The Case of the Baker Street Irregular
By Arctic Squirrel
Well here I am finally! Here is the third installment of my story and good lord did it take forever to write! I do hope that my readers will find it satisfactory. :) And now to respond to some of those reviews (which I truly appreciate with all my heart so keep them coming!)
Denny Barefoot: Thank you very much for your compliment. And don't worry about Bert... he's a lot more complicated than any Mary Poppins character.
Juliet Norrington: Thanks for all of your support! And I will try to fit your colorful characters in there somewhere.
Nako-Chan: A wise remark, Miss Chan. Is it Sherlock? Only time will tell.
Marylinusca: I have absolutely NO idea which of Jane Austen's brothers I am related to. I just know I'm related to her somehow. And a new development... William the Conqueror is an ancestor of mine as well. Go figure. So if you will excuse me, I have to go conquer Ireland and then write a book about it.
- A. Squirrel
Chapter 3: The Offices of Messrs. Applegate and Orange
Andrew crossed the threshold of the upstanding quarters of British law, belonging to Messrs. Applegate and Orange, with supreme curiosity. He'd never been to a place of work of any nature before. Their sign was perched elegantly above a great oak door, along the street of Tudoresque buildings: "Messrs. Applegate and Orange: Family Law." Andrew had no idea why they were there and was, quite frankly, curious.
"Move along, boy," said the Captain, nudging the awe-struck Andrew inside the grand door. The inside of the entryway was oak like the door, but there were royal patterns carved into the wood of flowers and vines. The lobby had a dark red wallpaper, mahogany-colored lining, and dim lighting that sent off a signal somewhere in Andrew's brain making him feel sluggish and sleepy, as if he had just returned for the night after a long day instead of just coming in from a rather bright and cheery summer morning. There were some upholstered chairs and benches scattered about the burgundy-rugged area. They made Andrew sincerely hope that he would be sitting in an office with his father.
His Aunt Agatha had warned him about the dangers of upholstered furniture saying, "They're like domesticated animals, Andrew. They look nice and tame, but if you press your weight on them for too long, they'll nip at your hindquarters. Is the nurse in? No? Make it a double vodka, Toad, I'm feeling rebellious today..."
Andrew smiled to himself and tried to ignore the sharp pain of grief that invaded his rib cage. Captain Wallace began a conversation with the grumpy-looking receptionist with a very droopy gray mustache, which Andrew thought made the man look like a walrus. He interested himself instead with a painting on the wall opposite him. The picture on the wall was of people walking down a city street on a rainy day, only it was rather blurry. Andrew began to squint and cock his head from side to side, trying to make the picture come into focus. He entertained himself with this for a few minutes, discovering that if you turned your head to the left and squinted the people looked happy, and then to the right, they look sad.
He was shocked out of his reverie by a sharp and somewhat painful grip on his shoulder, "What are you doing?" hissed the Captain coolly, not looking at Andrew, but around the room to see if anyone was observing his son's behavior.
"Looking at the painting," answered Andrew, thoroughly confused.
"Really?" asked the Captain in the same cool tone, "Because it looked to the gentlemen in this room as if you were trying to see through the wall."
A few of the men within hearing distance chuckled. Andrew looked sheepishly at his feet and muttered, "I'm sorry, sir."
The Captain sighed and rubbed his handsome face with his hands, "Well, I shall be in the office of Mr. Orange," Andrew looked up hopefully, "You shall stay in the lobby. There are plenty of chronicles to keep you interest. And do attempt to act respectfully.
So he was to be confined to the room of the backside-biting chairs, was he? Andrew began to scuff the rug huffily with his foot, making patterns in the burgundy carpet.
"Stop that!" ordered the Captain sharply, but not unkindly, as a balding, redheaded, stout fellow poked his head out of the door reading, "Mr. Orange."
"Captain Charles Wallace?" he said in a gruff baritone that sounded as tired as the man looked. Another man turned as the name was called, but turned back to his paper almost immediately, looking embarrassed since he'd obviously almost answered to the wrong name.
"I don't know how long I shall be in conference, Andrew, so do not become agitated if it takes a good while. Remember, top behavior, boy. We are no longer in the country," and with that the Captain turned on his heel and disappeared behind the door with Mr. Orange.
