Damnation and Hellfire - Chapter Three - Part One
Not having remembered to take his own jacket outside with him had been a mistake Passepartout would have readily admitted - he'd found the first cab easily enough but the second, to follow upon Miss Rebecca's orders, was a more difficult task. It was cold with a biting wind, the overcast night sky holding the threat of sleet, but it never occurred to him to slip his master's coat over his own shoulders, even for a moment's respite from the bite of the wind. Only after the second cab had been secured did he open the front door again, well looking forward to the warmth and shelter it promised. But he was excited and it was hard to keep his face straight. He'd known the second cab driver! Several times the man had brought Master Fogg home in recent nights past.
His master had all but torn the greatcoat from his arm and passed outside into the darkness with the most casual of thanks, greetings, and information - more hurried than other nights. About to follow, Passepartout had glanced back and seen Jules.
The man was wearing the face of someone that had been shot and was just becoming aware that an injury had occurred. His jaw was clenched in anger and the high color in his cheeks indicated that the injury was not so much to the body, but to the pride. Had words been exchanged, between Master Fogg and Jules?
As it was his master's matter he should not have even thought of it, but Jules was a friend . . . those were different rules. Jules stood beside him at the door to watch Fogg's cab head to destinations unknown. "Master Fogg is not being himself," Passepartout said quietly. "He is not knowing what he's saying."
"Fogg knows," countered Jules, the anger in his voice and too, some hurt? "He just doesn't care."
A half-second pause was all Passepartout allowed himself, but there was no more from Jules. He caught his friend's shoulder and pointed him toward his jacket, which had been left conveniently to hand - the valet had foreseen a flight from the house like this. Against protocol and all good manners but within the bounds of emergency, he ran to the steps and shouted, "Miss Rebecca, we must be leaving now!"
He turned toward Jules, who seemed to have shaken off the glassy-eyed stare of anger, and pointed him toward the door. "To the cab, please?"
To be rewarded with a nod from Jules, as well as with his immediate obedience, was something at which Passepartout could only smile - to have friends such as these was a rare thing indeed, to be appreciated in stolen minutes at every opportunity. But to steal even seconds now was a criminal enterprise worthy of the League of Darkness.
"Miss Rebecca?!" he called again, standing just below the banister at mid-stair landing.
"Yes, Passepartout, I am coming!" She appeared in the upper hall with her hair braided and pinned to one side, her dark brown silk overdress merely a shell for what Passepartout knew must lay underneath - her leather 'working' clothes. "Jules?"
"Is making the cab-man driver to be waiting." Passepartout recovered her hooded cloak, which he'd left with Jules' coat just out of his master's sight, and was waiting for her at the base of the steps. He placed the cloak around her as she moved toward the door. "This driver we have - I am recognizing him; he has been taking Master Fogg away many times these last nights. He will take us to the place."
"And if Phileas has gone elsewhere tonight?"
Miss Rebecca turned to him as she asked her question, but there was no accusation in her tone, nor in her eyes. She was asking if he had thought of any way to compensate for Phileas changing plans suddenly.
Passepartout shrugged to show her that he hadn't, a regretful half-nod was enough to indicate that he'd done all that he could.
Her lips tightened as he grabbed his own coat and hat and held the door open for her. "Well done, Passepartout. We've only to hope Phileas stays the course then, don't we?"
The door closed, Passepartout locking it with the great brass key on his ring. He was forced to grab his hat against the wind, holding it to his head as he dashed to the cab. Miss Rebecca had not waited for him, but Jules had been there to help her with her skirts. By the time he reached them, Miss Rebecca was settled on the seat facing forward, Jules opposite her. Passepartout flung himself into the cab, closed the door, and then tapped on the outer roof to signal the driver to proceed to the place.
"Put on your coat, Passepartout," said Miss Rebecca, pulling on her brown calfskin gloves. "You'll catch your death."
"Yes, Miss Rebecca." He took the moment to slip his arms into the sleeves of his coat, Jules helping him.
"Where are we going?" asked Jules. "We've lost him by now--"
"The driver is being the same one taking Master Fogg away several nights past - he will be finding the place," explained Passepartout. "Master Fogg has been leaving too quickly tonight - not like he has been leaving other nights."
