[fic] Occult Couture; or An American in America | 3
Held back on posting this because of concerns about Kon's voice. Still not entirely sure I've got them sorted out, but I decided to go ahead and post, try and keep my momentum.
Wilson was as good as his word. The first mate, a man with the face of a gargoyle, had obviously been told to teach Kon the ropes. He didn’t have time to plan an escape or figure out how he was going to contact Drake or Bart. He barely had time to breathe.
“You know,” Kon said hauling rope, “if you keep this up, I won’t be jumping ship. I will be dead.”
“Burial at sea is hardly an inconvenience, Kid,” Dubbilex replied, unmoved. “All supplies must be restored to their proper place after usage. Your sacrifice will be remembered fondly.”
Kon snorted. “Any excuse to give the new guy more work, huh. I seem to remember hauling them out just this morning. And for what? Unless the crew played jump-rope the moment my back was turned, all that happen was that Wilson came out, declared they were rope and returned to his cabin.”
“When aboard ship you refer to him as ‘Captain.’”
“Captain Wilson. And what’s with him, by the way? Except for that highlight, he’s not been out of his cabin all day.”
“The Captain no doubt has important calculations to make regarding our course,” Dubbilex reproved. His stern expression might as well have been carved from stone. It never flickered. Coupled with the man’s repellant appearance it was easy to see why Wilson might have deputised command of the crew to him. “We will hear from him in due time.”
“And when will that be?” Kon wondered as they reached the hold where his solitary hammock hung. “When we’ve reached the open sea and there’s no hope of hailing another ship?”
Dubbilex’s frown tightened. “You’re not employed to run your mouth, Kid.”
The reaction was unexpected, Kon pausing in unloading the rope. “I’m right. The crew - they don’t know about the Aquaman business.”
“They will be well rewarded for their time,” Dubbilex said. “And Captain Wilson’s reputation is well known. I doubt that very few of the crew had no inkling that this is not an ordinary whaling voyage.”
That was definite reproof. “You can’t blame a man for not knowing how to do things on his first voyage,” Kon protested. “Not much call for whaling vessels in Kansas.” He turned to finish setting the rope down with the other thick coils. “Right then - what’s next? Something requires swabbing, I’m sure of that much.”
“Kansas?”
Part of the ship he didn’t know about? But no - for the first time, Kon saw a crack in Dubbilex’s stony visage. “My folks are farmers,” he explained awkwardly, suddenly feeling extremely self-conscious. “Sea-travel’s not exactly something we do a lot of.”
Dubbilex snorted, recovering his control. “I should think not. I’m watching you closely, Mr Kent. Remember that.”
I’m hardly likely to forget it. Alone in his hammock, Kon wrote easily. Guy keeps looming up out of nowhere to tell me to get aft or haul keel. Whatever crypt Wilson chiselled him off, he certainly knew what he was doing. The ‘Gargoyle’ as the crew calls him is probably about the only person besides Wilson himself who’d have a chance of keeping order. I guess I’m in for a busy voyage, but at least it’s not going to be dull.
He paused. He could picture Drake’s smirk (“Really, Conner, you were expecting a pleasure voyage?”) or Bart’s interest (“A real gargoyle?”). It was easier than trying to imagine their reaction to his absence. Looking down at the paper in front of him, he hesitated.
“Kid!” The door was shoved open, two of Kon’s fellow deckhands entering.
Kon swung himself over the side of the hammock to meet them. “What can I do for you?”
The first caught sight of the paper and sneered. “We’re toasting the success of the voyage amidships. Capn’s given all hands a double allowance o’ grog for the night. Of course, if you’d rather be reading a book-“
“And miss out on the grog I’ve been hearing so much about?” Kon set the letter down and stood. “Lead the way.”
“There’ll be no grounds for any mention of book-learning,” the second man warned as the first folded his arms. “And on the ship, officers excepted, you’re only as good as your harpoon arm.”
“Easy, gentlemen.” Kon held up a hand to stay their words. “I may not know stern from starboard, but I do know a port from a whiskey.”
“Oh,” the second man was amused. “Not too proud to drink with us, ey?”
“Drinking is probably the only thing on this voyage I am qualified to do,” Kon said with feeling.
His ready compliance surprised them, but the hostility generated by his perceived rank evaporated when it emerged that Kon had been taught to read by his cousin and that the Kent’s had about 100 acres and Kon with no grounds to inherit, they became a lot more welcoming, assuring Kon that the voyage would make a man of him. The grog helped. True, it was nothing to write to Drake or Bart about, but Kon, raised on Smallville Moonshine, held his own with even the more senior members of the crew, carousing well into the night. When he was eventually ordered to his hammock, he could climb into it knowing that he had acquitted himself well.