Andrew looked around. Most of the seats were take, but there was a spot open on the bench next to the man who had accidentally turned around at the mention of his father's name. Andrew timidly took a seat next to the man, and Andrew noticed immediately that he was huge. He was not bulky, but very tall. Andrew guessed that if the man were standing, his head would only reach the man's midsection. He also guessed that the man was extremely well off by the rich fabric and cut of his clothes. Andrew had only ever seen a Duke (he couldn't remember from where, and quite frankly couldn't have cared less) wear a suit like the man sitting next to him.
The man's black mustache covered part of a muscular face that glistened in the summer heat. The man's red tie was damp with sweat, and, Andrew noticed, many of the other men in the waiting room were equally as hot and uncomfortable. Andrew couldn't understand for the life of him why someone would wear so many layers of clothes in the summer time. Andrew himself was wearing mostly cotton, except for his wool hat, which itched terribly.
Andrew's attention drew back to his sitting-partner and he spied a rather magnificent walking stick leaning against the middle-aged man's thigh. Even for a young boy, Andrew knew that it was quite a piece of craftsmanship. The body of it had to be ivory, and the handle was a gold lion's head with a roaring mouth. There was intricate detail in every sculpting curve of the walking stick that had him mesmerized. He couldn't take his eyes off of it. It was like something out of one of his Aunt's books about Asia or Africa.
"It's a lovely piece of craftsmanship, isn't it?" asked the man. Andrew nearly jumped out of his skin. He hadn't realized he was being watched. He felt the blood rise to his cheeks when he realized he must have been staring and how rude he must have looked.
"I apologize, sir," said Andrew with all the dignity he could muster, "I did not mean to stare."
"Haha!" laughed the man, his dark mustache lifting to reveal a set of long, thin teeth, "Go right ahead. Pretty things are meant to be stared at, and anyone who says otherwise is a damned hypocrite." He laughed bitterly at his own little joke, and Andrew's eyes wandered back to the ivory and gold walking stick. He wanted nothing more, puerile though it was, than to pick it up and play with it.
Andrew's brain automatically began weaving tales of adventure and grandeur revolving around this stick, many of them involving elephants, and all of them involving gun fights. In a matter of minutes he had taken the unsuspecting man on adventures all over the continent of Africa.
"This is a gift from my brother. Solid ivory stalk. The lion head is actually silver; only gold-plated," continued the man-with-the-walking- stick, "Rich man, he is. He invested in diamond mines in Africa." Andrew must have looked slightly disappointed at the lack of adventure, because the man continued.
"My brother's not the adventurous type," he apologized, "I was always the one getting in to some kind of mischief. You see, I was a colonel in Her Majesty's army in India."
Andrew's brain automatically switched from "stare" to "listen."
"What's India like?" asked Andrew, forgetting all manners completely.
"Hot!" laughed the Colonel, "The summer heat here is nothing to the winters there." (Andrew thought back to a day last July when his Aunt had instructed him to throw eggs at a few gentlemen that had come to tour the house. For what reason, Andrew had no idea, but the lure of throwing something slimy out of a window would be too much for any human. After this his father had ordered him to clean up the mess, and he'd discovered that the egg had fried right to the cobblestone.)
"The summers are really that hot?" asked Andrew, amazed.
"The heat melts the doorknobs right off the doors," said the Colonel, "And the uniforms right off the soldiers."
He chuckled and slapped Andrew chummily on the back. The man did not realize the sheer force of this, but Andrew's cap flew right over his eyes and his entire body lurched forward.
"So enough about me," said the Colonel (Andrew looked disappointed). "What brings a young lad like yourself to a lawyer's office on such a fine day? I should think most lads would be off playing rugby or cricket with their school chums on a day like this!"
Andrew once again became entranced by his feet. As if it wasn't humiliating enough, was he going to have to admit to a complete stranger that he didn't have a single friend his age?
"Oh, well... err, my father and I are just visiting from Yorkshire. My Auntie just died, but we decided to visit London anyway. This is my first trip," said Andrew, quickly changing the subject, "And he's going to take me to the wax museum later!"
"Madame Toussaud's?" asked the Colonel, "It is a fine establishment. You'll like the Hall of Terrors. I always did. Surely he's taking you to the zoo as well?"
