edition of the Times on his knee and scanning the personal advertisements with his light-grey eyes. One might have said, from his well-made clothes and the good taste of the room,
that he was a gentleman. But the crooked nose and lightly scarred knuckles suggested a more eventful past than most of our gentlemen are accustomed to. His real name was Noah Dyson.
‘Listen to this, Ben,’ he said, reading to the large Negro sitting in a similarly accommodating chair by the fire. ‘“The writer of the anonymous note to Mr Swales makes
an erroneous assumption as to the identity of the person referred to.” If that is not a blackmail case, I do not know what is. Or how about this one: “If Mr Parrack, formerly butler to
the late Lord Young will make his address known to G.D. at 14 Rathbone-place, he may hear something to his advantage.” What do you make of that, Ben? A legacy? Or more blackmail?’
Benjamin gave a great basso laugh and put down his book. He was indeed a unique specimen, the opaque eye and his large size – all of it hard muscle – lending him a fearsome
air. A horrifying scar of twisted skin about his throat suggested a too-near acquaintance with the gallows at some point in his past, while further scarring at his temples and nose hinted at some
time in the prize ring. He did not respond in speech to Noah’s question, but instead described a number of curious shapes in the air with his hands, swooping, squeezing and punctuating with
his fingers until he had completed his thought in that language.
‘No, I am not bored, Ben. These entries are quite fascinating. Each one is a story in itself; one must only pull at its strands to uncover the larger truth. Do you not occasionally
look at the faces on the streets and wonder at their secrets, their cares, their guilt – their crimes? Do you not see in these pages those secrets laid bare?’
Benjamin, now reading again, smiled and used a single hand to indicate ‘no’ without looking up from his page.
‘Well, listen to this one: “If M.R. will write immediately, M.S. will go to see her”. That is evidently a story of romance. He is pursuing her against the will of her parents,
but they have been maintaining an illicit correspondence all the same. It seems her parents have been getting the upper hand and this is his desperate attempt to renew that correspondence. That is my interpretation.’
Benjamin, still focused upon the book, simply shook his head. He had not the slightest interest.
‘And this is an interesting one: “:” – some manner of vulgar Greek by the looks of it. One does not often see foreign tongues in the personal advertisements. I wonder what
it—’
Benjamin slapped the covers of his book together and remarked (one might assume from the pointed nature of his gesticulations) that he had had enough of his friend’s incessant talk and was
taking his book to a place where he might read in peace.
‘Suit yourself, Ben. I will see you at supper,’ said Noah.
Alone now, he applied himself once more to the paper and saw on the next page that Benjamin, despite his professed lack of interest, had circled one of the advertisements in dark pencil for
Noah’s interest: Five guineas reward – lost on Tuesday this week between Custom House quay and the Tower, a gold and diamond brooch in the shape of a swan. Bring the article to
Mivart’s Hotel and ask for Miss Roberts to claim the reward.
He smiled. Many mistook Benjamin for his manservant, but no man could wish for a truer and more loyal friend. They had fought back-to-back on more than one foreign shore, sailors’ knives
in hand and their clothes hanging in bloody strips from their bodies. They had known such privation that a shared forecastle bunk was their only comfort, and yet they had also enjoyed wealth beyond
many men’s imaginations. That, however, is another story entirely.
Noah tore the circled message carefully from the paper and folded it into his
that he was a gentleman. But the crooked nose and lightly scarred knuckles suggested a more eventful past than most of our gentlemen are accustomed to. His real name was Noah Dyson.
‘Listen to this, Ben,’ he said, reading to the large Negro sitting in a similarly accommodating chair by the fire. ‘“The writer of the anonymous note to Mr Swales makes
an erroneous assumption as to the identity of the person referred to.” If that is not a blackmail case, I do not know what is. Or how about this one: “If Mr Parrack, formerly butler to
the late Lord Young will make his address known to G.D. at 14 Rathbone-place, he may hear something to his advantage.” What do you make of that, Ben? A legacy? Or more blackmail?’
Benjamin gave a great basso laugh and put down his book. He was indeed a unique specimen, the opaque eye and his large size – all of it hard muscle – lending him a fearsome
air. A horrifying scar of twisted skin about his throat suggested a too-near acquaintance with the gallows at some point in his past, while further scarring at his temples and nose hinted at some
time in the prize ring. He did not respond in speech to Noah’s question, but instead described a number of curious shapes in the air with his hands, swooping, squeezing and punctuating with
his fingers until he had completed his thought in that language.
‘No, I am not bored, Ben. These entries are quite fascinating. Each one is a story in itself; one must only pull at its strands to uncover the larger truth. Do you not occasionally
look at the faces on the streets and wonder at their secrets, their cares, their guilt – their crimes? Do you not see in these pages those secrets laid bare?’
Benjamin, now reading again, smiled and used a single hand to indicate ‘no’ without looking up from his page.
‘Well, listen to this one: “If M.R. will write immediately, M.S. will go to see her”. That is evidently a story of romance. He is pursuing her against the will of her parents,
but they have been maintaining an illicit correspondence all the same. It seems her parents have been getting the upper hand and this is his desperate attempt to renew that correspondence. That is my interpretation.’
Benjamin, still focused upon the book, simply shook his head. He had not the slightest interest.
‘And this is an interesting one: “:” – some manner of vulgar Greek by the looks of it. One does not often see foreign tongues in the personal advertisements. I wonder what
it—’
Benjamin slapped the covers of his book together and remarked (one might assume from the pointed nature of his gesticulations) that he had had enough of his friend’s incessant talk and was
taking his book to a place where he might read in peace.
‘Suit yourself, Ben. I will see you at supper,’ said Noah.
Alone now, he applied himself once more to the paper and saw on the next page that Benjamin, despite his professed lack of interest, had circled one of the advertisements in dark pencil for
Noah’s interest: Five guineas reward – lost on Tuesday this week between Custom House quay and the Tower, a gold and diamond brooch in the shape of a swan. Bring the article to
Mivart’s Hotel and ask for Miss Roberts to claim the reward.
He smiled. Many mistook Benjamin for his manservant, but no man could wish for a truer and more loyal friend. They had fought back-to-back on more than one foreign shore, sailors’ knives
in hand and their clothes hanging in bloody strips from their bodies. They had known such privation that a shared forecastle bunk was their only comfort, and yet they had also enjoyed wealth beyond
many men’s imaginations. That, however, is another story entirely.
Noah tore the circled message carefully from the paper and folded it into his
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