He felt significantly less pleased with himself the following morning, but given the majority of the crew were similarly hungover, this only helped Kon's on board standing. One of the two men who had been so hostile the night before, had even clapped him on the back and congratulated him on making it out of his berth. “More than we can say for the cook,” he confided. “Not that I expect you’ll be thinking of food.”
“Ha.” Kon was trying very hard not to think of food.
Luckily even the stony Dubbilex had seemed to take pity on him and that morning’s chores were all above deck, where the crisp sea breeze helped Kon clear his head. The loss of breakfast might have gone unmourned but by mid-afternoon, he was starting to think he might be able to go for something to eat.
He wasn’t alone in that.
“Still nothing? And here the First Mate was telling me what a tight ship we run here.”
“Skipper’s not wrong. Cap’n won’t be best pleased with this,” the sailor agreed with a hint of trepidation. “I should not like to be the cook today.”
That trepidation had spread to the rest of the crew. Even as growling stomachs grew more uncomfortable, no one ventured a complaint. Every time the door to the officer’s quarters opened, the men flinched, relaxing at the sight of the ship’s navigator or Dubbilex’s set expression.
And if they were relaxing at the sight of that face, things had to be dire indeed, Kon decided.
Finally the dreaded moment arrived. All hands were called on deck and the sotted cook dragged out of the galley. Unbeknownst to the officers, the cook had decided to treat his hangover with the remainder of the grog, and was clearly in no fit state to cook, let alone face such a challenge as standing before Wilson’s contemptuous gaze.
“I did not expect to have to make an example so early into the voyage,” the Captain said coolly. “But I am left with little choice. Put him in irons and stow him in the brig until he’s sober enough to appreciate his situation. In the meantime, what’s his assistant been doing?”
“I had a word with him to prepare something for the crew,” Dubbilex reported. “But that was an hour ago.”
“Is that so.” Wilson’s single eye fell on Kon. “Kent. See what’s keeping him. Mess isn’t served in an hour it’ll be you that answers for it.”
A strategy designed to make him the crew’s whipping boy? Or was Wilson hoping that Kon’s lack of nautical knowledge was made up for in other areas? It was hard to tell, though as Kon made his way through the cramped mess to the door of the galley, he rather suspected the former. He certainly was not feeling very lucky.
This feeling was only increased by the greeting that he received upon entering the galley. Kon yelped, flattening himself against the door.
“I surrender!”
The kitchen assistant considered him. He was young, oriental in appearance and dress, black hair gathered in a tight bun at the base of his neck and mouth full and sullen. He raised an eyebrow at Kon’s declaration, the second knife poised and ready to throw.
Breathe, Kon reminded himself. “Kent. New recruit. General deck hand, whipping boy and now assistant to the Cook’s assistant. First mate sent me to see if you needed a hand.”
The Assistant didn’t speak but after a moment of thought nodded and with a fluid motion planted himself in front of Kon and tugged the knife just centimetres shy of Kon’s ear from the thick wood of the galley.
About to breathe out in relief, Kon noticed that the wood of the doorframe was covered in dozens of such nicks. “Do this often?” He flinched as the knife was brandished at him, edging his way towards the pot bubbling away in the centre of the room. “Just making small talk. I’ll take a look at lunch, see how you’re getting on.”
The Assistant didn’t speak but was very expressive all the same. A shrug indicated that Kon could do as he liked, the man more interested in the state of his throwing knife.
It was hard to look away from the sharpened edge of that knife, but Kon forced himself to consider the pot and its contents. They were not cheering.
“This is not soup. This is not remotely soup. I didn’t think it was possible not to make soup - have you ever even eaten soup?”
The flat, unimpressed stare of the Assistant was not reassuring, particularly as he’d taken to sharpening the knife he’d already thrown at Kon once, but Kon didn’t mind, using a ladle to fish out the vegetables from their watery grave.
“For one thing, you need a stock. For another - you got to chop the contents up first. Look at this turnip.” The offending vegetable was brandished at the Assistant. “How do you expect the men to eat this with a spoon? I tell you what, it is really lucky for you that I chose to blindly sign up on this ship, or you could be joining the Cook down the brig.” Vegetables removed, Kon gingerly tested the remaining liquid. “This could be a decent stock, when it’s reduced down,” he conceded. “Turn up the heat, let it boil down. Any herbs we can add to it?”