"I don't know," said Andrew, honestly, "But I know he's going to take me to the sea. I've never seen it. He's a Captain for the Navy, and he says it's in the blood of all the Wallaces."
"Wallaces?" asked the Colonel, starting, "Captain Wallace?"
"Yes sir."
"So you're his son?" he asked.
"Yes"
"The son of Captain Wallace?"
"Yes
"So Captain Wallace is your father?"
"Yes, sir," Andrew nodded again. This man was either very slow or very deaf. Suddenly the Colonel burst into a very unsettling fit of laughter. Many of the people in the room began to stare and Andrew edged away from him. He wiped his eyes and looked at the frightened Andrew.
"Sorry lad didn't mean to frighten you. It's just that the whole thing is so terribly funny..."
Andrew certainly couldn't see what was so hysterical about his parentage, but decided that it would be better not to ask.
"Colonel Moran?" said the voice of a thin, tall, bald man with nervous eyes.
"I'm the fellow you want," said the colonel, standing up and turning to Andrew and extending his massive, muscular hand, "It was a pleasure to meet such a noble gentleman as yourself, Master Wallace."
Andrew stood up and took the Colonel's hand, "And it is always an honor to meet an officer of Her Majesty's army," he said, reciting a line his father had taught him for formal events.
Colonel Moran laughed, picked up his top hat, and walked through the door of the twitchy Mr. Applegate. The door to Mr. Orange's office flew open the moment Mr. Applegate's had closed. To Andrew's horror his father came storming out, carrying a large package of who-knows-what, and walking stiffly as if he had a back injury and it was paining him to perambulate in such a manner. Andrew shivered; he knew that walk. That walk meant that someone or something was about to be walloped by his father and he, Andrew, sincerely hoped it wasn't going to be him.
"You haven't the right to call yourself a lawyer, Mr. Orange," hissed the Captain, obviously still trying to keep his rage as personal as possible and to shut out the room full of men who were trying not to look curious. His blonde hair was uncharacteristically out of place, and his usually handsome features were twisted with malice. His slim frame was slightly bent toward the door as if trying to shoot the words through Mr. Orange's heart like an arrow.
"I am going to take that as a compliment toward my morality," said Mr. Orange, looking very angry and harassed. His red, partially bald plate was glistening with perspiration.
"Your morality weakens your profession," the Captain whispered dangerously, but was becoming more nonchalant by the minute. Deducing that there was not going to be a physical fight of any kind, most of the men in the room began to lose interest, but Andrew was hanging, still, on their every word.
"Crime is not a profession, my dear Captain Wallace," said Mr. Orange coolly. Andrew could tell that this man had dealt with much more difficult men (and probably more dangerous) than his father.
"This is not a crime, sir," said the Captain, now completely gaining back his indifferent air and icy disposition, "How dare you insult a gentleman's honor?"
"I would never insult a gentleman's honor, Captain Wallace," said Mr. Orange coolly, wiping his plait with an embroidered handkerchief, "But gentlemen of the truest nature are far and few between; I will not hesitate, however, to state most clearly that you are not one of them."
Andrew's temper flared. Who was this man to accuse his father of crime and ungentlemanly behavior? He, Andrew, could not account for his father's honor, it was true, but he was in every way a gentleman.
"That isn't true... sir," shouted Andrew, jumping up, "Father is a gentleman and a Captain of Her Majesty's Imperial Navy!"
Both Mr. Orange and Captain Wallace looked shocked, as did many of the men in the room who were no longer pretending not to listen. Andrew's bravery began to fade as he looked around the room at the shocked (and some amused) faces. He'd never lost his temper before. Not like that. The room around him began to feel smaller and smaller, and the stares and silence of his audience more vast. Andrew caught his father's eye and, with a pang of guilt, recognized that familiar, ashamed expression that he'd given his father all-too-often.
"Go to the corner and hail a hansom, Andrew," said the Captain with military-like authority. Andrew stood there. Just stood there. He couldn't help it. He'd ruined their trip to London, he was sure of it.
"Do as I say or there will be consequences," hissed his father, looking at him through horridly impartial, cold eyes. Andrew hung his head and marched out of the dark lobby.