He glanced across to meet Miss Rebecca's gaze and she nodded. "We should have had another ten to fifteen minutes," she complained, wrapping her cloak more tightly around her. "What changed tonight?"
Passepartout held out his hand and ticked off his fingers as he went through Master Fogg's activities. "He come home. He have drink. He get undressed. He get dressed. He have drink. He lea--"
"He didn't have a drink before he left." Jules looked out the window of the cab. "When Fogg came downstairs, he looked . . . not frightened. Maybe surprised at something? I think I startled him." He shook his head, his gaze going to Miss Rebecca. "He wasn't drunk, Rebecca. He wouldn't have looked like that - so rattled - if he'd been drunk."
"It was an act, then?" she wondered aloud, and touched a gloved finger to her cheek. "For what purpose?"
Passepartout kept his eyes open and his mouth shut, knowing that there must have been more said and done between Jules and Master Fogg in those few minutes than his friend was admitting. If it were something to be known now, Jules would say. And if it were something not to be known now, Passepartout would wait for Jules to say later.
Miss Rebecca was still thinking aloud. "Rattled? Phileas doesn't rattle well - never has. Passepartout, you've said there were no unusual callers while I was gone, nothing in the papers that piqued Phileas' interest?"
Closing his eyes, Passepartout thought back, again covering the ground Miss Rebecca had asked him to recall. "A ship docking in Boston, was good news. Railroad up, cows down, pigs flying--"
"Pigs flying?" asked Jules, startled out of his own thoughts.
"Yes." Passepartout cast a cautious glance at Miss Rebecca. "Master Fogg says Lady Esham's daughter will marry when pigs flying."
Miss Rebecca gave a slight laugh, turning her glance away for a moment. "Yes - I remember seeing that engagement announcement myself. Phileas was quite wrong on that one; there's certainly pork in the treetops. But even if he'd held a wager on the matter, losing wouldn't have set off a reaction this severe." She shook her head. "No real visitors, you'd said?"
"The Italian count, they play cards. The Belgian ambassador, they throw dice. The Duke of Mount Morecy, they talk and drink and play cards, and throw dice." Passepartout sighed, giving Rebecca an apologetic glance. "Is nobody not known. Oh and Mr. Denby."
"Denby?" Rebecca sat upright, smiling faintly. "Yes, Lord Denby's son - Arthur. He'd have just finished university - Phileas was expecting him to drop by." She nodded toward Jules. "About your age, a few years older perhaps. His father and Phileas were fast friends at university - Phileas is his godfather. I'm sorry I missed him - he's a charming boy." She turned an inquiring gaze on Passepartout. "How is young Arthur?"
"He was being handsome man, strong but very pale. Too many books, not enough real air," decided Passepartout, shaking his finger toward Jules to ward him off that danger. "I get tea, but he leaves - Master Fogg sees him to the door. And then Master Fogg, he go out, but is time to make calls--" Passepartout shrugged. "Is nothing likely in any of my remembrances."
Jules had made faces when Miss Rebecca had spoken - not rude, but wincing when she said Mr. Denby was a few years older than he and then called him a boy. Passepartout guessed he settled his gaze out the window of the cab to hide the frown tugging at his lips. "Where are we?"
"Hmn?" Miss Rebecca looked out the window on the other side. "Regent's Park, I should think. This is Park Road, and we're just north of Hanover Place. Odd - I don't know of any men's clubs in this area. Some of the manors are quite large, though." She touched a finger to the side of her nose with a grin and glanced over at Jules, who was now listening to her. " old money."
Jules grinned back, although Passepartout wasn't surprised - the writer could never stay angry long with Miss Rebecca. It was then the cab jolted to a stop, the springs creaking in dismay. "Are we here?" asked Jules.
"I was telling the driver to leave us distance to be walking ourselves." Passepartout opened the door and scrambled out of the cab. Jules followed quickly and turned to offer assistance to Miss Rebecca, so Passepartout walked to where the driver was seated. He held the half crown in the air where the coin could catch the light, but far enough out of the driver's reach for it to be safe for a moment longer. "Where is it that you have been taking Master Fogg?" he asked.
