James Blaylock - The Aylesford Skull

Jack, a comparatively young man, was sometimes frivolous in his speech and actions, and rather too inclined to be whimsical and hyperbolic, but was utterly dependable. He was an aspiring writer, who had sold pieces to The Graphic and Cornhill Magazine , several of them concerning the adventures of Langdon St. Ives, which were accurate enough, but contrived to sound like fiction. St. Ives had known him and his wife Dorothy – the daughter of William Keeble – for many years. Although it couldn’t be said that he was fearless, St. Ives had never known Jack to hesitate in the face of danger. Banishing fear, St. Ives had always thought, was more remarkable than fearlessness, which was too often mere stupidity, and equally often deadly. Jack’s loyalty to St. Ives was complete. He drew up before the table now, gesturing at his companion.

“I’d like to introduce the two of you to my particular friend,” he said. “Arthur Doyle. He’s a doctor, University of Edinburgh, with a new practice in Southend. He’s also a literary man, in London to speak to his publishers. I met him today at the offices of the Temple Bar , where he managed to sell a story. I, however, did not. Doyle, meet Professor Langdon St. Ives, and his long-time friend Hasbro.”

“Very pleased to meet you both,” the man said, his Scottish accent moderate.

His illuminated smile and the evident pleasure in his eyes were genuine, St. Ives noted, and he wondered what kind of writerly swill Jack had been filling him with this afternoon – apocryphal tales of grand exploits, no doubt.

“I’ve long wanted to meet you, sir,” Doyle said to St. Ives. “We have a mutual friend at the university. You know Joseph Bell, I believe. He speaks highly of you.”

“I do indeed,” said St. Ives with happy surprise. “I had the pleasure of meeting with him a year ago, when we were in your country, in Dundee, looking into the Tay Bridge disaster. We went considerably out of our way to consult with Dr. Bell, although to no avail, despite our concurring on the issue of Thomas Bouch’s culpability. The rail bridge was indeed badly engineered, although not so badly that it collapsed without, shall we say, nefarious encouragement. Please, sit down. We’re about to take some supper, although we haven’t much time to enjoy it.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said, and the two seated themselves. Tubby had already sat down and was familiarizing himself with the ale. “I’ve heard of this Narbondo,” Doyle continued. “Highly interesting man, and I don’t doubt but what he had a hand in the Tay Bridge disaster, and has the blood of those seventy-five passengers on his hands. He was briefly at Edinburgh, you know, although long before my time. I believe that he called himself by a different name then. He was sent down for practicing vivisection. Doctor Bell brought the charges against him.”

“Is that true?” St. Ives said. “I had no idea.”

“It was kept quiet, of course – hidden from the press lest it sully the reputation of the University.”

The inn door opened just then and a newsboy entered, selling the Daily Telegraph . “Lord Moorgate cuts up rough!” the boy shouted. “Calls Gladstone a bloody anarchist!” He moved among the tables, collecting coins, and was given a bowl of plum duff by Henrietta Billson, who also paid for several copies of the paper, which she hung over a stick on the wall. The act was a kindness, it seemed to St. Ives, since the patrons who wanted the paper had already paid for it. Tubby Frobisher bought a copy as the boy headed toward the door.

“Lord Moorgate is an idiot,” Tubby announced after looking at the front page.

“Moorgate has the Queen’s ear,” Doyle said. “Gladstone is once again on the outs.”

“Aye, she’s influenced by Moorgate,” Tubby said, “but she can’t believe that Gladstone is planting infernal devices around London, for God’s sake. Moorgate hates the Irish and so hates Gladstone. To my mind it’s a crying shame that Moorgate wasn’t stabbed to death in Phoenix Park. A knife in the guts would have gone a long way toward civilizing the man.”

“I dare say,” Doyle said, looking in a wide-eyed way at Tubby.

“Tubby has the habit of speaking what’s on his mind, Doyle, as soon as the thought enters it,” Jack Owlesby said. “His thoughts are his children, you see, and he loves them all equally.”

“What Jack says is true, Mr. Doyle,” Tubby put in. “Jack, on the other hand, very often attempts to say what’s not on his mind, which generally leads to a sad confusion. One time he was bold enough to sing ‘The Highwayman’s Lament’ without ever having heard it. He filled in nine-tenths of the lyrics with ta-dum, ta-dum, ta-dum. It was such a fulsome endeavor that the audience had no need ever to hear it again, something they admitted to the last man, quite vehemently as I recall.”

“Never mind him, Doyle,” Jack said. “Certainly it’s the ale speaking, and not the man, prodigious though he might be.”

“It’s high time we got down to business, gentlemen,” St. Ives said, making an effort to hide his growing impatience.

“I hope it wasn’t forward of me,” Jack put in quickly, “but I took it upon myself to invite Doyle along on our little adventure tonight.”

“Only if it’s entirely convenient to you, sir,” Doyle said. “If you need another hand, so to speak.”

St. Ives regarded him openly and liked what he saw. The man had a forthright and honest face, and a look of great vigor about him. Still, the offer was very nearly senseless, taken all the way around, since Doyle could scarcely know what he was asking. “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Doyle. Aside from the mention of Ignacio Narbondo, did Jack reveal the nature of our business?”

“Not the details,” Jack said.

“Just so. I can tell you, Mr. Doyle – and I adjure you to remain silent on this front – that we’re working on the nether side of the law. It’s odds-on that people will be injured, perhaps killed. I’m in a desperate way, you see, sailing under a black flag. I tell you that plainly. My own safety is of little consequence to me.”

“Nor mine,” said Tubby, who picked up his blackthorn and thumped it on the floorboards. “I intend to knock these people on the head and let Satan sort them out.”

Hasbro said nothing, but his silence and the set look on his face seemed to reveal a like way of thinking.

Doyle looked from one to the other of them and nodded. “I’m with you,” he said to St. Ives. “I’ve read of your exploits in The Graphic , sir, and for a number of reasons I would be pleased to be a part of one of them. I’m a fair boxer, and I’ve made a particular study of a human being’s natural physical weaknesses. I’m unencumbered by a wife, and although it’s true that I have a new practice in Southend, business can be optimistically described as slow, and at present a locum attends to my affairs. He’ll be glad to have another few days’ salary before I return. In short, I’m my own man, and I’m quite prepared to follow you, come what may.”

“There’s spirit for you, eh!” Tubby cried, reaching for his glass. “Let’s drink to the unencumbered Mr. Doyle! We’ll beard Narbondo in his den, and be damned to him.”

“So be it,” St. Ives said, dismissing caution and raising his own glass. “Now there are five of us. I prefer an odd number. Are you armed, Jack?”

Owlesby opened his coat, revealing a marlinspike slipped into a long, narrow pocket.

“And you, Mr. Doyle? We’ll be going into the rookery, Flower and Dean Street, and it’s odds on we’ll have to fight our way out.”

“I prefer to use my fists, sir, if it comes to it.”

“More in keeping with the Oath, perhaps?”