Herbs were produced as well as rock hard ship’s biscuits that Kon predicted would soften when dunked in the soup. “All we got to do know is cut up the vegetables into edible pieces and let it cook down,” he decided, satisfied that the soup could yet be saved. “I’ll need a knife-“
He had just time to regret that before the blade thudded into wood just inches from his hand. Kon swallowed.
“The reason the Cook was drinking,” he said. “That was you, right?”
Unbelievably, luncheon was a success. Kent and the absent assistant were congratulated roundly by the crew and even the frosty Dubbilex conceded that they’d outdone expectations.
“We’re neither of us in the brig tonight,” Kon reported to his silent company as he returned with the soup pot. “And we got enough leftovers here that we can start a stew for tonight. Best to try and use the beef in the hold first, save the salt pork until we’re out of other options.”
Perched on the back of one of the two chairs, the Assistant turned his sharp, hazel eyes on Kon. “We?” he said with a deliberate precision that was interesting and a tone that was - rather more mellow than Kon had been expecting.
“We got promoted. You’re the new Cook, will be the remainder of the voyage, and I’m your Assistant when I’m not helping on the deck.” Kon set the soup pot down. “The Old Cook’s being put ashore the next port we stop at.”
The Assistant took his promotion with equamity. “Kent?”
“That’s right.” Kon held out his hand. “Conner Kent. How do you do?”
He wasn’t sure what urge had prompted the gesture - knife wielding maniacs didn’t generally shake hands - but as he hesitated, awkwardly, hand out-reached, the Assistant took it. His grip had the suggestion of strength and his fingers were calloused.
“Call me Cass.”
“Cass,” Kon said with relief, letting go of the handshake. He had been expecting something altogether more unpronounceable. Somehow, he felt like they’d left the most dangerous waters. “That short for anything?”
“Cassandra.”
About to assess the herbs on the shelves, Kon paused. “That is - generally speaking a girl’s name,” he said very carefully.
Cass looked up at him calmly. The knife glittered in her lap. Kon hadn’t even heard her draw it, and his hearing was usually keen.
“Nice name.” Kon returned to his hunt for bay leaves.
--oOo-
“Anything?”
Drake waited until their cab was in traffic before replying. “As a matter of fact, I did find something.” He held out the piece of folded paper to Bart. “Telegram sent yesterday evening from the docks.”
Bart frowned as he studied the telegram. “Definitely Kon, but - I didn’t know he had parents.”
“Adopted. According to the Director.” Drake carefully pulled off one white glove after another. Bart looked up quickly but Drake forestalled the question with a look. “As surprised as we are.”
“Yes,” said Bart, disbelief evident. “And I’m the Archbishop’s sister.”
Drake frowned. A real son might protest that. That was part of the filial bond, after all, that mark of respect for father from son. He respected Bruce as he respected no other man …
And yet rather than contradict Bart, he simply said, “Read it out loud. I want to hear it.” Contradicting would mean explaining, and Drake - Drake wasn’t yet ready to explain.
Bart looked at him curiously, well acquainted with Drake’s excellent recall, but complied. “Ma, Pa, it happened again, stop. Coming home, stop. Conner, stop.”
“Happened again-“
“That doesn’t sound like tornadoes.”
“No,” Drake agreed. “It does not. The two of you were closer. He never-“
“Not once.”
“Hum.” They were back to treading previously covered ground. “Whatever it was that happened had to have happened the morning we were in Brighton and was serious enough to prompt Conner’s prompt return.”
“But there was nothing!”
“Nothing obvious,” Drake corrected him. “There were five incidents in the paper and two without that could have been cover-ups. The anarchist attack on the Harley Street doctor, for example. Hamilton is not know for extreme views. It would be very easy for a bomb to be thrown in a sitting room window and the letter by a secret society claiming responsibility easily forged or invented.”
“Sometimes I forget how your mind works,” Bart said slowly. “It’s like a magician act. You think you’re looking at a single ring and then there’s five of them and handkerchiefs.”
His intellect had not previously been compared to a conjuring trick. Drake was conscious of feeling rather nonplussed. “Not all of us have your instinct, you know. We make up for it in other ways.”
“Paranoid delusional ways.”
“Which one of us wanted to get out of bed at 5 am to search the house for errant pixies?”
“It was just as probable as your anarchists.”
