Chapter 4:

The Incident of the Book-keeper

Within the dim and flickering atmosphere of the Cheshire Cheese, one might have remarked upon the furtive looks that passed this way and that, had one noticed, or the overall feeling of a dreadful anticipation that hung upon the air like a cloud. However, as it was a bitter and biting cold outside, the overall attention of the patrons within the establishment tended more to the direction of a well-made fire in the grate, near which two men sat. One of the twain leaned down and knocked a pipe against the grate, clearing it of ashes and making a deep and melancholy sigh. He was a smooth-faced and thin man, no older than thirty-two, certainly; there was a classical beauty to his boyish features, yet if caught at the right moment they might display a puckish air not wholly compliant with his status as a doctor, and calling to mind Stevenson's thoughts of "a foul soul that thus transpires through, and transfigures, its clay continent"*.

The other, tucked neatly into the corner with a flagon of his own supply, was something more troglodytic and coarse; scars upon his face and hands - when he deigned to move them out of the sheltering shadow at all - bespoke a life less tailored to the elegant pursuits clearly preferred by his companion. Over one broad shoulder the scaramouch leveled a keen and mistrustful gaze at all who passed near enough their chairs to take notice of their particular features. They gave an impression of ill health with no visible symptoms to put words to, nor any outward appearance of wrongdoing in some murderous mixture of a closed nature and open joviality.

The first of these two lit his pipe once more and took notice of his companion's stare. "Beruhige dich, mein freund," he remarked, "Or you will certainly call attention to yourself. Come, come and take a fill of my pipe, won't you? I've just remembered something terribly important."

The second leaned out of the gloom in a most reluctant manner and said he didn't think they ought to be relaxing and drinking when they'd such an important parcel to deliver. The first man replied that they could hardly leave while there was work left undone. Of course he would see to it, the second reassured him, but there was another matter: there was a lad at the door watching them very intently, as though he'd like to examine their souls. He didn't like the look of him, and thought perhaps he might know too much.

"Well let me have a look at your young gentleman," said the first, and twisted round in his warm chair to find with his dark eyes the unmistakable Mr. Foiche at the bar. He stood with a jerk and moved forward from his spot, and did not stop until he stood no more than a foot from the member of the House of Prime. With an air of defiance, each looked to other fixedly for several moments. Then the man smiled and tipped his hat elegantly.

"Well now, I daresay I shall know your face again if I should see it about," he remarked, "And as you seem to be determined that you shall discover my whole person without ever having said a word, I fear I shall be obliged to introduce myself! Guten tag, junger mann. I see by the cut of your cloth that you are indeed accustomed to walk more among the circles I frequent. Should we come across each other at a party one day, you may hear me called Dr. Ottenwilder."

He bowed in a gently mocking way, then held out his hand. "And now I am at a disadvantage, for you know my name and I know nothing of yours." There was such an air of roguish innocence about him that for the briefest of moments, Mr. Foiche was tempted to buy the man a drink and leave the matter at that. But Brendan was no fool, and could see a lurking devilry behind a gleaming smile. Yet here he was as much a gentleman as the stranger, and took pains to show his manners himself.

"Why it would be an unexpected pleasure should that occur, Doctor. I'm afraid my dear mother worries rather too much for me to go to dinners with friends often, more's the pity." He made a little bow of his own and shook Ottenwilder's hand, introducing himself as Heathcliff Foiche. "If you like," added he, "You might find me in Mayfair, wandering about Regent Street, I shouldn't wonder." It came to his attention that "Dr. Ottenwilder"'s larger companion had since vacated his seat by the fire and had unaccountably returned to the frigid air of Fleet Street without his friend. Brendan assumed that he had gone to run some errand, and the terrible thought occurred to him that perhaps Ottenwilder had taken it upon himself to distract him whilst the other slipped out with the Codex Quæ Occidis, intent on delivering it to the House of Kaon.

As he had no way to contact the rest of the Band, and he'd sent Hagen and Raphael back to the Manor, Mr. Foiche could not be assured that help of any kind would be available to him should he venture out into the alleys alone in an attempt to recover the precious volume. Then like a thunderbolt, a second thought, more terrible than the last, broke through the smokey room and dropped firmly into his heart, where it settled like lead: he had left Mr. Plum to make his way home all alone, and Ottenwilder would remember the book-keeper from before. A cursory glance about under pretense of perusing the menu revealed that Ottenwilder's coat was large enough to conceal a leatherbound book of some considerable size, but Foiche did not think the man the sort to burden himself with a heavy object when a brutish companion might do the job for him.

