A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(21)
“Good God, Fensworth,” Young Abernathy said, his impatience turning to a sympathy that was entirely gratifying. “To my certain knowledge you haven’t taken an hour off since I’ve been head of the firm. You’re more than owed it. Go home. Bundle up. Get your housekeeper to make you a hot brandy or something. Don’t come back until you feel better, you hear me? That’s an order.”
Young Abernathy’s response warmed the cockles of his old heart. “Thank you, sir,” he said with gratitude. “I appreciate it very much, sir.”
“Appreciate it from the comfort of your bed,” Young Abernathy replied, and taking that as the dismissal that it was, Fensworth took his leave.
But once he was bundled into a cab, that same oppression of spirits descended on him again, and he huddled inside his overcoat, feeling every one of his sixty years.
The cab let him out in front of the building where his flat lay, and he trudged his way wearily through the snow, his thoughts as gray as the sky. He put his hand on the door, and opened it.
And the darkness inside swallowed him.
By the time Alexandre was ready to stop again, he discovered to his surprise that it was dinnertime. “Alf?” he called, massaging his cramped fingers. They were very informal; he didn’t bother with a bell, and he rather thought Alf might resent a bell anyway.
“Been down t’the pub, guv,” Alf said. “Just settin’ out a lovely bit of a pie.”
Right now a steak and kidney pie sounded much more appealing than anything on offer at the club. Once again, Alexandre stoppered the ink, cleaned the pen, secured the pages he had finished, made sure the next line was marked, and weighed everything down before he joined Alf in the dining room. “Wine or beer, guv’nor?” Alf asked, serving a generous portion of pie on Alexandre’s plate. “Lovely tinned peas, all hotted up, too.” Alf approved of tinned goods. “No b’iling ’em to bits,” he had commented when Alexandre asked why he liked them so much—which probably spoke volumes about Alf’s mother’s cooking, and why Alf himself had learned some basic cooking skills.
A generous pat of butter on the peas, plenty of bread and butter on the table, and Alf considered his duties discharged, save the drink.
“Red wine, Alf, and get a glass for yourself. Make it a red Number Seven.” One of Alf’s failings was that he never could be bothered to learn the care of wine, or indeed anything about it. He could distinguish between port and sherry, red wine and white, and that was his limit. So there was no use asking him for what was on the label; he’d scratch his head and take any old bottle of the right color. Alexandre had devised a system of simply pasting paper labels over the necks of the bottles when he bought them, and writing numbers on them before carefully racking them with the numbers facing up so Alf wouldn’t be tempted to turn them and disturb the sediment. It was, all things considered a minor inconvenience—far outweighed by Alf’s excellent taste in whores.
“Don’t mind if Oi do,” Alf said agreeably, and went out and returned, carefully carrying the bottle as he’d been shown, with two glasses. Alexandre poured for both of them, and they settled in to eat.
He caught a slightly unusual bit of movement out of the corner of his eye and looked up. Alf, contrary to his usual habits, looked as if he intended to make some conversation over dinner. Alexandre nodded to encourage him.
“Thet book,” Alf said, with rare diffidence. “It’s somethin’ special?”
“I don’t know yet,” Alexandre admitted. “I think it may be. I’m making a good copy of it before I try anything out of it.”
Alf nodded sagely. “Tha’s all right, then. Was gonna warn ye, guv, t’do somet’in’ of thet nature. My old master nearly lost a arm, not bein’ careful in thet way.” He took a bite of pie after that astonishing statement, and chewed thoughtfully. “Did lose th’ book,” he added.
Alexandre had known that Alf was in his master’s confidences, but until now, he had not realized how far. “I’d rather not lose any part of me, thank you,” he observed. “Have you any other advice?” After all, Alf had been with his previous master for more than a decade. And if he was that intimate with what the magician had been doing, it made sense to make use of his experience.
“Well, Oi seed you got a bunch of other books; yer checkin’ names an’ suchlike?” At Alexandre’s nod his expression turned approving. “Can’t be too careful. Wust that happens if ye miscall a cratchur, is ’e turns up, an’ ye got no control on ’im.”
They ate in silence for a little while longer. Then Alexandre spoke up. “The thing is . . . I don’t recognize most of the names.”
“Reely? Blimey!” Alf actually stopped chewing to stare at him. “Ever’thin’ else tallies?”
“It seems to. I’ll know better when I have a fair copy and I can look for humbugs.” Alexandre had been taken in by faux manuscripts before this; he’d learned how to tell something truly original from something that had been deliberately created to deceive. There were usually subtle mistakes; mistakes that had the potential to get the magician killed.
“Huh.” Alf cleaned his plate. Alf always cleaned his plate—when he was done with a meal, it almost didn’t need to be washed. Alexandre refilled his glass, hoping to coax more out of him. “Might be you got yersel’ somethin’ special. Them thin’s . . . my old master said they was made to go lookin’ fer magicians.”