Read Online Who Thinks Evil: A Professor Moriarty Novel (Professor Moriarty Novels) by Michael Kurland - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael Kurland
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mean, he has an interest in the place. Only he don’t consider it seemly, or some such, for a peer to be a publican, so we don’t talk it about.”
“That explains it, then,” Barnett said.
“Besides,” Esterman added, “he had to, didn’t he? It was only right.”
Barnett leaned across the bar. “Did he, then? Why was that?”
Esterman drained his glass, blinked twice, smiled across the bar at his guests, and slowly leaned forward until he was resting on his nose. His eyes closed.
Barnett rapped on the bar. “Mr. Esterman!” he said sharply. “Landlord!”
Esterman turned his face until it was resting on his right ear. His eyes remained closed.
“P’raps we should let the man sleep,” the mummer suggested. “P’raps he’s told us enough if we parse it properly.”
“Perhaps,” Barnett agreed. “Perhaps I’ll go upstairs.”
“I’ll do a bit of scouting whilst our landlord slumbers,” the mummer said. “No telling what I might turn up.”
[CHAPTER SIX]
THE SPANISH HOUSE
Who has known all the evil before us,
Or the tyrannous secrets of time?
Though we match not the dead men that bore us
At a song, at a kiss, at a crime—
Though the heathen outface and outlive us,
And our lives and our longings are twain—
Ah, forgive us our virtues, forgive us,
Our Lady of Pain.
—ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE
THE WALLED ESTATE ON THE SOUTHWEST CORNER of Regency Square extended for forty feet along the square and twice that when it turned down Regency Street on one side and Little Horneby Mews on the other. A twelve-foot-high redbrick wall surrounded it, fronted by a thick blackthorn hedge first planted the year Nelson and his ships visited Egypt. If one stood far enough back from the wall, one could glimpse the top floor of the Georgian mansion within. Once the residence of the now-defunct Barons Wysland, it was set well inside the wall and surrounded by an impeccably groomed lawn with a gardener’s cottage, gazebos, and a small frog pond. At the moment there were no frogs in residence. The wide doors of a carriage house opened onto the mews.
The property was presently tenanted by a secretive society known by those permitted such knowledge as Le Château d’Espagne, although it had no particular connection with either France or Spain. Its membership, which comprised L’Ordre du Château, was carefully self-chosen, each member free to suggest candidates, who would then be accepted or not according to the whim of the chatelain, master of the order, who was seldom seen and never spoken to directly. The name he was known by, Giles Paternoster, was certainly not the one he was born with. The stories told of him were grotesque and spoke of unnatural vices, but perhaps they were exaggerations, clever fictions crafted to be good for business. Or perhaps not.
Natyana, the dark-haired mistress of the house, her long fingernails bright scarlet but for the one ebon nail on the ring finger of her right hand, was part German, part Levantine, and part someone her mother never talked about. Most of the staff looked to be Egyptian or Moroccan, and the boys and girls who serviced the guests had been recruited from Paris, Rome, Belgrade, Vienna, and half a dozen other European cities. They were little different from the slum children of London except for their native tongue, but they quickly picked up enough English to serve, and their accents made them seem exotic. They were sent back whence they had come on or about their fifteenth birthday, when their services were no longer desired.
The members and their guests arrived in carriages or chaises with the family crests or other devices on the doors discreetly covered over. Some of the more cautious were picked up at a place of their choosing by an unmarked black four-wheeler driven by a small, thin man with a long, twisted nose and piercing black eyes set well back in his skull-like face. His top hat, cape, trousers, gloves, and boots were black, and his
“That explains it, then,” Barnett said.
“Besides,” Esterman added, “he had to, didn’t he? It was only right.”
Barnett leaned across the bar. “Did he, then? Why was that?”
Esterman drained his glass, blinked twice, smiled across the bar at his guests, and slowly leaned forward until he was resting on his nose. His eyes closed.
Barnett rapped on the bar. “Mr. Esterman!” he said sharply. “Landlord!”
Esterman turned his face until it was resting on his right ear. His eyes remained closed.
“P’raps we should let the man sleep,” the mummer suggested. “P’raps he’s told us enough if we parse it properly.”
“Perhaps,” Barnett agreed. “Perhaps I’ll go upstairs.”
“I’ll do a bit of scouting whilst our landlord slumbers,” the mummer said. “No telling what I might turn up.”
[CHAPTER SIX]
THE SPANISH HOUSE
Who has known all the evil before us,
Or the tyrannous secrets of time?
Though we match not the dead men that bore us
At a song, at a kiss, at a crime—
Though the heathen outface and outlive us,
And our lives and our longings are twain—
Ah, forgive us our virtues, forgive us,
Our Lady of Pain.
—ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE
THE WALLED ESTATE ON THE SOUTHWEST CORNER of Regency Square extended for forty feet along the square and twice that when it turned down Regency Street on one side and Little Horneby Mews on the other. A twelve-foot-high redbrick wall surrounded it, fronted by a thick blackthorn hedge first planted the year Nelson and his ships visited Egypt. If one stood far enough back from the wall, one could glimpse the top floor of the Georgian mansion within. Once the residence of the now-defunct Barons Wysland, it was set well inside the wall and surrounded by an impeccably groomed lawn with a gardener’s cottage, gazebos, and a small frog pond. At the moment there were no frogs in residence. The wide doors of a carriage house opened onto the mews.
The property was presently tenanted by a secretive society known by those permitted such knowledge as Le Château d’Espagne, although it had no particular connection with either France or Spain. Its membership, which comprised L’Ordre du Château, was carefully self-chosen, each member free to suggest candidates, who would then be accepted or not according to the whim of the chatelain, master of the order, who was seldom seen and never spoken to directly. The name he was known by, Giles Paternoster, was certainly not the one he was born with. The stories told of him were grotesque and spoke of unnatural vices, but perhaps they were exaggerations, clever fictions crafted to be good for business. Or perhaps not.
Natyana, the dark-haired mistress of the house, her long fingernails bright scarlet but for the one ebon nail on the ring finger of her right hand, was part German, part Levantine, and part someone her mother never talked about. Most of the staff looked to be Egyptian or Moroccan, and the boys and girls who serviced the guests had been recruited from Paris, Rome, Belgrade, Vienna, and half a dozen other European cities. They were little different from the slum children of London except for their native tongue, but they quickly picked up enough English to serve, and their accents made them seem exotic. They were sent back whence they had come on or about their fifteenth birthday, when their services were no longer desired.
The members and their guests arrived in carriages or chaises with the family crests or other devices on the doors discreetly covered over. Some of the more cautious were picked up at a place of their choosing by an unmarked black four-wheeler driven by a small, thin man with a long, twisted nose and piercing black eyes set well back in his skull-like face. His top hat, cape, trousers, gloves, and boots were black, and his
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