need to see Barabbas again. He knows something, I’m sure of it.”

“That can be arranged.” Skimpole rose. “But move fast. We’re running out of time. If Madame Innocenti was right, we’ve only four days before whatever it is happens. Incidentally, you may like to know I’ve authorized the first payment to your account.” At this, he mentioned a remarkably generous sum — even today, all but the most highly rewarded of public servants would not baulk at so substantial a fee. “Naturally, your stay here and all related expenses are being paid for by my department. You may divide the money with your associate as you see fit.”

“Money?” Moon said contemptuously. “You think I’m doing this for money?”

Skimpole stared blankly at him, faintly offended. “No need to be uncivilized about it. If you must, think of the money as a bonus. A gift from a grateful government.”

Moon did not reply.

“Work fast. And keep me informed. I’m watching.” Skimpole gave a formal bow and left the room. The Somnambulist pulled a childish face behind his back.

Moon walked across the room to where a young woman sat alone, a glass of red wine half-drunk before her. The Somnambulist watched, unable to hide his surprise as his friend paused before the lady in question, exchanged some polite words with her, smiled, motioned her to her feet and brought her back across the room. When the stranger drew closer, he realized that he recognized her as Mrs. Erskine, agent of the Vigilance Committee — but made young, stripped of her disguise and dressed in clothes suited to a lady of elegance and youth.

“This is my friend, the Somnambulist,” Moon said, and his pretty companion curtseyed in greeting. Moon grinned. “I don’t believe,” he said, his hand reaching for the lady’s, “that you’ve met my sister.”

Skimpole left the hotel at a brisk, pedantic trot. Already late for an important meeting, he chose not to hail a cab but hurried through the city’s streets, half running along her crowded walkways and thoroughfares, darting in and out of shoals of pedestrians, pushing his way amongst swarms of indigenous urbanites. One might most naturally expect a government employee to head toward Whitehall or Westminster, but Skimpole turned toward the East End, careful at all times to ensure he was not followed, and headed instead for Limehouse and the Directorate.

SISTER

The Somnambulist scrawled hastily on the blackboard, then rubbed out the word and wrote again, even larger, bolder letters:

SISTER