The Blog of Roon

(Waiting on the docks to leave Malta, Shirley discovers from the Times that Jimmy Pilkington has been found murdered in London.)

Polite, urbane Shirley Addam folds up his fresh copy of the last week’s Times and puts it into his valise. Polite, urbane Shirley Addam walks to a corner of the dock largely empty of people and looses a string of blistering English profanity at the weedy water beneath him—words that polite, urbane Shirley Addam should not even know, much less employ.

It is too late to get to a telegraph office before the launch leaves for Tripoli. Well, Lady Hester is not a stupid woman, as Shirley has good reason to know. Doubtless she has been milking Jimmy’s attack for all the notoriety it is worth, finding out all she can in the meantime. This Addison fellow—if he is or has ever been active in social circles, Lady Hester will know his entire history within days, if not hours. Shirley will send her a telegram from Tripoli. A shame he cannot suggest that she talk to Oliver Harris, but the social gulf between the Yorkshire lady and the newspaperman is too great for that.

“Signior Addam?” A youngster no older than Jimmy—no older than Jimmy had been—respectfully doffs a sailor’s cap.

“The Ravello is leaving?” Shirley asks. The youngster nods, relieved not to have to exercise his uncertain English. Shirley hefts his valise, follows the boy to the plank and into the launch.

He reads the Times again, slowly and carefully, once he is settled. His eyes dwell on the brief announcement of Jimmy’s murder. He leans forward, elbows on paper-covered knees, the bridge of his nose resting on his joined thumbs, and whispers as much as he can remember of the perfunctory service given over Elizabeth Addams’s fresh grave.

Jimmy is not the first client of Shirley’s lost to a harsher and more powerful Judge than any in the British courts. Shirley had thought the facility to mourn such deaths lost to him. But Jimmy—damn it, why hadn’t Jimmy left town, gone back to York? Why had he put his life at hazard merely to capture Finnegan? The police could perfectly well have done that on their own, given his history and Shirley’s careful description of him in the Times.

Stupid, callow, grateful Jimmy Pilkington. Had the poor wretch believed that Finnegan’s capture would put him out of danger? Had he known of his peril but persisted, merely because of small kindnesses from Shirley?

“G-d in heaven, Shirley Addam, this is your fault, and you will answer for it in the end!” the barrister berates himself. Shirley could have told Jimmy to flee for his life. He could have put the lad on a train to York. Instead he sailed gaily off to Spain while Jimmy testified to the police on his behalf and died for it.

Poor Jimmy. The Times did not say how he was killed; not every body found in the Thames had died by drowning. Besides, Jimmy had said he was giving up the trade in kittens; the sack in his hands was a blind, or a cruel final jest on the part of Finnegan’s thugs. Shirley hoped the end had come quickly and unexpectedly.

Well. What now? Shirley could turn tail and run back to London. He could even justify it to the world: his testimony against Finnegan would be useful, perhaps even necessary. Yet Jimmy had died to give him a chance to win. He might not win, but how could he cost Jimmy his life and then not even finish?

And then, of course, there is Addison and his shadowy employer. The threat to the Ellipse is hardly ended. Shirley himself can expect to be a lightning rod henceforth; should he leave the race now, the other entrants will be in greater danger. Shirley has some tricks up his sleeve they might not.

A coward’s act, to quit now, a coward’s act bested by an unlettered street boy. Very well, then. Tripoli, and Alexandria after it. Shirley’s eyes take note of the newspaper in his lap once again, and the headline detailing the Alexandria riots.

Telegram to Lady Hester, sent from Tripoli en route to Alexandria:

PLEASE WIRE ALEXANDRIA BAHRAIN ALL KNOWN RE ADDISON STOP REGARDS SHIRLEY

(In Tripoli, Shirley finds out that Lady Hester has laid a wager, the other party to which is unknown, on the Grand Ellipse. The news does not please him.)

The guard motions to Shirley to follow. The walk to the palace leads through a garden, which is blooming with winter herbs and flowers. The air is fragrant, the landscape peaceful. The guard stops for a moment.

“If it’s all the same to you, sir, we’ll go in the garden door and avoid all the stairs.”

Shirley raises an eyebrow. Mercuri must have said a great deal in a scant few moments, if they are too nervous to take him in the front door. “Lead on, pray,” he says, with a slight bow.