"Why, whatever is the matter, junger mann?" the doctor's friendly query masked a positively frightening smile. "You do look discomfited. You had better take care walking home today, you don't look well at all, dear fellow. And the streets are so dangerous these days!"

Somehow the words went strongly against Mr. Foiche's inclinations, and he began to suspect that Dr. Ottenwilder knew perfectly well why he had come into the establishment: he was faced with a disquieting choice. He could apprehend Ottenwilder, for which he would have to give an explanation to the constabulary, and only find out then whether he had the book or no, or he could leave and try to find the book-keeper before Ottenwilder's comrade did, with no guarantee that the hulking fellow had the book at all. He knew well enough which path Lord Prime would have chosen, and at the crossroads of the moment, which he was more likely to choose. Still he debated within himself over the problem, and was forced to acknowledge that all points had come together against him.

"Indeed? I shall keep it in mind, Herr Ottenwilder," said he, "Perhaps you would be so good as to excuse me?" He did not wait to hear the doctor's reply as he ventured back out into the cold. The snow that had fallen in the morning now presented a gray and distasteful slush which made any form of tracing footsteps near to impossible, and it was certain that Ottenwilder's friend had the advantage of a head start over Brendan.

There was a deep gloom upon his spirit, nearing nausea as he made his way to Castle Court, where he had left Mr. Plum, and the whispering of Ottenwilder and the other lay heavy on his mind. He began to wish that he had told his brother to send the rest of the Bull's Horn Band, but he knew that on a day like today, both men would like as not be busy with other duties. Once more within his mind he heard the grave voice of his employer, warning him of the importance of the Codex Quæ Occidis, and what might occur if the House of Kaon were to take possession of the sinister volume.

The whole of Fleet Street and its surrounding alleys and byways were empty of Mr. Plum the book-keeper, and it soon became apparent that the man had begun to make his way home. What few passers-by Mr. Foiche found, when pressed about the matter, spoke of Mr. Plum hiring a cab at the end of the street, and someone made note of an ill-favored figure trailing along behind like a shadow.

Without the advantage of the bicycle, Brendan was obliged to walk as quickly as he could manage through the bitter cold until he came at last to the street where Mr. Plum lived - an observation that seemed fated to be spoken of in the past tense.

There was the man himself, just out of the range of hearing and evidently in some manner of conflict with the much smaller book-keeper, right at his very doorstep. Both men were evidently the worse for the weather, and both were prodigiously displeased with one another. Brendan feared that Mr. Plum might say something altogether unwise and provoke a potentially violent response from Ottenwilder's truculent partner. A bag hung from the man's shoulder, one which Brendan knew could hold nothing of worth, or the Codex Quæ Occidis. As he drew nearer, he began to discern the matter of the argument. Mr. Plum had discovered the other man - who appeared to call himself Drake - following him, and rather than take fright at seeing the frightening spectre from his moment of spying before, he took offense and resolved to take the man to task for his recalcitrant behavior.

"God bless me, but you're a bold one!" said the book-keeper, rather more confidently than he ought to have, "I'm sure I can't guess what you're about, following decent folk to their doors this way, but you won't see so much as a pence from me!"

With a low oath, Drake said he didn't think the book-keeper had any call to use language like that, as though he were a common cur, and reached for his bag. Certain that he was preparing to draw forth a knife or pistol, Brendan left off sneaking and moved almost too quick to be seen. He caught the scoundrel's arm and pulled him away from the little man. In the scuffle that followed, the bag flew open and out into the slush went a curiously bound text, covered in some sort of pale leather and cracked with age.

As suddenly as he had grabbed onto Drake, Foiche let him go and made a splendid dive for the book, concerned with neither the shocked exclamations of those on the street who witnessed this event take place in the broad daylight, nor with the infuriated bellow of Ottenwilder's companion. All at once, a great meaty fist closed upon the back of his collar and lifted him bodily into the air.

"Ye ain't sich a bright one, lad. Ye'll find that when ye catch a tiger by 'is tail, 'tis considerable easier to catch hold than to let go again!" So saying, he swung his arm back and drove his fist into the younger man's ribcage. From an upper-floor window, someone's maid shrieked, and someone else called out for the police. Still, Brendan doggedly gripped the book, wholly determined that he should keep it from the hands of Kaon or die in the attempt.