In spite of himself, Andrew felt immediately better in the August sunshine and late-summer breeze. "London looks so much nicer in the day time," Andrew thought to himself, walking to the curb. Andrew began to look up and down the street for an already-beached cab. When that attempt failed he tried whistling (a trick that Drake had taught him several years ago). He succeeded in scaring the wits out of a passing flower girl and being scolded by a gentleman for making such vulgar noises in public. Finally he stepped on the curb and waved his arm in a beckoning fashion (copying the gentleman who had scolded him) and to his amazement, it worked. The hansom appeared right in front of where he was standing.
"Where to?" asked the gruff cabby.
"Err..." said Andrew, "I'm not quite sure, sir."
"Sir?" said the cabby, his cap rising with his surprised eyebrows, "I never thought oi'd see the day when a young guv'ner would call me 'sir.'" The cabby continued to stare at Andrew for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders without concern and said, "Where to?"
"Mme. Griswold's Boarding House, 561 Proctor St." said a voice behind Andrew. The Captain was standing behind him, "What are you waiting for boy? Get in." Andrew miserably climbed into the handsome as all his feelings of guilt and embarrassment rushed back. He fixed his stare out the window so he wouldn't have to look at his father, and hoped that his father would just pretend that he, Andrew, didn't exist as he had done on various other occasions.
When the cab started moving, the Captain said, "I never wish to see a scene of that nature created by someone of my bloodline ever again. Do you understand?"
So much for being invisible.
"Yes," answered Andrew.
"Yes what?"
"Yes, Captain."
* *
* *
Much of the cab ride was silent; Andrew staring out the window, watching the same streets go by as he had on the way up, and the Captain staring into the wall of the carriage, his mind obviously elsewhere. After a half hour or so, the Captain began to look out the window in quick, fidgety intervals. Andrew was alarmed, but had acquired the good sense not to disturb his father when his thoughts were otherwise occupied. But his father's erratic behavior did make him rather curious. After about five minutes of this queer behavior, Andrew was about to pop with anticipation and curiosity when Captain Wallace stuck his head out of the window and called to the driver.
"To Madame Toussaud's Wax Museum, and an extra copper for you if you double your speed!"
The hansom lurched around a corner and sped down a different street at top speed. Andrew's heart lifted, but he couldn't dare to hope. His father continued to fidget and look behind them through the window.
"I thought we were going back to the--" Andrew dared, but his father cut him off suddenly.
"Nonsense," said the Captain coolly, though his small actions betrayed his state of mind, "It is a crime to visit London and not its landmarks. I will not have any son of mine gossiped about because he has never been to Madame Toussaud's." But he didn't quite meet Andrew's eye, and his sudden change in mood only worried Andrew further.
* * *
Andrew had enjoyed the tip to the museum very much, but he would have enjoyed, but would have enjoyed it ten fold if his father had stopped looking over his shoulder every few minutes and muttering to himself. He would occasionally step in front of Andrew and trip him on purpose, but constantly insisted that he had done no such thing. The Captain had rushed him through most of the rooms, and barely gave him a chance to look the chamber of horrors, which he had been looking forward to seeing after his discussion with the Colonel.
Dinner that night had been just as odd. The Captain had kept looking into the street through the curtains as if expecting to see something of interest on the street. Mme. Griswold and Andrew kept glancing at the captain, and then each other, silently agreeing that Captain Wallace had lost his mind. Andrew had spilled his soup all down his front when his father had jumped up like a firecracker and yelled, "BED!" at the top of his voice. Andrew had watched him sprint up the stairs with mixed feelings of curiosity and worry.
Later that night Andrew had a dream that he was playing poker with Drake and Mrs. Bingley when the Jacks, Kings, and Queens jumped out of the cards and began to chase them down the dark corridors of the Allen Manor. Andrew had been fencing with the King of Spades (and had had the upper hand of the fight, too) when a firm shake awoke him.
"Wassamatter?" slurred Andrew stupidly. He couldn't see anything. It was pitch black in his room and outside it, meaning it was either very late at night or very early in the morning.
"Grab your trunk. We're leaving this instant," whispered his father's disembodied voice, "Put these on. Step lively now!"
Andrew was too tired to argue or ask questions, so he threw on whatever his father had given to him, grabbed his trunk, and lugged it down the steps, letting it bump each one as he descended. There was a hansom waiting for them on the corner. Andrew was fast asleep the moment his head hit the cushion.
