TITLE: Scylla and Charybdis
AUTHOR: Daurmith (Adela Torres)
AUTHOR'S EMAIL: torresad@bcc.orst.edu
FEEDBACK: If you feel like it. I like feedback. I love feedback. I really, really appreciate feedback. No, truly.
CATEGORY: Drama (more or less. Maybe vignette. I don't know.)
RATINGS/WARNINGS: G, I think
MAIN CHARACTER(S): Sir Boniface and Chatsworth, believe it or not
SUMMARY: A look at two of the most hated characters of the show at a very crucial moment. Spoilers for "In the Beginning".
"Fogg is dead," was the muted rumor in the corridors.
"Young Fogg has bought it," the chatter in the archives went.
"That cove Fogg lost the number of his mess," the janitor, who had been in the Navy, told everyone within earshot.
"Agent Erasmus Fogg died on the line of duty as a result of a fatal fall into the Sbrediva River, details follow," the official report said, coldly, as hundreds of other reports had said with almost the same stark wording over the years. Chatsworth had read them all, and had written a respectable number of them by now.
Including this one.
He had taken the original message with the preliminary report to the Old Man himself, both the coded copy and his own decoded draft. A message that reported the loss of an agent to the Head of the British Secret Service, but also a message that reported the loss of a son to Sir Boniface Fogg of Shillingworth Magna. Chatsworth had been nervous and a bit scared, just as a messenger bearing ill tidings to a Roman Emperor. He didn't stay to witness Sir Boniface's reaction. As he turned to close the door behind him, he heard the Old Man slide back onto his chair, the paper in his hand, and then, nothing. Not a sound, not a cry of rage or the murmur of sobs. Not a prayer for the soul of his youngest son.
The hours passed, and silence was the only thing that came out of the oak door. Chatsworth began to worry. He paced his small office, looking towards the door, half expecting some kind of catharsis, a string of profanities, even the terrible report of a pistol. But nothing happened. Other employees came by his office, questioned him mutely, and Chatsworth shrugged, unable to tell them anything.
At around seven in the evening Sir Boniface called. Chatsworth practically jumped to the door and found his boss there, handing him a stack of papers.
"Have these coded as soon as possible, Chatsworth," he said, in his usual flat voice. "And let everybody know that I do not wish to be disturbed."
"Yes, sir. May I offer - "
"You may not. Good night, Chatsworth."
"Sir."
The door closed. Chatsworth only glimpsed part of the desk, covered with piles of papers. The old man had been working. Chatsworth was not a betting man, but tonight he felt he could safely win some money guessing the nature of the work.
He went home at ten, and still there was light under Sir Boniface's door. When he came back the next morning, he heard the soft scratch of pen on paper. A few hours later Sir Boniface left the office to attend Erasmus's funeral. He had left a pile of papers two feet high, and detailed instructions about what was to be done during his absence. Chatsworth had been left in charge, but just as a kitchen maid is left to follow Cook's instructions.
During the days that followed, in the little free time he had, Chatsworth went through the same work that Sir Boniface had, reviewing and analyzing every comma of all the information they had on the Prussian mission. It took him two days, but he found what the Old Man had found in a few hours: the small but telling details, the hole in the carefully woven cobweb of names and dates that betrayed a poisoned source. The mission had been planned on false intelligence, and the result had been the death of young Erasmus.
With all the patience and zeal of a spider, Chatsworth traced the mistake. He lacked the brilliant flashes of genius that were the trademark of his boss, but he made for it with a mulish and painstaking approach to work, and thus he found out, again, how the error had slipped them. The old turtle, of all people, had taken upon himself to check the data, and somehow had missed the small but telling details that betrayed the fraudulent nature of some of the reports.
Not a big mistake, perhaps. Not one that got countries destroyed. But one that had yielded terrible results. No doubt the old man had seen it that very first night. No doubt that was why he had looked so grey and fragile when Chatsworth had seen him in the morning. It hadn't been fatigue: Sir Boniface was able to work for days on end, and still out-think men thirty years younger than him.
