“A surprise?”
He put a finger to his lips. “Wait and see.”
Mrs. Grossmith allowed herself to be soothed and reassured, and for a time she was even able to ignore that persistent sense of imminent catastrophe.. Arthur left to carry out his mysterious errand and she retreated back under the bedclothes to let sleep wash over her. As she dozed, she dreamt, and her dreams were restless and black.
Bad enough that dear lady should suffer nightmares at all — worse still that their vague, amorphous horror should be eclipsed upon her waking by terrors of the real world.
Arthur Barge hailed a cab and instructed the driver to take him to Piccadilly Circus. His errand had long been delayed — a reprehensible lapse in a man who had always prided himself on his professionalism and timekeeping.
Once in Piccadilly, Barge stopped the cab and stepped out onto the street. The object of his errand did not lie there, of course, but he had no wish to give the driver an exact address. He passed his fare up to the cabbie and, as he did so, turned his face away. It wouldn’t do for the man to be able to identify him later.
He stepped away from the cab, waited until it had driven out of sight, then set off toward St. James’s Park. It was early morning, just light, and the streets were largely empty, save for those unfortunates who spent their evenings crumpled in the doorways and gutters of our metropolis. Barge strode past them all without a second glance — understandable enough, given the ubiquity of such sights, but it’s worth noting, perhaps, that these things would never occur in a Pantisocratic state.
Barge reached the borders of St. James’s Park, headed down a narrow avenue just off Pall Mall and paused before a modest house situated halfway along the street. The plaque hanging by the doorbell read:
THE SURVIVORS’ CLUB
STRICTLY MEMBERS ONLY
Needless to say, Barge was not a member.
He pulled a spindly metal tool from his jacket pocket, a thin, delicate thing bristling with sharp, serrated edges. With the stealthy ease of a man who has performed the action many times before, he inserted the instrument into the keyhole, turning it first one way and then the other until the lock sprang open with a solid clunk. As quietly as he could, he pulled the door open and crept inside.
He edged his way down the corridor. Ahead of him lay the Smoking Room, out of which emanated a stream of ear-shattering snores and wheezes. Barge peered inside to see an old man asleep in one of the armchairs, yesterday’s Times open in his lap, a half-empty decanter of brandy by his feet.
Barge turned away and moved toward the end of the corridor where he knew Mr. Dedlock’s quarters to be situated. He had been observing the club for weeks, eventually coming to the conclusion that membership must be restricted to the very oddest men in London. Everyone he had seen entering or leaving the premises looked like an escaped detail from a painting by Hogarth, barely three-dimensional, so grotesque they were scarcely believable. Once he had glimpsed Dedlock himself, strutting naked around the Smoking Room. That he appeared to be the most normal person present spoke volumes for his fellow members.
Barge tried the handle to Dedlock’s room — stupidly left unlocked, it opened easily. The joint chief of the Directorate lay prone on his bed, sweating, turning, mumbling in his sleep. The bed stood close to a large bay window, its curtains billowing suggestively in the early-morning breeze. Bed-sheets were strewn over his naked form and his thick white chest-scars were visible even in the gloom.
As Barge walked over to the bed, he reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a surgeon’s knife. Nonchalant as a dentist about to commence his dozenth examination of the day, he leant over the victim.
In the course of his career, Arthur Barge had killed thirty-four men, thirteen women and two children (twins). During this time he had cultivated certain habits and superstitious rituals, chief amongst which was the fact that he always liked to look into the eyes of his victims before he slit their life away. It made it more real, somehow, gave it a certain tangy flavor.
With his free hand, he shook Dedlock awake. The man’s eyes flickered open. Bleary and befuddled, he started to struggle up only to be pushed easily back down again. Thrashing about frantically, he tried to call out, but the jug-eared man brought up his knife. Then, like a cow docile before its slaughterer, prescient of the inevitability of the blade, Dedlock fell still. Barge pushed the knife up against his target’s throat and was looking forward to increasing his tally — wondering how many more there would be before he finally retired — when, amid an apocalyptic smashing of glass, something burst through the window.
Or rather two things.
Once they had disentangled themselves from the curtain, idly brushing shards of glass from their clothes, two deeply improbable figures stepped into the room.
“Hullo, sir.”
“What ho, Arthur!”
Barge dropped his knife in shock. Dedlock struggled upright in bed, gasping for breath, suddenly hopeful that he might yet live.
Barge stared at the two intruders, too stupefied at first to speak. “Who are you?” he managed at last.
“I’m Hawker, sir. He’s Boon.”
The Prefects grinned as one.
“Evening, Mr. Dedlock. Beastly sorry to drop in on you like this.”
Dedlock hugged a stray pillow for comfort. “Did… did the albino send you?”
“Certainly did, sir. Pal of yours, is he?”
“He’s an absolute brick, old Skimpers.”
“Tip-top.”
It was around this time that some understanding of what was taking place finally dawned on Arthur Barge. He was about to make a run for it when the larger of the two men gripped him by the shoulders and steered him firmly across the room. Barge tried to fight back, only for the stranger — quite casually — to break his right arm. As Barge screamed in agony, Hawker began to whistle.
“Thank you,” Dedlock said weakly, his words barely audible over the sound of his assailant’s torment.
Boon touched the brim of his cap. “Pleasure, sir.” He and Hawker bundled Barge swiftly out of the window, then disappeared the same way themselves.
A moment’s silence, then Dedlock swung himself out of bed and peered through the shattered remains of his bedroom window. The old man with the eyebrows doddered into the room, his hair disheveled and askew. “What happened here? Are you all right?”
Dedlock barely spared him a glance.
“There’s the most ghastly mess,” the old man moaned.
“I was almost murdered in my bed.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
Dedlock snapped, “Fetch the brandy. I’ve an awful feeling today’s about to get worse.”
A deferential twitch of the eyebrows. “Very good, sir.”
When Arthur Barge came to, Hawker and Boon were leering over him like a couple of prep-school gargoyles. He was lashed to a chair with twine which cut into his wrists and ankles, drawing blood. Aside from the bright light shining in his face, all was darkness.
“Good to have you back, sir. Marvelous to see him, isn’t it, Hawker?”
“Marvelous, Boon.”
“Who are you?” Barge mewled. “What do you want?”
“He’s not heard of us, Boon.”
“Not heard of us? I’m disappointed. Thought we were living legends.”
“Silly old josser.”
“How much have you been paid?” Barge asked desperately. “Whatever it is, I’ll double it.”
“Don’t bandy words with us, sir.”
“What do you want?”
“I’m afraid we’ve been told to give you a bit of a wigging.”
“A… wigging?”
“A damn good slippering, that’s what he means.”
“A sound hoofing.”
Barge began to cry. “Please-”
“What’s your name, sir?”
“My name?”
“That’s right, sir.”