By Arctic Squirrel
Well here I am finally! Here is the third installment of my story and good lord did it take forever to write! I do hope that my readers will find it satisfactory. :) And now to respond to some of those reviews (which I truly appreciate with all my heart so keep them coming!)
Denny Barefoot: Thank you very much for your compliment. And don't worry about Bert... he's a lot more complicated than any Mary Poppins character.
Juliet Norrington: Thanks for all of your support! And I will try to fit your colorful characters in there somewhere.
Nako-Chan: A wise remark, Miss Chan. Is it Sherlock? Only time will tell.
Marylinusca: I have absolutely NO idea which of Jane Austen's brothers I am related to. I just know I'm related to her somehow. And a new development... William the Conqueror is an ancestor of mine as well. Go figure. So if you will excuse me, I have to go conquer Ireland and then write a book about it.
- A. Squirrel
Chapter 3: The Offices of Messrs. Applegate and Orange
Andrew crossed the threshold of the upstanding quarters of British law, belonging to Messrs. Applegate and Orange, with supreme curiosity. He'd never been to a place of work of any nature before. Their sign was perched elegantly above a great oak door, along the street of Tudoresque buildings: "Messrs. Applegate and Orange: Family Law." Andrew had no idea why they were there and was, quite frankly, curious.
"Move along, boy," said the Captain, nudging the awe-struck Andrew inside the grand door. The inside of the entryway was oak like the door, but there were royal patterns carved into the wood of flowers and vines. The lobby had a dark red wallpaper, mahogany-colored lining, and dim lighting that sent off a signal somewhere in Andrew's brain making him feel sluggish and sleepy, as if he had just returned for the night after a long day instead of just coming in from a rather bright and cheery summer morning. There were some upholstered chairs and benches scattered about the burgundy-rugged area. They made Andrew sincerely hope that he would be sitting in an office with his father.
His Aunt Agatha had warned him about the dangers of upholstered furniture saying, "They're like domesticated animals, Andrew. They look nice and tame, but if you press your weight on them for too long, they'll nip at your hindquarters. Is the nurse in? No? Make it a double vodka, Toad, I'm feeling rebellious today..."
Andrew smiled to himself and tried to ignore the sharp pain of grief that invaded his rib cage. Captain Wallace began a conversation with the grumpy-looking receptionist with a very droopy gray mustache, which Andrew thought made the man look like a walrus. He interested himself instead with a painting on the wall opposite him. The picture on the wall was of people walking down a city street on a rainy day, only it was rather blurry. Andrew began to squint and cock his head from side to side, trying to make the picture come into focus. He entertained himself with this for a few minutes, discovering that if you turned your head to the left and squinted the people looked happy, and then to the right, they look sad.
He was shocked out of his reverie by a sharp and somewhat painful grip on his shoulder, "What are you doing?" hissed the Captain coolly, not looking at Andrew, but around the room to see if anyone was observing his son's behavior.
"Looking at the painting," answered Andrew, thoroughly confused.
"Really?" asked the Captain in the same cool tone, "Because it looked to the gentlemen in this room as if you were trying to see through the wall."
A few of the men within hearing distance chuckled. Andrew looked sheepishly at his feet and muttered, "I'm sorry, sir."
The Captain sighed and rubbed his handsome face with his hands, "Well, I shall be in the office of Mr. Orange," Andrew looked up hopefully, "You shall stay in the lobby. There are plenty of chronicles to keep you interest. And do attempt to act respectfully.
So he was to be confined to the room of the backside-biting chairs, was he? Andrew began to scuff the rug huffily with his foot, making patterns in the burgundy carpet.
"Stop that!" ordered the Captain sharply, but not unkindly, as a balding, redheaded, stout fellow poked his head out of the door reading, "Mr. Orange."
"Captain Charles Wallace?" he said in a gruff baritone that sounded as tired as the man looked. Another man turned as the name was called, but turned back to his paper almost immediately, looking embarrassed since he'd obviously almost answered to the wrong name.
"I don't know how long I shall be in conference, Andrew, so do not become agitated if it takes a good while. Remember, top behavior, boy. We are no longer in the country," and with that the Captain turned on his heel and disappeared behind the door with Mr. Orange.
