be noticed. Jenkins pulled a large brass key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and bowed, inviting me in.
“Father!” he cried over my shoulder, making me start. “I am home, and I’ve brought company!”
From the fireplace corner, a stooped figure looked up at us out of a pair of rheumy gray eyes. In fact, all of Jenkins’s father seemed gray, from his hair to his stubbly whiskers to the color of his coat. Mr. Jenkins senior appeared incapable of speech, due to what I took to be apoplexy, which also severely hampered his movements.
“Father, this is Mr. Thomas Llewelyn, Mr. Barker’s assistant, who I’ve told you about. Mr. L., this is my father, Jeremy Jenkins, Senior, the greatest engraver in London as ever was.”
I bowed. “I’m very honored, sir.”
The man nodded to me. After we’d set down our hot burdens, Jenkins closed the front door, which I saw contained no less than six locks on the inside, including a metal bolt that slid into the stone fireplace. The little house was a fortress.
“I don’t know why Mr. Barker wanted me to see you home. It would take an army to break into this place,” I said.
“Perhaps he wanted to give you an evening of domesticitybefore you start traveling about the country,” our clerk offered.
“Have you any idea where we’re going?”
“Not a clue, and with Mr. B., there’s no telling. Is there, Father? No telling with Mr. B., eh?”
Jenkins had a disconcerting habit of trying to bring his silent parent into every conversation. There was no way to judge if the old man understood a word we were saying or if the infirmity had cost him his faculties. I did not envy our clerk the burden of looking after an ill parent; but he bore it lightly, so lightly, in fact, that I had never suspected the old man was in such a poor state.
Jenkins took down some stoneware plates and mugs, a jug of malt vinegar, and cutlery. Then he tied a serviette around his father’s neck and began to feed him. It was a tedious and messy process and proved to me how highly he regarded his father. I busied myself with my own food and allowed the old gentleman what dignity he had left.
“Bless my soul!” Jenkins suddenly cried. “If I ain’t forgotten the libation. Now don’t you trouble yourself, Father, while I see to the drinks.”
He rose and went to a corner where a small barrel with a spigot was resting and filled the three mugs full of cider. As I suspected, the drink had the kick of a Surrey mule.
“That’s good cider,” I said, once I’d gotten my breath back.
“Yes, Mr. Maccabee makes it for us.”
“Mac?”
“Oh, yes, he knows his way ’round an apple, that one does.”
I looked about the room. It was a cozy bachelor establishment,almost like a public house, very like the Rising Sun, in fact.
“You have a very nice snuggery here, Jeremy.”
“Thank you, Thomas. Of course, most of the furnishings were first purchased by my father during the prime of his career, before the tragic affliction overtook him. He was a great man.”
“And still is, I’m sure,” I said.
“Bless you, sir. You are one of nature’s gentlemen.”
“So what sort of engraving did your father do?”
“All sorts, sir. In fact, I’m sure you have a few portraits my father did in your pocket right now.”
“You mean bank notes?” I asked, astonished.
“I do. He worked with the Treasury for a while, then he worked against it.”
“Against it? You don’t mean counterfeiting, surely?”
“Oh, yes, there’s always been a streak of larceny in the Jenkins blood. I’ll show you Father’s masterpiece, if the old gentleman will give his permission. What say you, Father? Shall we let Mr. L. in on our little secret?”
Jenkins’s parent gave a small convulsion of emotion just then, which caused me to think him not mentally damaged at all, which, if anything, made matters worse for him.
“Very well, then. Mr. L.—er, Thomas. Come with me.”
As I stood, I understood why
“Father!” he cried over my shoulder, making me start. “I am home, and I’ve brought company!”
From the fireplace corner, a stooped figure looked up at us out of a pair of rheumy gray eyes. In fact, all of Jenkins’s father seemed gray, from his hair to his stubbly whiskers to the color of his coat. Mr. Jenkins senior appeared incapable of speech, due to what I took to be apoplexy, which also severely hampered his movements.
“Father, this is Mr. Thomas Llewelyn, Mr. Barker’s assistant, who I’ve told you about. Mr. L., this is my father, Jeremy Jenkins, Senior, the greatest engraver in London as ever was.”
I bowed. “I’m very honored, sir.”
The man nodded to me. After we’d set down our hot burdens, Jenkins closed the front door, which I saw contained no less than six locks on the inside, including a metal bolt that slid into the stone fireplace. The little house was a fortress.
“I don’t know why Mr. Barker wanted me to see you home. It would take an army to break into this place,” I said.
“Perhaps he wanted to give you an evening of domesticitybefore you start traveling about the country,” our clerk offered.
“Have you any idea where we’re going?”
“Not a clue, and with Mr. B., there’s no telling. Is there, Father? No telling with Mr. B., eh?”
Jenkins had a disconcerting habit of trying to bring his silent parent into every conversation. There was no way to judge if the old man understood a word we were saying or if the infirmity had cost him his faculties. I did not envy our clerk the burden of looking after an ill parent; but he bore it lightly, so lightly, in fact, that I had never suspected the old man was in such a poor state.
Jenkins took down some stoneware plates and mugs, a jug of malt vinegar, and cutlery. Then he tied a serviette around his father’s neck and began to feed him. It was a tedious and messy process and proved to me how highly he regarded his father. I busied myself with my own food and allowed the old gentleman what dignity he had left.
“Bless my soul!” Jenkins suddenly cried. “If I ain’t forgotten the libation. Now don’t you trouble yourself, Father, while I see to the drinks.”
He rose and went to a corner where a small barrel with a spigot was resting and filled the three mugs full of cider. As I suspected, the drink had the kick of a Surrey mule.
“That’s good cider,” I said, once I’d gotten my breath back.
“Yes, Mr. Maccabee makes it for us.”
“Mac?”
“Oh, yes, he knows his way ’round an apple, that one does.”
I looked about the room. It was a cozy bachelor establishment,almost like a public house, very like the Rising Sun, in fact.
“You have a very nice snuggery here, Jeremy.”
“Thank you, Thomas. Of course, most of the furnishings were first purchased by my father during the prime of his career, before the tragic affliction overtook him. He was a great man.”
“And still is, I’m sure,” I said.
“Bless you, sir. You are one of nature’s gentlemen.”
“So what sort of engraving did your father do?”
“All sorts, sir. In fact, I’m sure you have a few portraits my father did in your pocket right now.”
“You mean bank notes?” I asked, astonished.
“I do. He worked with the Treasury for a while, then he worked against it.”
“Against it? You don’t mean counterfeiting, surely?”
“Oh, yes, there’s always been a streak of larceny in the Jenkins blood. I’ll show you Father’s masterpiece, if the old gentleman will give his permission. What say you, Father? Shall we let Mr. L. in on our little secret?”
Jenkins’s parent gave a small convulsion of emotion just then, which caused me to think him not mentally damaged at all, which, if anything, made matters worse for him.
“Very well, then. Mr. L.—er, Thomas. Come with me.”
As I stood, I understood why
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