“I didn’t say they were real hypothetical anarchists.”
“I didn’t say they were real errant pixies.”
Wilson was as good as his word. The first mate, a man with the face of a gargoyle, had obviously been told to teach Kon the ropes. He didn’t have time to plan an escape or figure out how he was going to contact Drake or Bart. He barely had time to breathe.
“You know,” Kon said hauling rope, “if you keep this up, I won’t be jumping ship. I will be dead.”
“Burial at sea is hardly an inconvenience, Kid,” Dubbilex replied, unmoved. “All supplies must be restored to their proper place after usage. Your sacrifice will be remembered fondly.”
Kon snorted. “Any excuse to give the new guy more work, huh. I seem to remember hauling them out just this morning. And for what? Unless the crew played jump-rope the moment my back was turned, all that happen was that Wilson came out, declared they were rope and returned to his cabin.”
“When aboard ship you refer to him as ‘Captain.’”
“Captain Wilson. And what’s with him, by the way? Except for that highlight, he’s not been out of his cabin all day.”
“The Captain no doubt has important calculations to make regarding our course,” Dubbilex reproved. His stern expression might as well have been carved from stone. It never flickered. Coupled with the man’s repellant appearance it was easy to see why Wilson might have deputised command of the crew to him. “We will hear from him in due time.”
“And when will that be?” Kon wondered as they reached the hold where his solitary hammock hung. “When we’ve reached the open sea and there’s no hope of hailing another ship?”
Dubbilex’s frown tightened. “You’re not employed to run your mouth, Kid.”
The reaction was unexpected, Kon pausing in unloading the rope. “I’m right. The crew - they don’t know about the Aquaman business.”
“They will be well rewarded for their time,” Dubbilex said. “And Captain Wilson’s reputation is well known. I doubt that very few of the crew had no inkling that this is not an ordinary whaling voyage.”
That was definite reproof. “You can’t blame a man for not knowing how to do things on his first voyage,” Kon protested. “Not much call for whaling vessels in Kansas.” He turned to finish setting the rope down with the other thick coils. “Right then - what’s next? Something requires swabbing, I’m sure of that much.”
“Kansas?”
Part of the ship he didn’t know about? But no - for the first time, Kon saw a crack in Dubbilex’s stony visage. “My folks are farmers,” he explained awkwardly, suddenly feeling extremely self-conscious. “Sea-travel’s not exactly something we do a lot of.”
Dubbilex snorted, recovering his control. “I should think not. I’m watching you closely, Mr Kent. Remember that.”
I’m hardly likely to forget it. Alone in his hammock, Kon wrote easily. Guy keeps looming up out of nowhere to tell me to get aft or haul keel. Whatever crypt Wilson chiselled him off, he certainly knew what he was doing. The ‘Gargoyle’ as the crew calls him is probably about the only person besides Wilson himself who’d have a chance of keeping order. I guess I’m in for a busy voyage, but at least it’s not going to be dull.
He paused. He could picture Drake’s smirk (“Really, Conner, you were expecting a pleasure voyage?”) or Bart’s interest (“A real gargoyle?”). It was easier than trying to imagine their reaction to his absence. Looking down at the paper in front of him, he hesitated.
“Kid!” The door was shoved open, two of Kon’s fellow deckhands entering.
Kon swung himself over the side of the hammock to meet them. “What can I do for you?”
The first caught sight of the paper and sneered. “We’re toasting the success of the voyage amidships. Capn’s given all hands a double allowance o’ grog for the night. Of course, if you’d rather be reading a book-“
“And miss out on the grog I’ve been hearing so much about?” Kon set the letter down and stood. “Lead the way.”
“There’ll be no grounds for any mention of book-learning,” the second man warned as the first folded his arms. “And on the ship, officers excepted, you’re only as good as your harpoon arm.”
“Easy, gentlemen.” Kon held up a hand to stay their words. “I may not know stern from starboard, but I do know a port from a whiskey.”
“Oh,” the second man was amused. “Not too proud to drink with us, ey?”
“Drinking is probably the only thing on this voyage I am qualified to do,” Kon said with feeling.
His ready compliance surprised them, but the hostility generated by his perceived rank evaporated when it emerged that Kon had been taught to read by his cousin and that the Kent’s had about 100 acres and Kon with no grounds to inherit, they became a lot more welcoming, assuring Kon that the voyage would make a man of him. The grog helped. True, it was nothing to write to Drake or Bart about, but Kon, raised on Smallville Moonshine, held his own with even the more senior members of the crew, carousing well into the night. When he was eventually ordered to his hammock, he could climb into it knowing that he had acquitted himself well.