Andrew looked around. Most of the seats were take, but there was a spot open on the bench next to the man who had accidentally turned around at the mention of his father's name. Andrew timidly took a seat next to the man, and Andrew noticed immediately that he was huge. He was not bulky, but very tall. Andrew guessed that if the man were standing, his head would only reach the man's midsection. He also guessed that the man was extremely well off by the rich fabric and cut of his clothes. Andrew had only ever seen a Duke (he couldn't remember from where, and quite frankly couldn't have cared less) wear a suit like the man sitting next to him.
The man's black mustache covered part of a muscular face that glistened in the summer heat. The man's red tie was damp with sweat, and, Andrew noticed, many of the other men in the waiting room were equally as hot and uncomfortable. Andrew couldn't understand for the life of him why someone would wear so many layers of clothes in the summer time. Andrew himself was wearing mostly cotton, except for his wool hat, which itched terribly.
Andrew's attention drew back to his sitting-partner and he spied a rather magnificent walking stick leaning against the middle-aged man's thigh. Even for a young boy, Andrew knew that it was quite a piece of craftsmanship. The body of it had to be ivory, and the handle was a gold lion's head with a roaring mouth. There was intricate detail in every sculpting curve of the walking stick that had him mesmerized. He couldn't take his eyes off of it. It was like something out of one of his Aunt's books about Asia or Africa.
"It's a lovely piece of craftsmanship, isn't it?" asked the man. Andrew nearly jumped out of his skin. He hadn't realized he was being watched. He felt the blood rise to his cheeks when he realized he must have been staring and how rude he must have looked.
"I apologize, sir," said Andrew with all the dignity he could muster, "I did not mean to stare."
"Haha!" laughed the man, his dark mustache lifting to reveal a set of long, thin teeth, "Go right ahead. Pretty things are meant to be stared at, and anyone who says otherwise is a damned hypocrite." He laughed bitterly at his own little joke, and Andrew's eyes wandered back to the ivory and gold walking stick. He wanted nothing more, puerile though it was, than to pick it up and play with it.
Andrew's brain automatically began weaving tales of adventure and grandeur revolving around this stick, many of them involving elephants, and all of them involving gun fights. In a matter of minutes he had taken the unsuspecting man on adventures all over the continent of Africa.
"This is a gift from my brother. Solid ivory stalk. The lion head is actually silver; only gold-plated," continued the man-with-the-walking- stick, "Rich man, he is. He invested in diamond mines in Africa." Andrew must have looked slightly disappointed at the lack of adventure, because the man continued.
"My brother's not the adventurous type," he apologized, "I was always the one getting in to some kind of mischief. You see, I was a colonel in Her Majesty's army in India."
Andrew's brain automatically switched from "stare" to "listen."
"What's India like?" asked Andrew, forgetting all manners completely.
"Hot!" laughed the Colonel, "The summer heat here is nothing to the winters there." (Andrew thought back to a day last July when his Aunt had instructed him to throw eggs at a few gentlemen that had come to tour the house. For what reason, Andrew had no idea, but the lure of throwing something slimy out of a window would be too much for any human. After this his father had ordered him to clean up the mess, and he'd discovered that the egg had fried right to the cobblestone.)
"The summers are really that hot?" asked Andrew, amazed.
"The heat melts the doorknobs right off the doors," said the Colonel, "And the uniforms right off the soldiers."
He chuckled and slapped Andrew chummily on the back. The man did not realize the sheer force of this, but Andrew's cap flew right over his eyes and his entire body lurched forward.
"So enough about me," said the Colonel (Andrew looked disappointed). "What brings a young lad like yourself to a lawyer's office on such a fine day? I should think most lads would be off playing rugby or cricket with their school chums on a day like this!"
Andrew once again became entranced by his feet. As if it wasn't humiliating enough, was he going to have to admit to a complete stranger that he didn't have a single friend his age?
"Oh, well... err, my father and I are just visiting from Yorkshire. My Auntie just died, but we decided to visit London anyway. This is my first trip," said Andrew, quickly changing the subject, "And he's going to take me to the wax museum later!"
"Madame Toussaud's?" asked the Colonel, "It is a fine establishment. You'll like the Hall of Terrors. I always did. Surely he's taking you to the zoo as well?"