Shirley is led into a glass conservatory. The air is redolent with the scent of lemons and oranges. The guard speaks in a low voice to a footman, who dashes off towards the interior of the palace.

“It’ll be a few moments, Mr. Addam, if you’d care to sit down.” The guard gestures toward a white wicker chair with an outrageous chintz cushion. The seat gives a lovely view of the garden, with its back to the wall that adjoins the interior of the building. The guard stands closer to the door of the conservatory, next to a potted palm tree.

A maid arrives with a pitcher of lemonade and some small sandwiches. She says something to the guard, who translates for Shirley. “The Chief Secretary to the Deputy Governor will be with you presently. In the meantime, please refresh yourself.”

“Thank you,” says Shirley, pouring himself a glass of lemonade. He leaves the sandwiches be, as the anger running through his veins leaves him no desire for nourishment. He sits on the edge of the chintz chair, stiff and straight-backed.

Presently, a tall man enters the room, carrying a toddler and trailed by two little girls, perhaps five years old. The toddler is chewing on a wooden dog, and one of the little girls is pulling a painted duck on a string. The other girl is clutching a doll. The children’s blue eyes regard Shirley with solemn curiosity. The gentleman clears his throat.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Addam,” he says, shifting the toddler to the other arm and holding out his hand.

“Quite all right, sir,” says Shirley automatically as he shakes hands.

“Daniel Keating, pleased to make your acquaintance. I’d just popped in to see the little ones when you arrived, and they insisted coming along. This,” he says, hoisting the toddler, “is Danny, and the twins are Amelia and Anna.” The girls curtsy, and chorus together “Pleased to meet you sir.”

Shirley bows to them gravely. “Enchanted, ladies,” he says. “Will you kindly excuse your father and me a moment? We have a matter or two to discuss that I would not trouble such ladies as yourselves with. Will you have a glass of lemonade before you go?”

The girls look to their father for approval, and he nods. After a few dainty swallows, the girls make for the garden, dignity forgotten. The duck clatters over the terra-cotta tiles of the conservatory, but miraculously remains upright. Keating turns to Shirley. “I understand that the strikers gave you a bit of a start, Mr. Addam.”

Shirley sighs. “They are not strikers, Mr. Keating. They are thugs, and I will need your help preserving the race from them. I listened to them at the dock; their marching orders come from the same man who set an attacker on me in London. Whence his orders come I do not know, but I have every intention of finding out.”

“Oh, I’m well aware that they aren’t strikers, Mr. Addam. Oops!” The toddler lets go of the sodden toy he was chewing on, letting it fall to the floor, and begins sucking on his fingers. “I’ve had my men watching them for several days now, since Lady Bonnet first brought them to my attention. According the reports I’ve received, the men in question were at first attempting to foment a dockworker’s strike. Failing to do so, they simply started protesting—peacefully, mind you—themselves. They assemble early in the morning, mill around for several hours, and then retire to a dockside drinking establishment. No reports of any assaults.

“This is the first I’ve heard about a direct connexion to the unfortunate incident in London, though. Aaargh!!” (The toddler has just stuck his wet fingers into Papa’s ear.) “Excuse me—Danny, no!” Lord Keating picks up the dog and hands it back to the boy, who promptly drops it again and sticks his fingers back in his mouth. “Pray tell, how did you discover it?”

“As I said, sir, I listened to them. One asked when ‘Nicky’ would show himself, and he proceeded to wager with another, named ‘Bill’ and apparently something of an authority, as to the odds of Nicky’s having been collared. I know no Nicky threatened with arrest other than Nicholas Finnegan. By the way, I also heard ‘Bill’ say outright that they were being paid to maintain their protest.”

Shirley rubs his chin thoughtfully, the spirit of inquiry overcoming his
anger. “It seems, Mr. Keating, that there is a conspiracy of sorts afoot to disrupt the Ellipse. I tell you frankly, sir, that given my scant hopes of winning at this point—you say it has been days since Lady Bonnet arrived?—I am willing to delay further travels in order to discover who is behind this and stop it before anything dire occurs. I should not like to see the eventual winner’s victory tainted by rumours of cheating and foul play.

“So. Perhaps we should trigger the trap, Mr. Keating? I will gladly offer myself as bait, if you will kindly assure me that you can provide sufficient manpower to intervene before I am seriously injured. I am a man of peace, sir, and without much practice in the art of physical defence.”