Mr. Plum took advantage of Mr. Drake's distraction to slip away unnoticed. He disappeared indoors and the lock clicked shut behind him.

Alternately looking about for a policeman and attempting to dislodge the member of the House of Prime from his prize, Drake drew from his boot a rusted captain's dirk, discolored to the hilt with stains varying from coffee to blood that had never quite been cleaned away and laid it to his opponent's chin. He ordered him to let go of the book in the strongest language imaginable.

"You leave go!" Mr. Foiche replied, "For I'll not let you have it!"

"Let it go, by thunder!" Drake roared, and his eyes burned as hot as the oaths that fell from his lips.

"I'll not, by thunder!" Brendan swore back, terribly relieved that his parents were not present to hear him swear so. At last, Drake grew tired of the stubbornness of the younger man and gave one final pull whilst slashing forward with his dirk. Young Mr. Foiche drew back quickly, and barely avoided losing part of his nose to the rough man, yet he maintained his grip on the pages of the Codex Quæ Occidis, and with the resounding tearing of paper, he went one way and the book the other.

As the policeman at last rounded the corner, Mr. Drake stuffed his book back into his satchel and made himself scarce, disappearing into the by-streets as though he'd lived there all his life. Mr. Foiche placed the crumpled pages he'd torn from the text into his coat pocket without paying much attention to them and spoke to the constable about what had occurred. He did not mention the book, nor the Houses of Prime and Kaon, only that a rough-looking man had followed the book-keeper, Mr. Plum, to his door and begun an altercation with him, and that he had intervened. With statements taken, the policeman promised to keep a lookout for Mr. Drake and said that he thought Brendan ought to go home and have the cut on his face seen to.

Narrative continued by the doctor: how the book came to the House of Kaon

After the young man from the House of Prime - quite obviously sent with the purpose of spying upon either Bruno or myself - took his leave, I did not leave the Cheshire Cheese for some time. There was, after all, little need to appear suspicious. Even if by some miracle the boy caught up to Mr. Drake, he stood no chance of actually getting the book away from him, for Bruno Drake is a stolid man of singular purpose and unyielding stubbornness when the fit takes him. It did occur to me that perhaps the tying-up of loose ends might not be so quickly done as one might hope with the young man from Mayfair tagging along behind, but it remained my hope that our task might be completed before close of day.

Mind, I had not yet met Lord Kaon personally at that point in my life, and what little I knew of him came from a combination of dire rumors of the blackest sort, and whatever unpleasant comment my Patentante had to say in her letters to me. Of course, I could hardly believe whatever declarations she imparted to me, for Fräulein Estella Clamat does not quite project the kindly air of a proper and trustworthy woman. Rather, I have been told - often by dear Patentante herself - that she only stood as my godmother on the occasion of my birth because the devil himself had a headcold and couldn't be bothered.

Regardless of rumor and risk, it was known in most of Europe that Lord Kaon was not a man to suffer fools gladly, nor to overlook the errors of others; to keep such a man waiting for a delivery of the importance of mine was at the best unwise, and at the worst a tangible hazard to my safety. So it was that when I had finished my drink and left a coin for the owner, I departed in haste to locate my less intelligent comrade.

He had indeed discovered the home of our "loose end", but by the look of the maids gawking at the windows rather than attending their duties, and the policeman questioning passers-by upon the walks, I guessed that the book-keeper remained within his dwelling and that Drake had been driven off by someone or something.

Undaunted, I continued to make my way onward, to a rather more secluded walk. Down the alleys and by-streets, I came at last to a square of very old houses, most still quite handsome in their architecture.

Many of them had been let out as individual flats to "all sorts and conditions of men; map-engravers, architects, shady lawyers and the agents of obscure enterprises",* as I'd once heard it described. My companion and I were now among those who dwelt among the obscure agents of the House of Kaon who filled those flats.

The houses divided into little apartments bordered upon either side a dark old house still owned in its entirety by one man, the very same who held the deed for every other house in the square: Lord Megatron of Kaon. I do not know to this day how many lived in the darkened manor with him when he returned from India, for I only ever saw three servants and the disquieting man with the hawk who watched, always watched.