He felt significantly less pleased with himself the following morning, but given the majority of the crew were similarly hungover, this only helped Kon's on board standing. One of the two men who had been so hostile the night before, had even clapped him on the back and congratulated him on making it out of his berth. “More than we can say for the cook,” he confided. “Not that I expect you’ll be thinking of food.”
“Ha.” Kon was trying very hard not to think of food.
Luckily even the stony Dubbilex had seemed to take pity on him and that morning’s chores were all above deck, where the crisp sea breeze helped Kon clear his head. The loss of breakfast might have gone unmourned but by mid-afternoon, he was starting to think he might be able to go for something to eat.
He wasn’t alone in that.
“Still nothing? And here the First Mate was telling me what a tight ship we run here.”
“Skipper’s not wrong. Cap’n won’t be best pleased with this,” the sailor agreed with a hint of trepidation. “I should not like to be the cook today.”
That trepidation had spread to the rest of the crew. Even as growling stomachs grew more uncomfortable, no one ventured a complaint. Every time the door to the officer’s quarters opened, the men flinched, relaxing at the sight of the ship’s navigator or Dubbilex’s set expression.
And if they were relaxing at the sight of that face, things had to be dire indeed, Kon decided.
Finally the dreaded moment arrived. All hands were called on deck and the sotted cook dragged out of the galley. Unbeknownst to the officers, the cook had decided to treat his hangover with the remainder of the grog, and was clearly in no fit state to cook, let alone face such a challenge as standing before Wilson’s contemptuous gaze.
“I did not expect to have to make an example so early into the voyage,” the Captain said coolly. “But I am left with little choice. Put him in irons and stow him in the brig until he’s sober enough to appreciate his situation. In the meantime, what’s his assistant been doing?”
“I had a word with him to prepare something for the crew,” Dubbilex reported. “But that was an hour ago.”
“Is that so.” Wilson’s single eye fell on Kon. “Kent. See what’s keeping him. Mess isn’t served in an hour it’ll be you that answers for it.”
A strategy designed to make him the crew’s whipping boy? Or was Wilson hoping that Kon’s lack of nautical knowledge was made up for in other areas? It was hard to tell, though as Kon made his way through the cramped mess to the door of the galley, he rather suspected the former. He certainly was not feeling very lucky.
This feeling was only increased by the greeting that he received upon entering the galley. Kon yelped, flattening himself against the door.
“I surrender!”
The kitchen assistant considered him. He was young, oriental in appearance and dress, black hair gathered in a tight bun at the base of his neck and mouth full and sullen. He raised an eyebrow at Kon’s declaration, the second knife poised and ready to throw.
Breathe, Kon reminded himself. “Kent. New recruit. General deck hand, whipping boy and now assistant to the Cook’s assistant. First mate sent me to see if you needed a hand.”
The Assistant didn’t speak but after a moment of thought nodded and with a fluid motion planted himself in front of Kon and tugged the knife just centimetres shy of Kon’s ear from the thick wood of the galley.
About to breathe out in relief, Kon noticed that the wood of the doorframe was covered in dozens of such nicks. “Do this often?” He flinched as the knife was brandished at him, edging his way towards the pot bubbling away in the centre of the room. “Just making small talk. I’ll take a look at lunch, see how you’re getting on.”
The Assistant didn’t speak but was very expressive all the same. A shrug indicated that Kon could do as he liked, the man more interested in the state of his throwing knife.
It was hard to look away from the sharpened edge of that knife, but Kon forced himself to consider the pot and its contents. They were not cheering.
“This is not soup. This is not remotely soup. I didn’t think it was possible not to make soup - have you ever even eaten soup?”
The flat, unimpressed stare of the Assistant was not reassuring, particularly as he’d taken to sharpening the knife he’d already thrown at Kon once, but Kon didn’t mind, using a ladle to fish out the vegetables from their watery grave.
“For one thing, you need a stock. For another - you got to chop the contents up first. Look at this turnip.” The offending vegetable was brandished at the Assistant. “How do you expect the men to eat this with a spoon? I tell you what, it is really lucky for you that I chose to blindly sign up on this ship, or you could be joining the Cook down the brig.” Vegetables removed, Kon gingerly tested the remaining liquid. “This could be a decent stock, when it’s reduced down,” he conceded. “Turn up the heat, let it boil down. Any herbs we can add to it?”
