Part 5 (1/2)
”A little.”
”A little. Hmm. More precisely?”
”Ah-I began my studies at the University of Edinburgh. Medicine.”
Gracewell looked annoyed. ”Began?”
”Yes, Mr Gracewell.”
Shaking his head, Gracewell began to rummage in the drawers of his desk, possibly for tobacco.
Arthur glanced again at the photographs on the wall. Reflections on the gla.s.s obscured their contents, but he thought that they might be an astronomer's sketches of the moon; all blotchy grey seas and mysterious black lines.
”I see you have an interest in astronomy, Mr Gracewell.”
”Began.” Gracewell closed the drawer. ”But not finished.”
”Well, no.”
”Your father?”
”Excuse me?”
”Was, you said. Departed?”
”Yes.”
”Madness in the family?”
”Madness?”
”Yes.”
”No.”
”No there isn't or no you won't answer?”
”The former, Mr Gracewell. At least, not to my knowledge.”
”A history of unlucky accidents?”
”I don't see the pertinence of any of this.”
”I dare say you don't! Answer, please, or stop wasting my time. How did your father die?”
”In an accident; boating on a lake in Switzerland. I was eight. My mother too, if you must know.”
”Hmm.” Gracewell showed no sign of sympathy.
”I still don't see the pertinence of it.”
”Unusual coincidences?”
”No more than usual.”
”Shaw. Arthur Shaw. Do I know that name?”
”I don't know, Mr Gracewell. Did you read the Mammoth?”
”What's that? A newspaper? I don't have time to read newspapers.”
A bell rang somewhere below. Gracewell lifted one finger, waited, as if for the bell to ring again. It didn't. Gracewell's finger slowly lowered, and he turned his attention back to Arthur. He blinked twice.
”Where were we?”
”The Mammoth, Mr Gracewell.”
”Oh. Yes.”
Gracewell raised his voice. ”Dimmick! Dimmick!” Gracewell's voice was not pleasant to listen to; it cracked when he shouted.
”Mr Gracewell-”
”Dimmick! Get in here! It's a b.l.o.o.d.y journalist.”
”Mr Gracewell! Sir! I'm not a journalist. The Mammoth is gone. I'm here-”
”Are you here to snoop, Mr Shaw? Are you here to pry? Are you here to tell stories? You wouldn't be the first and you won't be the last. But by G.o.d you will hold your tongue or Mr Dimmick will know the reason why.”
The door opened. Gracewell held up a hand.
Arthur heard Dimmick's footsteps behind him, and the tap of his stick on the floor. He smelt Dimmick's stale odour-tobacco and sweat. Arthur's throat went dry; there was suddenly nothing quaint or comic about Dimmick.
”Mr Gracewell-I wouldn't dream of-there's no call for that sort of-I have debts, Mr Gracewell, and I'm engaged to be married, and I need the money-that's all-I'm not here to tell stories. The Mammoth is gone.”
”Engaged?” Gracewell appeared confused for a moment. ”Oh yes.” He slowly lowered his hand.
Dimmick chuckled, then gave Arthur's shoulder a rough but not unfriendly shake. Then his footsteps receded and the door closed behind him. Arthur tried to hide his relief.
”Well then.” Gracewell sat. ”Far be it from me to thwart young love. Or to thwart Atwood, for that matter. But you won't tell the young lady to whom you are engaged what you do here, and by G.o.d you won't write about it.” Gracewell shook his head. ”Writers. Perhaps a third of the men are poets. It seems disproportionate. But it's all one to me so long as they follow the rules. For six pounds a week, I expect obedience.”
”Six pounds a week?”
”Is that not good enough for you, sir?”
”On the contrary, it's...” Six pounds a week; more than three hundred in a year. It was far more than he'd expected.