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Authors: Felix Gilman
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he does it at six pounds a week—soon to be seven—and you may reckon for yourself what that will mean for the two of us, and how soon.
She didn’t see or hear from him for another week, though she wrote and called round. He was out at all hours. His landlord hadn’t set eyes on him since Tuesday, when Arthur had knocked on his door and pressed the rent into his hands, late, but with interest. She began to worry about him. She slept badly. On Sunday he arranged for flowers to be delivered to her office; but there was no note of explanation. She saw him by chance on Monday morning, in the street, frightfully early. Not, of course, that she’d woken early in hopes of catching him—she had errands to run, and she couldn’t sleep. He was hurrying to catch the omnibus in the rain. He’d found time to buy a new umbrella, she noticed.
He turned when she called out, blinking as if he hardly recognised her.
“A week?” he said. “Has it really been that long?” He counted off days on his fingers, in obvious surprise.
“Arthur—are you all right? You look tired. I got your postcard. Did you get my letters? Are you working for Atwood now? What on earth does he have you doing?”
“Not Atwood. A colleague of his, I suppose. Gracewell. Conspiracy, so to speak; oh, Josephine, I shouldn’t say any more.”
“Why not—is something wrong?”
“Nothing! It’s—it’s quite extraordinary. I don’t understand it fully myself. But I swore secrecy. Even from you. It’s—well, it’s rather like working for an insurance firm, or a bank, or the civil service, I suppose—nothing sinister. Only with an oath of secrecy, as if one were a freemason. But the six pounds a week is real.”
She stood as close to him as their umbrellas would allow, and studied him. He looked exhausted and hungry. He had an odd and slightly feverish air about him.
He lunged forward and kissed her, taking her quite off guard. He held her for a very long time. She felt his heart pound. Then he let her go and turned away, checking his watch.
“I’ll be late. Gracewell can’t abide lateness—he says it’s a sort of imprecision. What day is it?”
“Monday.”
“Monday!” He started counting on his fingers again, as if calculating something. “Thursday, then—a half-day. I’ll find you then. Wait, Josephine—take this!” He pressed two gold coins into her hand—then, after a moment’s thought, a half-crown for good measure. “For Mr Borel. That squares us, I think. Would you?”
He started off for the bus. Then he turned back and took her hand. “Steer clear of Atwood,” he said. “Now, don’t worry. Don’t worry; nothing’s wrong. It’s just—it’s just awfully odd.”
“What do you mean?”
“The whole thing. I don’t understand it yet. Promise me you’ll steer clear of him.”
“Of course. Wasn’t it me who told you to throw his card away? Arthur—are you in danger?”
“No. I don’t think so. It’s terribly hard to explain. I don’t have the time.”
He turned and ran.
Chapter Six
The Ordo V.V. 341 met again next month, on a balmy evening at the end of April. Mrs Sedgley’s rose-garden bloomed, birds sang, bees drifted lazily from flower to flower, and the house was packed to the rafters. Somehow Mrs Sedgley had persuaded the celebrated American spiritualist Emma Bloom, recently arrived from New York, to pay a visit—her first engagement in London—to the Ordo V.V. 341. Mrs Sedgley was inclined to believe that Mrs Bloom—of whom she was a great admirer—had recognised in her letters the spark of a kindred soul. Josephine suspected that Mrs Bloom’s secretary, confused by the flood of invitations from unlikely sounding persons and entities that had greeted her on her arrival at Claridge’s, had picked at random. In any case, the visit had attracted publicity. Guests bartered for invitations, and elderly members who’d hardly left their houses in years journeyed in from the
She didn’t see or hear from him for another week, though she wrote and called round. He was out at all hours. His landlord hadn’t set eyes on him since Tuesday, when Arthur had knocked on his door and pressed the rent into his hands, late, but with interest. She began to worry about him. She slept badly. On Sunday he arranged for flowers to be delivered to her office; but there was no note of explanation. She saw him by chance on Monday morning, in the street, frightfully early. Not, of course, that she’d woken early in hopes of catching him—she had errands to run, and she couldn’t sleep. He was hurrying to catch the omnibus in the rain. He’d found time to buy a new umbrella, she noticed.
He turned when she called out, blinking as if he hardly recognised her.
“A week?” he said. “Has it really been that long?” He counted off days on his fingers, in obvious surprise.
“Arthur—are you all right? You look tired. I got your postcard. Did you get my letters? Are you working for Atwood now? What on earth does he have you doing?”
“Not Atwood. A colleague of his, I suppose. Gracewell. Conspiracy, so to speak; oh, Josephine, I shouldn’t say any more.”
“Why not—is something wrong?”
“Nothing! It’s—it’s quite extraordinary. I don’t understand it fully myself. But I swore secrecy. Even from you. It’s—well, it’s rather like working for an insurance firm, or a bank, or the civil service, I suppose—nothing sinister. Only with an oath of secrecy, as if one were a freemason. But the six pounds a week is real.”
She stood as close to him as their umbrellas would allow, and studied him. He looked exhausted and hungry. He had an odd and slightly feverish air about him.
He lunged forward and kissed her, taking her quite off guard. He held her for a very long time. She felt his heart pound. Then he let her go and turned away, checking his watch.
“I’ll be late. Gracewell can’t abide lateness—he says it’s a sort of imprecision. What day is it?”
“Monday.”
“Monday!” He started counting on his fingers again, as if calculating something. “Thursday, then—a half-day. I’ll find you then. Wait, Josephine—take this!” He pressed two gold coins into her hand—then, after a moment’s thought, a half-crown for good measure. “For Mr Borel. That squares us, I think. Would you?”
He started off for the bus. Then he turned back and took her hand. “Steer clear of Atwood,” he said. “Now, don’t worry. Don’t worry; nothing’s wrong. It’s just—it’s just awfully odd.”
“What do you mean?”
“The whole thing. I don’t understand it yet. Promise me you’ll steer clear of him.”
“Of course. Wasn’t it me who told you to throw his card away? Arthur—are you in danger?”
“No. I don’t think so. It’s terribly hard to explain. I don’t have the time.”
He turned and ran.
Chapter Six
The Ordo V.V. 341 met again next month, on a balmy evening at the end of April. Mrs Sedgley’s rose-garden bloomed, birds sang, bees drifted lazily from flower to flower, and the house was packed to the rafters. Somehow Mrs Sedgley had persuaded the celebrated American spiritualist Emma Bloom, recently arrived from New York, to pay a visit—her first engagement in London—to the Ordo V.V. 341. Mrs Sedgley was inclined to believe that Mrs Bloom—of whom she was a great admirer—had recognised in her letters the spark of a kindred soul. Josephine suspected that Mrs Bloom’s secretary, confused by the flood of invitations from unlikely sounding persons and entities that had greeted her on her arrival at Claridge’s, had picked at random. In any case, the visit had attracted publicity. Guests bartered for invitations, and elderly members who’d hardly left their houses in years journeyed in from the
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