Herbs were produced as well as rock hard ship’s biscuits that Kon predicted would soften when dunked in the soup. “All we got to do know is cut up the vegetables into edible pieces and let it cook down,” he decided, satisfied that the soup could yet be saved. “I’ll need a knife-“
He had just time to regret that before the blade thudded into wood just inches from his hand. Kon swallowed.
“The reason the Cook was drinking,” he said. “That was you, right?”
Unbelievably, luncheon was a success. Kent and the absent assistant were congratulated roundly by the crew and even the frosty Dubbilex conceded that they’d outdone expectations.
“We’re neither of us in the brig tonight,” Kon reported to his silent company as he returned with the soup pot. “And we got enough leftovers here that we can start a stew for tonight. Best to try and use the beef in the hold first, save the salt pork until we’re out of other options.”
Perched on the back of one of the two chairs, the Assistant turned his sharp, hazel eyes on Kon. “We?” he said with a deliberate precision that was interesting and a tone that was - rather more mellow than Kon had been expecting.
“We got promoted. You’re the new Cook, will be the remainder of the voyage, and I’m your Assistant when I’m not helping on the deck.” Kon set the soup pot down. “The Old Cook’s being put ashore the next port we stop at.”
The Assistant took his promotion with equamity. “Kent?”
“That’s right.” Kon held out his hand. “Conner Kent. How do you do?”
He wasn’t sure what urge had prompted the gesture - knife wielding maniacs didn’t generally shake hands - but as he hesitated, awkwardly, hand out-reached, the Assistant took it. His grip had the suggestion of strength and his fingers were calloused.
“Call me Cass.”
“Cass,” Kon said with relief, letting go of the handshake. He had been expecting something altogether more unpronounceable. Somehow, he felt like they’d left the most dangerous waters. “That short for anything?”
“Cassandra.”
About to assess the herbs on the shelves, Kon paused. “That is - generally speaking a girl’s name,” he said very carefully.
Cass looked up at him calmly. The knife glittered in her lap. Kon hadn’t even heard her draw it, and his hearing was usually keen.
“Nice name.” Kon returned to his hunt for bay leaves.
--oOo-
“Anything?”
Drake waited until their cab was in traffic before replying. “As a matter of fact, I did find something.” He held out the piece of folded paper to Bart. “Telegram sent yesterday evening from the docks.”
Bart frowned as he studied the telegram. “Definitely Kon, but - I didn’t know he had parents.”
“Adopted. According to the Director.” Drake carefully pulled off one white glove after another. Bart looked up quickly but Drake forestalled the question with a look. “As surprised as we are.”
“Yes,” said Bart, disbelief evident. “And I’m the Archbishop’s sister.”
Drake frowned. A real son might protest that. That was part of the filial bond, after all, that mark of respect for father from son. He respected Bruce as he respected no other man …
And yet rather than contradict Bart, he simply said, “Read it out loud. I want to hear it.” Contradicting would mean explaining, and Drake - Drake wasn’t yet ready to explain.
Bart looked at him curiously, well acquainted with Drake’s excellent recall, but complied. “Ma, Pa, it happened again, stop. Coming home, stop. Conner, stop.”
“Happened again-“
“That doesn’t sound like tornadoes.”
“No,” Drake agreed. “It does not. The two of you were closer. He never-“
“Not once.”
“Hum.” They were back to treading previously covered ground. “Whatever it was that happened had to have happened the morning we were in Brighton and was serious enough to prompt Conner’s prompt return.”
“But there was nothing!”
“Nothing obvious,” Drake corrected him. “There were five incidents in the paper and two without that could have been cover-ups. The anarchist attack on the Harley Street doctor, for example. Hamilton is not know for extreme views. It would be very easy for a bomb to be thrown in a sitting room window and the letter by a secret society claiming responsibility easily forged or invented.”
“Sometimes I forget how your mind works,” Bart said slowly. “It’s like a magician act. You think you’re looking at a single ring and then there’s five of them and handkerchiefs.”
His intellect had not previously been compared to a conjuring trick. Drake was conscious of feeling rather nonplussed. “Not all of us have your instinct, you know. We make up for it in other ways.”
“Paranoid delusional ways.”
“Which one of us wanted to get out of bed at 5 am to search the house for errant pixies?”
“It was just as probable as your anarchists.”
“I didn’t say they were real hypothetical anarchists.”
“I didn’t say they were real errant pixies.”