“Certainly, I understand your concern, Mr. Addam. However, I rather think that this ‘Bill’ has overestimated Mr. Finnegan. I believe he—Mr. Finnegan—has already been apprehended by the constabulary in London. There was an article in the Times, and—”

“’Oggy!” exclaims young Danny.

“Excuse me, Mr. Addam. You want the doggy, then, do you?”

Danny nods.

“Are you going to drop the doggy again, if I give it to you?”

Danny nods again.

“Then I sha’n’t do so. Perhaps Nurse finds the game amusing. Papa does not.” He sets the toddler in his lap and turns his attention back to Shirley. “Where was I? Oh, yes. I shall telegram London immediately and have the strikers questioned. No need for you to give up on the Ellipse, Mr. Addam. On the contrary, I think the wisest course of action is for you to continue. With Nicky Finn safely in custody, it should be smooth sailing for you and all the competitors.”

“’Oggy! ’Oggy!”

Shirley picks up the dog between forefinger and thumb and hands it to young Daniel, who immediately shoves the dog’s hind end in his mouth. “Well, I should be easier in my mind if I knew whom Nick Finnegan reported to, but I suppose we shall discover that soon enough. I would suggest a telegram to your counterparts at the next three or four Ellipse locations as well, if one has not already been sent. Further unpleasant surprises such as this I should be quite happy to avoid.”

“I shall certainly do so, Mr. Addam… never hurts to take precautions.”

“Thank you, Mr. Keating; I need only my token now, and I shall not further trespass on your time.”

“If you’ll join me in my office for a moment—just through here—I shall ask you to sign in while I get your token.” He leads Shirley across a hallway and into a small but comfortable office. Something squeaks under Shirley’s foot; it appears to be a toy India-rubber monkey. Keating gestures toward a notebook on the desk, then rummages one-handed through a drawer. Danny drops the drool-soaked dog into the drawer, but Keating appears not to notice. He comes up with a brass disk with an engraving of a Maltese cross inside an outline of the island on the obverse and “Her Majesty’s Grand Ellipse — Malta, 1882” on the reverse. He hands it to Shirley, then switches Danny to the other arm. “Best of luck, Mr. Addam. And I shouldn’t worry about the other competitors, if I were you. Mr. Neville-Smythe hasn’t even been to Gibraltar yet. Good luck, Mr. Addam!”

As Shirley exits the office, he hears a loud “’Oggy!!!”

Everyone who arrives in Malta by sea notices a small group of men in dockworkers’ clothing standing on a pier. One is carrying a sign (in English, not Maltese) that reads “Higher Wags for Workers.” As Shirley disembarks and approaches the workers, one of them looks at a crumpled piece of paper in his hand and shouts (in English, cockney accent) “Workers Untie!!” One of the others elbows his fellow protester and says “UNITE, you git. Workers UNITE.” The other protesters laugh. The apparently dyslexic protestor says “At least I’m tryin’, ain’t I?”

Shirley hastily steps out of sight of the cluster of men, behind the gangplank of the freighter, to consider his choices, keeping his ears open for more talk from them. From his concealed position, Shirley overhears the following:

1) Many complaints about the weather, the langugae, and the food, if no-one English-looking is around.

2) Complaints about working condiitons when English-looking passers-by pass by.

3) The following group conversation:

Speaker 1 (Mr. Untied): “You ’eard from Nicky yet, Bill?”

Speaker 2 (apparently Bill): “Not a peep, my son.”

Speaker 3: “Weren’t ’e s’posed to be ’ere by now?”

Bill: “Pro’bly got delayed, sommat. Be ’ere any time.”

Mr. Untied: “Think the coppers got ’im?”

Speaker 4: “Not our Nicky. Slipperier than a greased eel, that ’un.”

Bill: “Sixpence says you’re wrong, my son.”

Speaker 4: “You’re on, Bill.”

Pause

Speaker 3: “’Ow long we goin’ to be protestin’ today. This bloody thing’s ’eavy.”

Bill: “We’ll knock off at sunset, right? Just like yesterday.”

Mr. Untied: “Cor, this protestin’s right boring.”

Bill: “You’re bein’ paid well enough for it, Danny, so shut your gob.”

Damn. A situation, this. Well, he can at least hope that an attendant at a currency exchange or bank will speak a little English. Shirley looks around him for such an institution. The usurious fees will be worth paying if he can only find help!