"I don't know," said Andrew, honestly, "But I know he's going to take me to the sea. I've never seen it. He's a Captain for the Navy, and he says it's in the blood of all the Wallaces."
"Wallaces?" asked the Colonel, starting, "Captain Wallace?"
"Yes sir."
"So you're his son?" he asked.
"Yes"
"The son of Captain Wallace?"
"Yes
"So Captain Wallace is your father?"
"Yes, sir," Andrew nodded again. This man was either very slow or very deaf. Suddenly the Colonel burst into a very unsettling fit of laughter. Many of the people in the room began to stare and Andrew edged away from him. He wiped his eyes and looked at the frightened Andrew.
"Sorry lad didn't mean to frighten you. It's just that the whole thing is so terribly funny..."
Andrew certainly couldn't see what was so hysterical about his parentage, but decided that it would be better not to ask.
"Colonel Moran?" said the voice of a thin, tall, bald man with nervous eyes.
"I'm the fellow you want," said the colonel, standing up and turning to Andrew and extending his massive, muscular hand, "It was a pleasure to meet such a noble gentleman as yourself, Master Wallace."
Andrew stood up and took the Colonel's hand, "And it is always an honor to meet an officer of Her Majesty's army," he said, reciting a line his father had taught him for formal events.
Colonel Moran laughed, picked up his top hat, and walked through the door of the twitchy Mr. Applegate. The door to Mr. Orange's office flew open the moment Mr. Applegate's had closed. To Andrew's horror his father came storming out, carrying a large package of who-knows-what, and walking stiffly as if he had a back injury and it was paining him to perambulate in such a manner. Andrew shivered; he knew that walk. That walk meant that someone or something was about to be walloped by his father and he, Andrew, sincerely hoped it wasn't going to be him.
"You haven't the right to call yourself a lawyer, Mr. Orange," hissed the Captain, obviously still trying to keep his rage as personal as possible and to shut out the room full of men who were trying not to look curious. His blonde hair was uncharacteristically out of place, and his usually handsome features were twisted with malice. His slim frame was slightly bent toward the door as if trying to shoot the words through Mr. Orange's heart like an arrow.
"I am going to take that as a compliment toward my morality," said Mr. Orange, looking very angry and harassed. His red, partially bald plate was glistening with perspiration.
"Your morality weakens your profession," the Captain whispered dangerously, but was becoming more nonchalant by the minute. Deducing that there was not going to be a physical fight of any kind, most of the men in the room began to lose interest, but Andrew was hanging, still, on their every word.
"Crime is not a profession, my dear Captain Wallace," said Mr. Orange coolly. Andrew could tell that this man had dealt with much more difficult men (and probably more dangerous) than his father.
"This is not a crime, sir," said the Captain, now completely gaining back his indifferent air and icy disposition, "How dare you insult a gentleman's honor?"
"I would never insult a gentleman's honor, Captain Wallace," said Mr. Orange coolly, wiping his plait with an embroidered handkerchief, "But gentlemen of the truest nature are far and few between; I will not hesitate, however, to state most clearly that you are not one of them."
Andrew's temper flared. Who was this man to accuse his father of crime and ungentlemanly behavior? He, Andrew, could not account for his father's honor, it was true, but he was in every way a gentleman.
"That isn't true... sir," shouted Andrew, jumping up, "Father is a gentleman and a Captain of Her Majesty's Imperial Navy!"
Both Mr. Orange and Captain Wallace looked shocked, as did many of the men in the room who were no longer pretending not to listen. Andrew's bravery began to fade as he looked around the room at the shocked (and some amused) faces. He'd never lost his temper before. Not like that. The room around him began to feel smaller and smaller, and the stares and silence of his audience more vast. Andrew caught his father's eye and, with a pang of guilt, recognized that familiar, ashamed expression that he'd given his father all-too-often.
"Go to the corner and hail a hansom, Andrew," said the Captain with military-like authority. Andrew stood there. Just stood there. He couldn't help it. He'd ruined their trip to London, he was sure of it.
"Do as I say or there will be consequences," hissed his father, looking at him through horridly impartial, cold eyes. Andrew hung his head and marched out of the dark lobby.