It was a damn shame, Chatsworth thought. He wasn't particularly fond of Sir Boniface as a person, but he revered the man as his boss and held him in utter awe, just as most of his staff did. Seeing him stumble like this was a source of uneasiness for Chatsworth, especially when the mistake had brought such tragedy on the Service. His idol had clay feet.
The fact that this could open him new avenues for promotion didn't occur to him until several days later, laying in bed late at night. When it did, he surprised himself by bursting into nervous sobs, which he stifled into his pillow.
* * * * * * * * * *
Sir Boniface had returned to work after the funeral, dramatically changed in appearance, if not in mind. Gone was the arrogant tilt of the head and the confident, loud voice. He looked his age and more. Chatsworth was rather surprised not to find Phileas Fogg with him. He had seen the older son in the memorial service for Erasmus in London, looking stiff and impossibly gaunt in his black clothes; his face had a yellowish tinge that spoke of bad health, or maybe, he thought uncharitably, of a bad hangover. But when Chatsworth advanced to salute him, the man's cold, utterly closed expression frightened him. He muttered some words of condolence and received a stare so hard and empty that he almost recoiled.
The gossip on the corridors went along the same lines for days: the Old Man would retire. This blow had broken him. Look at him, you can see how the poor creature can hardly walk straight. His surviving son would take the job. Sir Boniface had been preparing him for years: it was time to pass the torch.
But all the soothsayers eventually shut up when days turned into weeks and Sir Boniface kept coming into the office and issuing memos and instructions as if nothing had happened. Chatsworth bit his tongue, performed his work in his usual slow, unimaginative manner, and thought.
It had been considered a given, for years, that Phileas Fogg would succeed his father. Chatsworth cared about the son even less than he cared about the father, but there was that damn Fogg brilliance to deal with. Phileas Fogg was probably the best agent they ever had. His father had trained him well, and everybody agreed that Phileas would be an innovative and efficient leader. The thing was, Chatsworth could not stand him: he was arrogant, vain, condescending, and a dilettante who enjoyed drinking and gambling just a tad too much for Chatsworth's comfort. Also, he had been in the Service half the years Chatsworth had, and now his next promotion would take him to the highest position available, while Chatsworth had had to plod through the ranks and work like a slave to reach his actual status.
He coveted Sir Boniface's job. And now he had to sit and watch Fogg stepping in with his tilted hat and his cane, tapping him insolently in the shoulder, and hear him say, "Step aside, Chatsworth, old man, I'm your new boss". Or words to that effect.
Damn the man. Damn all the Fogg family. Everybody, including the Queen, seemed to think that the Empire would crumble down without them. Well, it would not. He could take over. If only he could take over.
Damn the man.
* * * * * * * * * *
Sir Boniface called Chatsworth into his office for the first time since Erasmus's death, three weeks after returning from the funeral. His superior was sitting behind his desk, which was free of its usual untidy pile of papers. Instead, a thick folder and some envelopes were neatly arranged in the center of the polished surface.
"Sir Boniface?"
"Chatsworth. Come in."
The old voice was like dust, dry and barren.
There were no other chairs in the office. Chatsworth was forced to stand. If another chair was needed, Sir Boniface usually arranged for one to be brought in advance. He hadn't done so this time, so Chatsworth assumed this was going to be a short meeting. Either that, or he was going to receive a good dressing down.
"Chatsworth, my charge Rebecca will be returning to duty tomorrow."
"Very well, sir."
Rebecca Fogg was the first and only female field agent in the Service. Chatsworth still had trouble considering her a full agent, but Sir Boniface had been adamant in that respect, and there was no denying that she had been performing extremely well so far.
"No one is to approach her on the subject of Erasmus. I don't want anyone bothering her unless she addresses the subject first. Do I make myself clear?"
"Absolutely clear, sir." This had to be, Chatsworth noticed with some surprise, the first time Sir Boniface had protected Rebecca in any way since she joined the Service.
"I noticed that you hired some new personnel while I was away."
