S
o, the Lame Man has a name. A significant development. A man with a name is much easier to trace. It can even be done at a remove, say, at a worn table in a public house over a pint of strong ale and a vegetable pie. A more congenial sort of tracing. Detailed paperwork, well, it is the way of the modern age. Around the back of the Census Office and the Archives he’s become something of a regular figure; chatting with the porters and the coffee girls. The clerks avoid him, he is beneath their notice. More the fools they; he’s made a little extra on the contents of their pockets.
A wise thief never passes up the opportunity to hone their skills.
The contents of conceited men’s pockets has been the fruits of one sort of practice, the name of the Lame Man another. Both valuable, both fungible to the right buyer. The fences back home bought trinkets and watches. Mr Shrike paid for the information.
“Discretion is required, Bailey.” Always enjoying the fact that ‘Discretion’ is his middle name, is Mr Shrike. It does make for a mild laugh, and the golly does have a sense of humor. “Keep a fair distance and don’t raise the alarm. I want the particulars of the man, his habits and his associations. I do not wish to spring you from the Barbican on charges of menacing.” Mr Shrike, hollow-eyed and less-than-properly shaven has been looking ill. Too stretched, too pale. Papers and diagrams pinned along the walls of the little room he uses as a study. Names tacked up, lines between them, pages of ledgers torn out and affixed here and there, visitor logs and appointment calendars piled up in stacks. It has seemed mad at first, even random. That had been another worry. Mr Shrike might be many things, but random had never been one of them.
In time, the papers had taken on a more sensible structure. Details of the comings and goings of men, some with names even he recognizes. Magistrates, Incumbents, greencoats. “This Lame Man, he’s one of this lot?”
“Unlikely, but I require data to verify. Background check. Full workup. Virtues and vices, known associates, favorite haunts. I’ll handle the compilation and the paperwork.”
“Never in life Mr Shrike, you’ve enough damned paperwork to sort.” A quick gesture around the room was enough, and Mr Shrike had nodded.
“Carry on Bailey. I leave it in your hands. But take care.”
“Right you are. And how much of a danger can a pretty-faced lame man be?”
He had spotted the Lame Man first at Kingsway, then around Crosstown a few times. Busy places both, and rumor was too thick to parse quickly. Too many kovs with gammy legs it seems. They must be popping up like mushrooms in this season. Well, the slickness of the streets is always dangerous, especially to flash gollies with no sense in shoes.
The Lame Man had been easy enough to follow, as it turned out. A Smike’s End man apparently, and distinctive enough to be remembered by barmen, shop keepers, and that fraternity of solid-looking men who were forever unloading carts and wagons. Always a good source of information, the men of that fraternity.
A few well placed questions, and a few better placed coins, and the streets on which the Lame Man is most often seen were made known. From there, the man had been easy enough to follow. It had been no great surprise to learn the man haunted a bookshop. Mr Shrike had said the man had some association with writing. What had come as something of a shock was to learn that the Lame Man, one Emilio Sanguini, was a noted and sometimes feted author.
Out side the bookshop now, and dressed in his best clothes. Deep rust nearly new, a clean neckcloth well tied, scrubbed to the nines at the bathhouse on Camden Street. At some remove he might pass for a callow golly youth. Close up, that error would be easily pierced. Papers in his pocket, official ones and not even slightly forged, naming him the trusted servant to one Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed, esq. Today, as on every day, he is plenipotentiary, a loyal extension of a government official. Funny that, now he comes to think on it. By the transitive property of authority, that makes him an organ of government as well. And they say wicks have no place in such matters.
The ringing of the bell as he enters the shop. A fine smell of paper and of well-kept old wood. Books arrayed upon tables and on shelves, most with titles whose acquaintance he has never made. The book of the moment, the latest magnum opus of the celebrated Mr Sanguini, appears in many copies just to hand. Perhaps he can do with an improving book.
A desultory flipping of the pages, reading a passage here and there. The prose is solid, even lively in places. Lively, and with a familiar echo. Perhaps that is an especial power of Mr Sanguini, to always seem vaguely familiar. A misfortune to be sure.
“What in the name of the Lady of Hours are you doing in here?” A bookseller, a matronly lady of fine and upright bearing. A lady who must be someone’s fearsome aunt. She had aunt written all over her.
“Which I am here to purchase books, improving books, and acquire the signature of the celebrated Mr Sanguini.” It is true enough. An improving book or two will serve him well. He has run out of the better sort of tally dreadfuls. All of Caseby’s oeuvre is finished, owing to the lady having been found face down in the Arova last year. An unsolved murder worthy of her own pen. Broadhallow, that crafty fellow, has put out nothing in recent months. A pity. Now there is a man who can write a real twisting tale. Better than the sordid bodice-rippers and paper-thing murders of so many others.
“Your kind is unwelcome. Loathsome. Bastardly. Rootless”
“Forgive my correcting you madame, but I ain’t no bastard. Proper nuptials my parents had, and I ain’t no wanderer neither. Viendan born and bred.” More Viendan that this pleasant creature. That accent is new enough, three or four generations here at best. Vowels are all wrong and the cadence too languid. The lady has bumpkin relations, country folk. Probably visits them on holidays. Loathsome. Bastardly. Rootless. “Now, as a woman of business, I fancy my coin is as good as any.” He reaches into his pocket and reveals a handful of tallies and even a concord. “Money’s money, so they say, and no matter the source, money don’t stink.” He gives a small and perhaps elegant bow. “Besides, I’m here on behalf of my principle. A busy man in their majesties’ service. Now, do you want his custom, or shall I locate a more amicable bookseller?”
Herself looks perplexed, even uncomfortable. His hand moves ever so slightly, just enough for the coins to catch the light again. “You are a servant?” He smiles. The coins have done their work. Everyone has their price. “It is most unusual.”
“I am a trusted agent madame.” He bows again, this time there is a little mockery. He can afford it now. The lady is bought and will be paid for. “Send an inquiry to the gent, by all means, but it will annoy him. A great lover of books is my principle. Don’t go losing good money over thinking me what I ain’t.”
At last she nods, with some discomfort. “Bold claims from one such as you, but money is, as you say, money. Be quick about your business, then get out. Should you call again, you will be thrown out without a moment’s notice.” Charming. An unenlightened woman, this bookseller. A lady refusing to see the changes in the offing. And there will be changes. For the good of the city, it must be so.
She huffs, but says no more. And so he joins the line of ladies and gentlemen waiting for their signatures. He will buy the book of course, and perhaps a few others. Mr Shrike is not a great man for novels, but he’ll hold no grudges if several are purchased. The line is long enough for him to read more of this work of popular but literary fiction. There remains something familiar in the words, a cadence and an eye for description that echoes the best of the tally dreadfuls. It echoes Caseby and Broadhallow. More elevated of course, more rarefied, but the same energetic drive and facility with words. Perhaps he should read more improving books.
The line dwindles, and at last he stands before the Lame Man. The signature will be easy enough. It will unlock a number of other mysteries. Those are Mr Shrike’s mysteries. Here and now, he has mysteries of his own. “Mr Sanguini,” he says at last to the too-pretty man before him, “I cannot say I have read your books, but while in line, I devoured a few pages. Excellent stuff. Like a tally dreadful, but for gollies. Will there be blood, Mr Sanguini? With a name like that, I should hope so.”