The driver's eyes were fixed on the coin, but he looked up enough to gesture down the street. "Alpha Road," he barked. "Can't miss it - big stone fence round the propity. I've been picking up all top trade there, but late at night. I show up around two or three o'clock right regular to snag 'em. Picked up your man at the gates more times than not last week, and at least one of 'em just before sunrise." He nodded to the side of the street, where Jules was assisting Rebecca from the carriage. "If that's his lady, he's a damned fool to be out on a night like this, instead of home in bed with summat like that to keep 'im warm."
There was little point in correcting the man. Passepartout tossed the coin into the air and the driver caught it. He'd barely moved back from the cab before the driver flicked the reins and the horses jolted forward, the springs of the coach body groaning as the vehicle again rattled into motion. The sight of it lumbering away seemed to freeze them in place for a moment, but the chill wind set them moving again. Jules took up a position to Miss Rebecca's left and Passepartout to the rear, as if in accord in attempting to shield her from the wind.
They kept away from the street gas lamps, remaining in the darkness of shadows, which offered little cover from the elements. There were no townhouses here, but larger dwellings set apart from one another on small bits of property. Miss Rebecca had been right - the means of these people could be seen in the carriage houses, small stables, and serving quarters set just back from the road. Most of the front windows of the houses were dark with only dim lights visible in the higher, distant windows - a valet preparing his master's attire for the next day, a seamstress finishing a last bit of repair work, or a housemaid banking the fires. So much work to be done, in those great houses.
It wasn't difficult to discover the building to which the driver had sent them - the wall around it was at least the height of a man, not brick but large stones cut from a quarry and mortared into place with little thought for rough edges. They paused in the shadow of the outer wall. Sounds drifted toward them on the wind; the iron gates were opened as cabs were challenged, occupants identified and then allowed to enter, the gates closing again with an ominous 'clang.'
"Did you hear someone say 'club'?" asked Miss Rebecca, placing her ear to the uneven stone of the wall as if she might better discern the words.
Passepartout shook his head, indicating a negative. But Verne was assenting. "Yes - I did. The gate porter said, 'Welcome to the club, m'lord.'"
Miss Rebecca glanced at Passepartout, as if verifying whether he thought this possible or if it might be wishful thinking. "If it is being a club, Miss Rebecca, and a men's club, you are being out of place."
"Not if it's the type of men's club I suspect it to be," she said softly. "Although why Phileas would want to hide his membership from me is a puzzle - he's usually delicately forthright about such things."
"He said it would be over by tomorrow."
Jules' pronouncement stunned them both. They turned to find him tucking his hands beneath his armpits for warmth and each fixed a glare on him.
"Master Fogg is saying this before he is leaving tonight?" asked Passepartout.
Nodding slightly, wind blowing through his hair, Jules looked miserably cold - or perhaps his feelings had less to do with the temperature than with something else?
"You were going to tell us this?" chided Rebecca sharply.
The look of misery deepened and the writer turned his gaze away. "That's all he said, that it would be over by tomorrow."
Passepartout caught Jules' shoulder and dragged him closer to the wall - he must remember tomorrow to find a pair of winter gloves that Master Fogg had discarded, or a used pair from the rag shop could be purchased from house money. Then he looked at Miss Rebecca, awaiting her decision.
To know that this was a different kind of club was not such an odd thing - expected, in its own way. To know that it was guarded with a heavy, iron gate and a wall meant more. And to have Master Fogg tell Jules that it would be over by tomorrow . . . he could not help but think of the meeting with Cavois. Gentlemen did odd things, dangerous things, and Master Fogg sought out danger more than most of his kind.
Miss Rebecca was watching him, studying him, as if in her mind were the same thoughts. He saw the edges of her lips go flat, only a hint of line in the shadows. "Right - we go in, we look around, we find Phileas. If there's nothing to it, we meet back at our entry point in an hour and we leave."
"And if something's wrong?" asked Jules, looking slightly less miserable with action in the offing.
"We shall do what we must."
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Continued -
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