Part 12 (1/2)
They said nothing at all.
”There's a shop upstairs,” she said, ”And people in the street. If I scream, someone will call for the police.”
The man in her chair nodded, acknowledging her point.
”Atwood,” he said. His voice was very low and flat.
She waited.
”Yes,” she said. ”I am acquainted with him.”
”Atwood,” said the man in the chair, ”is dangerous.”
He poked aimlessly at the typewriter's keys. Then he turned his attention back to Potter's ma.n.u.script. Josephine supposed he was waiting for her to say something.
Outside, an omnibus went by.
She wasn't sure what to make of them. They reminded her in an odd way of policemen. They were both rather badly dressed, and there was something strange about their movements and their expressions, as if they were not quite in control of themselves, but were sleep-walking. Their eyes-glistening black-were the only memorable things in their faces, which were otherwise pale, unshaven, indistinct, and tired.
Not so long ago she would have a.s.sumed that they were an unusual sort of albino, or wearing odd gla.s.ses, or something of the sort. Having seen what she'd seen in Atwood's library, she wasn't even sure they were men. She was quite willing to believe that they were ghosts, or spirits, or who knew what. Perhaps they were the consequences of Atwood's ritual, of poking one's nose in places where it didn't belong, some sort of frightful supernatural nemesis. Or perhaps they had something to do with Arthur's work.
Arthur's employer had dispatched him out of London that morning, to Gravesend, on some mysterious errand. He wasn't expected back until the day after tomorrow, so there was no possibility that anyone might interrupt, unless one of the Borels happened to come downstairs for some reason. She hoped they wouldn't. Menacing though they were, these odd intruders seemed to show no inclination to lay hands on her; but who knew what they might do if they were startled?
The one in the chair looked up from Potter's ma.n.u.script, as if he'd just remembered that she was there, and said, ”You won't marry him.”
”I beg your pardon?”
He smiled as if he'd just tasted something delicious.
”What do you want?”
Neither of them answered that. She supposed that was part of their method, part of their way of being menacing.
Suddenly the one behind her-the one in the doorway-grunted in surprise. The one in the chair stood, reaching into his pocket, as if for a weapon.
She turned to see the woman who called herself Jupiter coming down the stairs-boots first, and then the rest of her, all in purple and black: tall, narrow-waisted, high-shouldered dark purple, her black-and-grey hair pinned up. An imposing figure.
The man in the doorway glared at Jupiter but stepped aside to let her enter. She acknowledged him with a contemptuous glance.
”I know what you are,” she said. ”I know who you belong to. Tell your employer there will be consequences if he continues to menace my colleagues.
There was a long silence, in which it seemed that no one in the room but Josephine was breathing. Then the two men walked out without another word. The bell rang as the door closed, leaving Josephine alone in the room with Jupiter.
She didn't feel a great deal safer.
”Walk with me,” Jupiter said.
It was a sunny day, and street-traders were out in force, forming fragrant barricades of soup-stalls and cake-stalls. Scholars and poets and a.s.sorted ne'er-do-wells wandered back and forth between the Museum and their attic rooms, not looking where they were going. A procession of nurses advanced behind black perambulators, huge and implacable as Juggernaut.
”Those men were employees of one of our company's rivals,” Jupiter said. ”Any great enterprise has its enemies, of course. The jealousy of little men. I expect they meant to unnerve you.”
”They did.”
”Well-that's to be expected.”
”They didn't seem to unnerve you.”
”Their master might; not them.”
”Their master?”
”If I told you, you would think it mere slander.”
No trader ever accosted Jupiter. No one got in her way. The perambulators and rude nursemaids circled around her. This seemed to happen without any particular effort on her part.
”What can I call you, ma'am? I can't call you-”
”I believe in anonymity. No one comes to my house uninvited, you can be certain of that.”
”But-”
”You may call me Moina.”
”Thank you. Moina, then. Moina-will those men come again?”
”Perhaps not. I expect they imagine they've made their point. Did they give you dire warnings of what would happen if you ever spoke to us again?”
”I suppose so. They were-circuitous.”
Now that she was less afraid, she was starting to be very angry. ”What will they do if I speak to you? What will they do now that you've sent them away?”
”Perhaps nothing. Their quarrel is with me and with Atwood.”
”Perhaps?”
Jupiter shrugged.
”How did you know they were-they were in my office?”
”I didn't. Good fortune. A good omen, don't you think? I came to speak to you. The young man you met at our last meeting-the one who affected the turban-has decided not to return. He wrote Atwood a very long letter, complaining of the shock he'd had, and departed for Switzerland to calm his nerves. That leaves us at eight. Nine is greatly to be preferred. Are you our ninth, Miss Bradman?”
”I don't know. I've had rather a shock too.”
”You saw what you saw. You know that our work is real, and important.”