will give further detail and extend my thanks in person.
J.S.
The signature did not mean anything to Eusebius, but then he knew virtually nothing of the Society itself apart from its money in his pocket. The letter-bearer stood discreetly at a distance while he read, then motioned that they should walk a little to a waiting carriage.
Unaccustomed to such travel, Eusebius sat uncomfortably upon the fine leather seat and tried not to touch any of the lacquered wood about him as they headed west along the Strand, along Pall Mall and towards the parks. The sweet-smelling interior of the carriage was a pocket of luxury amidst the noise, smoke and stench of the city passing by the windows. Was this, he wondered, how a gentleman sees the world? His tongue quivered at his mouth’s edge, tasting the air of refinement.
If the carriage had impressed him, the letter writer’s abode cowed him. Its stone façade towered over him and he felt quite naked once divested of his broad-brimmed hat and damp gloves by an unsmiling male servant. He patted his hair, which, unused to seeing the light, was quite slicked to his head.
The room he was shown into was empty. A healthy fire crackled in the grate and evidence of wealth and taste adorned every surface: oil paintings upon the oak-panelled walls, a rug with Oriental designs in the centre of the room, and furniture with inlays and curlicues that made his own rough chattels look like firewood. There was a smell of flowers or some Oriental scent in the air
Not wanting to sit in any of the beautiful chairs, he remained standing with his hands clutched before him. Nobody came. He began to shuffle. Had his presence not been announced to the master of the house?
Feeling bolder, he walked to a large window and looked out into a garden. Still nobody came. Finally, Eusebius could not resist. His sensitive ears alive for the merest creak of approach, he moved to a sideboard and opened a door to peer within at a selection of bottles. Then, after looking around, he opened a drawer to see some leather gloves and a pile of silk handkerchiefs. Theft was not his aim – only knowledge. Then he walked silently across the rug to a door leading to another room. A sound was coming from within and – being no more able to stop himself than a cheap harlot can resist a glass of gin – he could do nothing else but bend to the keyhole.
A man sitting with his back to the door could be seen from the shoulders up. His head was almost completely bald but for a few wisps of thin pale brown hair clinging to the scalp. The skin itself did not seem quite human – at least, not living. It was yellowish, flaky and encrusted all over with pimples at various stages of either pustulence or desiccation.
As Eusebius crouched at the keyhole, the man slathered some manner of unguent over his naked head with quivering fingers until the whole was anointed with the glistening stuff – a sight that even our observer found curiously repugnant. Then the man took a dark brown peruke from the table before him and positioned it on his head.
At that moment, the door was opened suddenly from the inside and Eusebius was caught leaping to a standing position as the man, in fact the signatory ‘J.S.’ of the letter, turned around. The servant within who had pulled the door open attempted to suppress a grin as Eusebius reddened dramatically.
‘Do not be ashamed, Eusebius,’ said the man in the wig, facing him now. His voice was half rasp, half gargle – as if he had not quite swallowed something.
‘I am sorry, sir. I . . .’
‘I said do not be ashamed. This was a test and you have passed. I need an observer just like you: a man who is inquisitive, a man who will not let a closed door stop him from learning what he must – even when he finds himself in unfamiliar surroundings.’
The man’s face was similar in appearance to his scalp, only the skin was more scarred with cicatrices denoting a history of disruption. There
J.S.
The signature did not mean anything to Eusebius, but then he knew virtually nothing of the Society itself apart from its money in his pocket. The letter-bearer stood discreetly at a distance while he read, then motioned that they should walk a little to a waiting carriage.
Unaccustomed to such travel, Eusebius sat uncomfortably upon the fine leather seat and tried not to touch any of the lacquered wood about him as they headed west along the Strand, along Pall Mall and towards the parks. The sweet-smelling interior of the carriage was a pocket of luxury amidst the noise, smoke and stench of the city passing by the windows. Was this, he wondered, how a gentleman sees the world? His tongue quivered at his mouth’s edge, tasting the air of refinement.
If the carriage had impressed him, the letter writer’s abode cowed him. Its stone façade towered over him and he felt quite naked once divested of his broad-brimmed hat and damp gloves by an unsmiling male servant. He patted his hair, which, unused to seeing the light, was quite slicked to his head.
The room he was shown into was empty. A healthy fire crackled in the grate and evidence of wealth and taste adorned every surface: oil paintings upon the oak-panelled walls, a rug with Oriental designs in the centre of the room, and furniture with inlays and curlicues that made his own rough chattels look like firewood. There was a smell of flowers or some Oriental scent in the air
Not wanting to sit in any of the beautiful chairs, he remained standing with his hands clutched before him. Nobody came. He began to shuffle. Had his presence not been announced to the master of the house?
Feeling bolder, he walked to a large window and looked out into a garden. Still nobody came. Finally, Eusebius could not resist. His sensitive ears alive for the merest creak of approach, he moved to a sideboard and opened a door to peer within at a selection of bottles. Then, after looking around, he opened a drawer to see some leather gloves and a pile of silk handkerchiefs. Theft was not his aim – only knowledge. Then he walked silently across the rug to a door leading to another room. A sound was coming from within and – being no more able to stop himself than a cheap harlot can resist a glass of gin – he could do nothing else but bend to the keyhole.
A man sitting with his back to the door could be seen from the shoulders up. His head was almost completely bald but for a few wisps of thin pale brown hair clinging to the scalp. The skin itself did not seem quite human – at least, not living. It was yellowish, flaky and encrusted all over with pimples at various stages of either pustulence or desiccation.
As Eusebius crouched at the keyhole, the man slathered some manner of unguent over his naked head with quivering fingers until the whole was anointed with the glistening stuff – a sight that even our observer found curiously repugnant. Then the man took a dark brown peruke from the table before him and positioned it on his head.
At that moment, the door was opened suddenly from the inside and Eusebius was caught leaping to a standing position as the man, in fact the signatory ‘J.S.’ of the letter, turned around. The servant within who had pulled the door open attempted to suppress a grin as Eusebius reddened dramatically.
‘Do not be ashamed, Eusebius,’ said the man in the wig, facing him now. His voice was half rasp, half gargle – as if he had not quite swallowed something.
‘I am sorry, sir. I . . .’
‘I said do not be ashamed. This was a test and you have passed. I need an observer just like you: a man who is inquisitive, a man who will not let a closed door stop him from learning what he must – even when he finds himself in unfamiliar surroundings.’
The man’s face was similar in appearance to his scalp, only the skin was more scarred with cicatrices denoting a history of disruption. There
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