"We agreed that we needed more office personnel to deal with all the paperwork, sir."
"So we did. I cannot say I approve of all your choices."
"I am sorry to hear that, sir. They all have excellent references and are of proven loyalty to the Crown."
"That is a very unwise statement, Chatsworth. Only time will prove its truth, I dare say. What made you hire that fellow Flitcraft, for example, is beyond my comprehension. I suppose you may still convince me that you made a sound decision."
Chatsworth didn't reply. There was nothing to say, if one didn't want to engage in a verbal battle with the old reptile, and he always won those. Sir Boniface fumbled a bit with one of the envelopes. He was not a fumbling man, and Chatsworth eyed the thing with curiosity: a long cream colored envelope of the best quality, sealed with red wax. Very stiff and formal. From the Queen?
Sir Boniface handed the envelope to him. He seemed to have trouble finding words: another unusual sign. Chatsworth began to worry.
"I want you to take care of this."
Chatsworth took the envelope. The way Sir Boniface had held it, it looked like it weighed a ton, but in fact, it was quite light.
"It is addressed to you, sir."
Indeed, the envelope was addressed, simply and quite coldly, 'To the Head of the British Secret Service'.
A swift spasm of pain crossed the old man's features. "I am aware of that. Nevertheless, I want you to take care of it."
"May I ask what is it, sir?"
A brief pause, and then, in a voice as black and still as death:
"It is my son Phileas's resignation from the Service. Do all the necessary paperwork and erase him from our books as an active agent, if you please."
Chatsworth's world turned upside down and for a moment he couldn't think. This was not possible. Surely the man was joking...!
No, he was not joking. Chatsworth had never seen someone look so destroyed, so utterly vanquished, as Sir Boniface looked now. The cold, impersonal mask was off and behind there was only devastation. There was more here than a resignation letter, Chatsworth thought, remembering young Fogg's almost inhuman expression at his brother's memorial service. The death of Erasmus had killed more than one promising young man.
"I shall do it immediately, sir."
Sir Boniface recovered absolute control once again and looked at him directly, coldly.
"As of now, Chatsworth, I have appointed you my successor as head of the British Secret Service. We will hold some additional meetings during the week as I put you up to speed on the job. This folder contains some material that I want you to study and commit to memory. The Queen has already approved my choice."
"Me...? Sir Boniface, I..."
"Do not waste my time with thanks. I have not done you a favor."
"But, sir, surely..."
"Do not waste my time with false modesty either. You have always wanted my job. Well, now you will have it. Congratulations. You may wish to add a prayer for my prompt demise to your devotions from now on: that way you shall enjoy your reward earlier, and I'll be grateful to you."
Chatsworth reacted at the poisoned words.
"Sir Boniface, I must protest, I never..."
"Spare me, Chatsworth. God knows you were not my first choice. But you can do the job, and maybe we need more people like you in the Service, the way things are going these last years. Go now. I wish to be left alone."
Torn between rage and incredulous happiness, Chatsworth turned like a puppet and walked to the door. The voice of Sir Boniface, clear and flat, stopped him.
"Always remember this, Chatsworth: there will be no safe passage between Scylla and Charybdis for you. You will always have to choose one or the other. Pray that your first choice will destroy you: better a swift death than to have to live watching how your soul rots away."
Chatsworth tried to swallow, failed, and opened the door with a hand that had suddenly turned cold and clammy. Safe again in his own cozy, familiar office, he leaned against the door; he could hear the soft sound of Sir Boniface's pen through the wood.
He had made it.
He will be Head of the British Secret Service. He will serve Her Majesty as fully as he had always wanted.
Chatsworth sat at his desk. It felt small. He took a report: it looked inane and trivial. He glanced at the door of what would be, with time, his office.
He would tell everyone the next day. He would gloat, and preen, and maybe take some acquaintances to dinner. Only men in a position to appreciate his new promotion.
But that would be tomorrow.
Tonight, in the silent privacy of the office, against the pervasive sound of Sir Boniface's relentless pen, Chatsworth covered his face with his hands and wept.
END