Someone taps Shirley on the shoulder and says “Excuse me, sir.” Shirley jumps and turns around, heart hammering, forcing down the impulse to shout. It’s the second mate from Shirley’s ship. “Something the matter, sir?”

“Yes. Those men, they are not protesters. They are English, and there is some chance they may attempt to interfere with me.”

The second mate removes his cap and scratches his head thoughtfully.

“You’re one o’ them Ellipsoids, right? Well, we ought to make sure you get where it is you’re goin’. Half a minute, sir, while I get the Cap’n.”

After only a few minutes, the Captain and the second mate approach Shirley’s position. The second mate is carrying an umbrella and a string bag of oranges. The Captain addresses Shirley. “Watson here tells me there’s a bit of a sticky wicket with those chaps over there.” He motions toward the “protesters.”

“Yes, Captain, I fear so, and I am sorry to trouble you about it. Shortly before leaving London I avoided an attack intended to drive me from the race. Those men over there are English, their protest is a poor attempt at disguise, and while I stood here they mentioned the name of the man who paid for the attack on me. I should like to see them picked up and questioned by the authorities, but just now I am not even sanguine about leaving this port safely, much less arriving at Valetta Palace!”

The Captain sputters with indignation. “That’s—That’s—That’s not cricket! Can’t have those thugs getting in the way of such a fine, upstanding gentleman as yourself. Watson, fetch—hmm, who’s right for what I have in mind?”

“Perkins, Cap’n, and perhaps Jones and Mercuri,” the second mate helpfully supplies.

“Exactly! Fetch the lot, Watson, and have them escort Mr. Addam to the Valetta Palace. Take the lifeboat down a few piers, just to be safe. Mr. Addam, I suggest you open Mr. Watson’s umbrella and keep it between yourself and those blighters at all times. Then, you can report them to the Governor himself!”

The Captain is the very image of righteous indignation as he whirls about and stalks back to the ship. Watson looks at Shirley speculatively. “Mercuri speaks Italian and Spanish, Mr. Addam. Should be a help to you gettin’ through town. Perkins has a bit of Italian as well. Jones barely speaks English, but he’s a right hand with a belaying pin, if you know what I mean. They’ll get you to the Palace safe as houses, and be happy to do it.”

Shirley shakes the mate’s hand gratefully. “Mr. Watson, I can only thank you. Be assured that I will mention your assistance in the proper quarters; I hope it serves to further you and your men as you deserve.”

After ten minutes or so, Shirley is escorted to a lifeboat. A large man puts down his belaying pin carefully, and takes the oars. A small Italian-looking gentleman and a large, red-faced blond man load Shirley’s luggage into the boat, then climb in themselves.

The men row several piers down from the one where the charter was docked, and pull into a small jetty. Mercuri and Jones unload the luggage while the chap with the belaying pin stands guard, looking in the direction of the “protest.” Mercuri is able to flag down a horse-drawn cab in very short order, haggling with the driver in shouted phrases that vaguely remind Shirley of those he heard from the Captain on the ship to Cadiz. The shouting stops abruptly, and Mercuri turns back to Shirley. “We go now, hey? Good price, ninepence!”

“Yes, by all means. Thank you—Mercuri, is it?”

“Si, Giovanni Mercuri,” he answers, as he grins. Half his teeth have gold crowns, and several of the other half are missing. “We go now!” The sailors load up Shirley’s bags and climb into the cab.

The ride through Valetta is swift and harrowing. The bustling port town’s roads are crowded with carts, wagons, people, animals, and litter. The cab sways with every hard turn. The sailors appear undisturbed as the cab rockets through openings that didn’t exist a moment ago, and close behind with amazing swiftness. The driver barely misses a woman carrying a cage full of chickens, and makes a universally-understood obscene gesture to accompany his Italian oath. The squawking of the agitated chickens fades quickly, as the cab moves further down the street. The pace doesn’t slacken—quite the contrary, it picks up—as the cab zooms through residential neighborhoods of increasing gentility.

The ride comes to an abrupt end as the cab screeches to a halt at the front gate of the Valetta Palace. Mercuri hops out and begins speaking to the guard in rapid Italian.

Shirley follows more slowly, involuntarily stretching his legs as he reaches firm ground. He turns to fetch the Colonel’s hamper, but he cannot quite reach it; Perkins sees his intent and retrieves it for him. By the time Mercuri turns back toward him, he has found the unopened bottle of sherry.