In spite of himself, Andrew felt immediately better in the August sunshine and late-summer breeze. "London looks so much nicer in the day time," Andrew thought to himself, walking to the curb. Andrew began to look up and down the street for an already-beached cab. When that attempt failed he tried whistling (a trick that Drake had taught him several years ago). He succeeded in scaring the wits out of a passing flower girl and being scolded by a gentleman for making such vulgar noises in public. Finally he stepped on the curb and waved his arm in a beckoning fashion (copying the gentleman who had scolded him) and to his amazement, it worked. The hansom appeared right in front of where he was standing.
"Where to?" asked the gruff cabby.
"Err..." said Andrew, "I'm not quite sure, sir."
"Sir?" said the cabby, his cap rising with his surprised eyebrows, "I never thought oi'd see the day when a young guv'ner would call me 'sir.'" The cabby continued to stare at Andrew for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders without concern and said, "Where to?"
"Mme. Griswold's Boarding House, 561 Proctor St." said a voice behind Andrew. The Captain was standing behind him, "What are you waiting for boy? Get in." Andrew miserably climbed into the handsome as all his feelings of guilt and embarrassment rushed back. He fixed his stare out the window so he wouldn't have to look at his father, and hoped that his father would just pretend that he, Andrew, didn't exist as he had done on various other occasions.
When the cab started moving, the Captain said, "I never wish to see a scene of that nature created by someone of my bloodline ever again. Do you understand?"
So much for being invisible.
"Yes," answered Andrew.
"Yes what?"
"Yes, Captain."
* *
* *
Much of the cab ride was silent; Andrew staring out the window, watching the same streets go by as he had on the way up, and the Captain staring into the wall of the carriage, his mind obviously elsewhere. After a half hour or so, the Captain began to look out the window in quick, fidgety intervals. Andrew was alarmed, but had acquired the good sense not to disturb his father when his thoughts were otherwise occupied. But his father's erratic behavior did make him rather curious. After about five minutes of this queer behavior, Andrew was about to pop with anticipation and curiosity when Captain Wallace stuck his head out of the window and called to the driver.
"To Madame Toussaud's Wax Museum, and an extra copper for you if you double your speed!"
The hansom lurched around a corner and sped down a different street at top speed. Andrew's heart lifted, but he couldn't dare to hope. His father continued to fidget and look behind them through the window.
"I thought we were going back to the--" Andrew dared, but his father cut him off suddenly.
"Nonsense," said the Captain coolly, though his small actions betrayed his state of mind, "It is a crime to visit London and not its landmarks. I will not have any son of mine gossiped about because he has never been to Madame Toussaud's." But he didn't quite meet Andrew's eye, and his sudden change in mood only worried Andrew further.
* * *
Andrew had enjoyed the tip to the museum very much, but he would have enjoyed, but would have enjoyed it ten fold if his father had stopped looking over his shoulder every few minutes and muttering to himself. He would occasionally step in front of Andrew and trip him on purpose, but constantly insisted that he had done no such thing. The Captain had rushed him through most of the rooms, and barely gave him a chance to look the chamber of horrors, which he had been looking forward to seeing after his discussion with the Colonel.
Dinner that night had been just as odd. The Captain had kept looking into the street through the curtains as if expecting to see something of interest on the street. Mme. Griswold and Andrew kept glancing at the captain, and then each other, silently agreeing that Captain Wallace had lost his mind. Andrew had spilled his soup all down his front when his father had jumped up like a firecracker and yelled, "BED!" at the top of his voice. Andrew had watched him sprint up the stairs with mixed feelings of curiosity and worry.
Later that night Andrew had a dream that he was playing poker with Drake and Mrs. Bingley when the Jacks, Kings, and Queens jumped out of the cards and began to chase them down the dark corridors of the Allen Manor. Andrew had been fencing with the King of Spades (and had had the upper hand of the fight, too) when a firm shake awoke him.
"Wassamatter?" slurred Andrew stupidly. He couldn't see anything. It was pitch black in his room and outside it, meaning it was either very late at night or very early in the morning.
"Grab your trunk. We're leaving this instant," whispered his father's disembodied voice, "Put these on. Step lively now!"
Andrew was too tired to argue or ask questions, so he threw on whatever his father had given to him, grabbed his trunk, and lugged it down the steps, letting it bump each one as he descended. There was a hansom waiting for them on the corner. Andrew was fast asleep the moment his head hit the cushion.