When I arrived, Bruno stood in the courtyard waiting for me, having been thoughtful enough to wait for my presence before presenting the book to Lord Megatron - a sentiment which just as easily could have been the principle of safety in numbers, a point which I intentionally overlooked. We were ushered brusquely inside by a surly manservant who, by all appearances and actions, had better things to do, and found ourselves in a dim and loathsome hall paved with flags and scarcely warmed at all by the pitiful fire in the grate. Among expensive oak paneling hung dark and moody paintings of men, stern in aspect and chilling in nature, that I assumed to be the previous lords of Kaon.

I am, I must admit, not a terribly civilized man, however, and I grew tired of waiting. Drake and I and made our way through black rooms lit with red candles, and well-lit parlors lined with books, to the kitchens, where I found to my surprise the very man I'd been looking for in heated discussion with the housekeeper. There seemed to have been some sort of disagreement on the methods of running the household while the master was away in India.

"I think you'll find," said Ms. Clamat, "That everything has been kept in perfect order - my order - since you've been from home, m'lord. I hardly know what you're insinuating about your book-keeping, but in this house there is a place for everything and everyone in his place."

Quite suddenly, she turned upon her heel and flew at me like a crow, shrieking, "Drop that spoon immediately, Mr. Ottenwilder!"

I was taken aback, naturally, for the spoon in my hand was filled with a scented liquid I had taken for amaretto. I asked her whether it was amaretto, and received a cold and impolite answer.

"No, you dolt," she answered me, "It's tincture of cyanide!" It was difficult to say who was more discombobulated: myself, or Lord Kaon. Instantly, his square jaw flushed and his heavy brows lowered.

"You have been making poisons in my kitchen, Ms. Clamat?" he asked in a voice that was really more a growl. To her credit, patentatne appeared to be quite unconcerned by this.

"Oh, I dabble," answered she, and that was the end of the matter, as there was really little any of us could answer to that.

For better or for worse, I had gotten the attention of the master of the house, however, and so it was then that Bruno and I presented Lord Kaon with the book he had instructed us to bring him. As he turned through the pages with stunning rapidity, a fiendish light arose in his eyes and I thought to myself, "If ever a man had the signature of the devil writ on his features, it was this one." Then, as quickly as he had turned the pages, he stopped. With a terrible look, he raised his eyes to me and remarked that there were pages missing, important pages. I did not learn for many years where those pages had gone.

Narration continued by members of the House of Prime: after Brendan returned to the Manor

Brendan was ushered into one of the parlors by Winston, who grumbled over his soaked boots and dripping coat.

"Is Lord Prime in, Winston?" asked the young man.

"He is, sir," said Winston, "Only, he has yet to emerge from his conference with the good doctor and the mother of the lad Miss d'Iacon brought in last night. I believe he is arranging for them to take a flat very near Miss d'Iacon." The manservant said this all softly and in pleasant tones, and added that he and the servants not on holiday had been instructed to treat the two newcomers as they treated the Foiches, Miss d'Iacon, and the other members grafted into the House of Prime. "I do not think he will be much longer, Mr. Foiche. Is it terribly important?"

"Yes Winston, I believe it is," answered Brendan. The older man said that he would try to find the master and bid the young man wait by the fire until he had warmed himself.

The fire did little to drive away the chill in Mr. Foiche's blood, for he felt some dark premonition that he could not place. He drew from his pocket the crumpled pages torn from the Codex Quæ Occidis and spread them out upon the little table in the center of the room. The breath caught in his throat as he looked down upon the yellowed pieces of parchment, spattered with dark stains and evil signs, surrounding one single, horrifying word that he had long thought a mere ghost story.

"Nosferatu…" he read aloud in breathless tones.

"I'll take that, my lad."

Brendan found himself looking up into the grave countenance of Lord Prime, who took the pages from the table without looking at them. "You should not have looked at these, Brendan. You will not soon forget what you have seen." He folded them and slipped them into his vest pocket, then thanked the young man for the risk he had taken.

"M-my lord, what are these? Who wrote this Codex Quæ Occidis?" Mr. Foiche stammered. A solemn but gentle hand was placed upon his shoulder, and Lord Prime's eyes were filled with sorrow.

"I have my suspicions, Brendan, but cannot act upon them yet. Do not speak of this to your brothers and sisters, nor to young Darby. My mind misgives me: there is something behind whatever it is Lord Kaon plans that concerns these books, and I fear that it is much to do with the pages you stole."

He turned and left the parlor, and did not leave his study until the evening meal.

* quotes taken from:

Jekyll and Hyde: pages 61 and 62