Mercuri finishes his conversation with the palace guard, and turns back to Shirley. “You go in. Follow him.” Mercuri points to the guard. “We go back the ship now, hey?” Perkins and Jones unload Shirley’s bags. “You pay cab,” Mercuri continues. “Ninepence.”

“Certainly.” Shirley settles with the cabdriver and then leans down to the hamper. “Gentlemen, this is small thanks indeed,” he says, holding out the bottle to them, “but it is something, and I hope you will do me the honor of accepting it. Thank you very much, and safe journeys to you all.”

Perkins speaks for the first time, as Mercuri accepts the bottle. “Thank you kindly, Mr. Addam. We’re all pullin’ for you to win!”

Shirley smiles. “Small chance of that, I’m afraid; but thank you all the same.”

(Shirley arrives in Gibraltar, the first Ellipse checkpoint, without incident, and stays to lunch with Ellipse representative Colonel Barstow.) During the meal, he asks the Colonel about exports from southern Spain to the rest of the Mediterranean. He is particularly interested in seafood (“I have heard so much about this national dish—paela? Pa-ey-yah? I am not quite sure of its proper pronunciation”), olives, and Valencian oranges. How are such perishables shipped? Do they go as far as Italy? How?

“Ah, paella, lovely stuff if you enjoy fresh seafood. I shall have Cook pack a hamper for you, along with some the oranges and olives.” He sighs longingly. “I imagine I shall have to go against convention and hire a Spanish cook upon my return home.”

“Ah, but who would want to leave this lovely climate for the fogs of London, Colonel? I daresay you may face some difficulty locating a suitable candidate.”

Over coffee, the Colonel gets down to business. “A great deal of produce goes to Marseille, Mr. Addam. From there, you can catch a ship nearly anywhere. Naples receives a great many oranges, however, and you may well be able to get there faster—I assume that’s the information you’re really after, is it not? It is a race, eh what? Were I in need of fast transport, I’d take the ferry from Naples to Sicily, then charter a local boat for Malta. Not terribly expensive, you know—five pounds goes a long way in lira.”

Shirley notes this down in his pocket-notebook. “To Naples it is, then; I shall follow the oranges. I am most grateful for your expertise, Colonel, and your willingness to allow me to benefit from it.”

Shirley asks the Colonel to pass along his particular regards to Dr. Byrd. “I shall be happy to do so, Mr. Addam. If you would care to leave the good doctor a note, I will personally ensure that it is delivered. Looking forward to meeting that one, I am. Quite the firebrand, I expect; bound to be interesting.”

“It is a shame that each of us travels alone, I think. Companionship offers many advantages, safety not least among them. Certainly only one of us can win, but that need not mean we gain no other benefit from each other during the contest. Half a moment, Colonel, if you please, while I write a note for Dr. Byrd.”

9 February 1882

To the estimable Dr. Byrd:

I see by the Ellipse records that you have not yet arrived; the good Colonel has kindly offered to hold a letter for you.

I am sorry to have had so little opportunity to speak with you. I admire your work exceedingly, finding it not dissimilar to my own. Should the opportunity present itself, I should be most pleased to speak with you regarding possible collaborations, or other ways in which we might assist each other’s efforts once the Ellipse is over.

A brief warning, if you have not already heard: before I left London I narrowly averted an assault upon my person intended to cause me to leave the race. The Colonel has a copy of the London Times containing further details. I pray you be careful henceforth, as I assuredly shall.

The best of luck to you in the remaining days of the contest.

I remain,
  Very sincerely yours,
    SHIRLEY ADDAM

Before he leaves, Shirley is presented with an enormous hamper containing not only a small container of paella in one of those clever new Navy thermos bottles, oranges, and olives, but some Spanish ham, an assortment of local cheeses and seasonal fruits, a bottle of sherry, a loaf of bread, half a dozen small cakes, some hard-boiled eggs, and an assortment of sandwiches.

“Good heavens! Colonel, I declare, this is entirely too generous.
Anything else and I shall be accused of cheating by suborning Her Majesty’s representatives.” He picks up his nearly-empty glass of sherry from the table and raises it. “Your very good health, Colonel, and thank you again.”

“Always a pleasure to lunch with a gentleman of your character, Mr. Addam. Good luck, Godspeed, and for heaven’s sake, don’t drink the water in Naples.”

Shirley laughs pleasantly. “Isn’t poison the next recourse after attempted assault? I shall be on my toes, I assure you. I am sorry I must rush off, Colonel; I have greatly enjoyed our brief meeting. I am in your debt, sir, and I shall not forget it. Farewell!”

The next morning, before Shirley makes his round to the remaining embassies, he stops in at the offices of the London Times and inquires how he may reach Basil Cartwright, special reporter for the Grand Ellipse. He sends Cartwright a telegram:

THWARTED ATTACK LAST NIGHT STOP IRISHMAN NICHOLAS FINN RESPONSIBLE STOP WARN OTHERS STOP INVESTIGATE STOP SHIRLEY ADDAM

The Times is happy to send the telegram to Mr. Cartwright, and wishes to know if Shirley will kindly consent to a brief interview with another one of their reporters, as Mr. Cartwright is unavailable. “Very well, if you can produce one quickly,” says Shirley. After his busy night, his eyes are reddened and he looks rumpled and harassed.

“Of course, Mr. Addam,” says the receptionist. “I’ll go fetch Mr. Harris immediately.” The receptionistushers Shirley into a small office overflowing with books, newspapers, magazines, stacks of paper, bits of old sandwiches, half a dozen dirty teacups, and an agitated canary in a cage hanging from the ceiling. The receptionist explains to you that Mr. Harris will be with you in a moment, and to ignore Bertie (he gestures at the canary) as the bird has a nervous condition.

The canary makes threatening noises at Shirley, and throws itself against the bars of the cage once or twice, before settling down to glare balefully at the intruder. A moment later, the door bangs open and a short, extremely overweight man walks into the office carrying two teacups and a half-eaten pastry. He somehow manages to hand Shirley the top teacup without dropping anything. In the keeping with the tradition of newsrooms everywhere, the tea is vile.

“Sorry ta keep ya waitin’,” says the man, apparently Mr. Harris. “Momentarily indisposed, don’t ya know?” He sounds American, although Shirley can’t place the region. He deftly weaves his way past the various obstacles in his office and settles down behind the desk in manner reminiscent of a large iceberg calving off a glacier and settling into the sea.

“So, I understand there was a bit of an incident with Nicky Finn?”

“Ah. You have encountered the gentleman in question before, I take it?”

“He is… hmmm… well known to certain confidential sources of mine, shall we say?” Shirley makes silent note of that, raising his eyebrows a moment, while Harris pulls a notepad and pencil from a drawer and poises himself to write.

Shirley settles into his barrister’s precise court diction. “Last night as I was making ready to retire, an individual whom I am not prepared to identify knocked at my door. When I opened it he recognized me, as he is a former client of mine. He expressed gratitude for my previous assistance, and willingly explained to me that he had been paid to warn me away from the Grand Ellipse and knock me on the head, ‘to help my memory.’ I inquired who had hired him; he claimed it had been one Nicky Finn.

“I followed him when he left, without his being aware of my pursuit. He met a man slightly taller than I and considerably thicker, with a ridged scar between the outer edge of his left eyebrow and the outer corner of his left eye. This man spoke with an Irish brogue and answered to the name of Nicky Finn. He asked whether my former client had completed the task assigned him. Upon receiving an affirmative answer, he pressed the point of whether I had been warned away from the Grand Ellipse, claiming that the entire effort was wasted if I had not. When my former client protested that he had indeed so warned me, Mr. Finn handed him a number of coins; the exact amount I did not clearly see.

“My former client then departed. Mr. Finn made his way to a telegraph office, and demanded ingress loudly and profanely. I pursued my inquiry no further, and returned to my lodging without incident.”

“A close shave indeed, Mr. Addam,” says Harris, putting down the notepad on a rather precarious stack of papers. “Nicky Finn—Nicholas Finnegan, to Her Majesty’s Record Office—is a dangerous character with a reputation for accomplishing unsavory tasks on the cheap.” Harris drains his teacup, and doesn’t appear to taste it any more than Shirley did. He sets it down on top of a cabinet near the canary, which causes the bird to shriek and cower in the opposite side of the cage. Harris ignores it.

“Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Addam. I shan’t detain you any further, as you’ve got an Ellipse to run. Oh, and by-the-by, there’s a rail strike brewing in France; I should think you might wish to go to Gibraltar by sea.”

“That was my plan in any case — though you will of course keep that confidential. I would be most obliged, Mr. Harris, if you could do all in your power to get this story into the very next edition of the Times, and if you can, get it over the wire to the French and Spanish papers as well. I should not like the other entrants to be as unprepared as I was. Whoever hired Mr. Finnegan may not stop at assault next time.”

Harris guides Shirley back to the front door of the Times office, and shakes his hand. “Thanks again, and Godspeed, good sir!”

Shirley smiles for the first time that day. “Thank you, Mr. Harris. I am obliged to you. Good day!”

“Hmmm. It’s a generous offer, Jimmy, and I’d take it if I weren’t headed for foreign parts, where people talk oddly and eat worse. See here, though—there is something you can do for me, and I’ll see you get the half of your fee that’s missing for it.”

“Izzat right, Mr. Addam, sir? Wot’s that, sir?”

Shirley turns his back on Jimmy and waves one hand at the loaded sock by his side. “Hit—er, ‘cosh’ me on the back of the head, please. Not too hard—just enough to say you did it. Then go back and collect the rest of your fee from Nicky. After all, we wouldn’t want Nicky thinking you hadn’t done your job, would we?”

Jimmy looks a bit confused. “If you’re sure, Mister Addam, sir.” He stands up, gets a fresh grip on his sock, and taps Shirley on the back of the head so lightly that he’s more disturbed by the smell of the sock than the faint impact on his skull. Jimmy smiles broadly. “Right sporting of you, Mr Addam, sir. Good luck with your Eclipse, and mind yer back in them foreign parts!”

Jimmy lets himself out, singing a bawdy tune. Shirley quickly finds and dons an all-enveloping black topcoat and an anonymous black hat. Quenching the lamp, he slips out the door and tails Jimmy. He’d like to find out more on this Nicky individual, if Jimmy is going in that direction…

Jimmy is utterly oblivious to Shirley’s presence as he ambles down the lane, all his troubles momentarily forgotten. Twenty minutes’ walk gets Jimmy (and Shirley, at a discreet distance) to a dark, odiferous alley in a distinctly unpleasant part of London. Shirley has no difficulty overhearing the conversation, nor remaining hidden in the wintery London fog. Nicky has a strong, lower-class Irish accent.

“You done it, then, boyo?”

“Knocked him on the head, Mister Finn—I mean
Nicky—just like you said.”

“Did you tell him to bugger off from the Eclipse?”

A pause… “I fink so, Nicky. I was concentratin’ on the coshin’-the-bloke-on-the-’ead part.”

“You fink so? It’s no good without the tellin’ ’im to bugger off.”

“I told ’im Nicky, I’m sure of it!”

“You better have, is all I’m sayin’. Here’s your money, now bugger off yourself.”

Shirley knows Nicky cannot be ultimately responsible for Jimmy’s assignment; such a one as Nicky would have no reason even to be aware of the Grand Ellipse. Nicky is handling the matter for someone else, then, but for whom?

The overheard conversation lends support to the obvious hypothesis that the responsible party wants Shirley out of the race but quails at killing him. Why Shirley, though? Shirley cannot pretend even to himself that he is a strong contender, much less that he is too prominent to kill. Is the responsible party indiscriminately targeting all entrants? Is the responsible party even a contestant? Perhaps someone has reason to want the race itself stopped.

Shirley cannot know, with the little he has learned. Even so, the knowledge he currently has might be useful in future, to himself or to someone else. Perhaps—Shirley’s blood chills—perhaps the responsible party will not hold back from murder next time. Better accumulate sufficient evidence to cry foul now than wait for someone to die. Pausing a moment to retrace his route in his head and give Nicky a suitable start, Shirley resolves to tail the Irishman.

By staying well back from the Irishman, relying on fog and shadows for concealment, Shirley follows Nicky Finn to a telegraph office. Finn bangs on the door loudly, and shouts obscenities until the unfortunate clerk with overnight duty opens the door. Finn pushes past him, into the telegraph office, and the door closes.

Shirley curses under his breath, seeing no licit way to discern the contents of Finn’s telegram. Nor would he feel safe entering after Finn leaves; the clerk could not help but remember such a thing, two men entering his office in the dead of night, the second—Shirley only now realizes—clad in a topcoat over a dressing gown and pyjamas.

He makes his way back to his lodging, cold and not a little nervous, keeping a sharp eye out behind him. By the time he reaches his room, he knows what he will do.

As Shirley prepares for bed, there is a knock on his door. A disreputable-looking man stands outside. In one hand, he holds a dirty, crumpled, smudged piece of paper. His other hand is behind his back. He studies the piece of paper intently for a moment. In a broad cockney accent, he asks, “Are you… uh…” He looks at the paper again, squints. “Are you Mister Addam? Izzat you, then?”

He puts the piece of paper back in his pocket. His other hand remains behind his back. He squints at you again.

“It IS you, idn’t it? Crikey, You prob’ly don’t remember me, but you done me a good turn year ago. Got me off that robbery charge by provin’ I ain’t done it that time, on account of me bein’ busy drownin’ them kittens. Cor, I can’t do this to yer. Sorry to disturb you, Mister Addam, sir.”

Shirley lets go the throat of his dressing-gown and reaches out to stop the man. “No, wait! If you please. You are—why, James, Jimmy Pilkington. I do remember. Half a moment, please.” He half-closes the door, buttons the top button of his high-necked nightshirt, and reties his dressing-gown. “Please, Jimmy, come in,” he says then, opening the door wide enough to admit the cockney. “What is it you have there? What are you doing so far from York? And what is it you’ve been given to do?”

Jimmy slinks into the room, and half-falls into the only chair. Shirley notices that he’s holding an old sock with a lump in it in one hand. Discreetly, Shirley looks down. Yes, Jimmy is only wearing one sock.

“It all done gone wrong for me, Mister Addam, sir. Me ’n’ One-eyed Jack even stopped drownin’ the kittens, like you said. The thing is, Jack forgot to pick up ’is traps, see, so we had a sackful of kittens and bugger-all to do wiv ’em.”

Jimmy sniffles, and Shirley remembers that he was turned fourteen during last year’s trial. He has grown quite a bit since then.

“So, One-eyed Jack says we ort to take them kittens to London, as there’s people there wot’ll buy anyfing. So we does, see, and we sells ’em to this bird on Fleet Street, wot owns a pie-shop. An’ she asks if we got any more, so Jack sets up ’is traps again, and for a while, it’s all gravy. ’Course, we never et at that pie shop again. Then, after a few months, the bird don’t want no more kittens—says she’s got somefing much better. And when Jack goes out for ’is traps, he gets ’it by a carriage an’ kilt. So here’s me, wiv no money, no kittens, and no job.”

Jimmy sniffles again and wipes his nose on his sleeve. Shirley reaches into his valise and extracts a handkerchief. “Here. Keep it.”

“Last week, I was lookin’ through some rag bins an’ this man come up to me. “Yer a likely-lookin’ lad,” ’e says; “strappin young chap like yourself can do much better than pickin’ rags, don’tcha know?” An’ as pickin’ rags is nasty work, I says I wouldn’t mind some better work, right? So ’e says all I’ve got to do is follow this bloke, tell ’im to stay away from the Grand Eclipse, and cosh ’im one good, so’s to ’elp ’is memory. I’d no idea it was you, Mister Addam, sir!”

“No, of course not. Why should you? No harm done, Jimmy—and thank you, truly, thank you. I hope you got paid in advance. See here, what can you tell me about the man who hired you? Anyone you knew? Would you know him if you saw him again? Oh, and how did he know where you’d find me?”

“I got ’alf in advance, Mister Addam, sir. Don’t s’pose I’ll be seein’ the rest, eh?” Shirley grunts noncommittally. The shock of the near-attack faded, he is starting to think. Jimmy blows his nose, loudly and messily, into the handkerchief. “The man ’oo ’ired me… said ’e was a friend o’ One-eyed Jack’s; that ’e were watchin’ me. Said to call ’im Nicky. Couldn’ help but recognize ’im again, I daresay, wot wif that nasty scar.” Jimmy draws a line from the center of his left eyebrow diagonally to the outside of his left eye. “’E’s the one wot told me you was ’ere. ’Course, I ain’t eager to see ’im again, wot wif this cock-up. No offence, Mister Addam, sir!”

Shirley’s attention seems to be wandering. “Mm. None taken.” He starts to pace the little room, chin in hand.

Young Jimmy’s eyes take on an eager, speculative look. “Say, Mister Addam, sir, could I work for you instead? I can carry yer bags an’ shine yer shoes! It’d keep me right out o’ trouble, it would! No more sellin’ kittens or coshin’ people on the ’ead. ’Nless you said so, sir.”