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“I don’t know. Not that I’ve heard. I was just making a quip.”
Alastair chuckled. “I saw rougher things compared to all those learned men, I guess.” Pacing a little, seeming more curious than restless, he picked up a red book with gilt on the cover only to put it down. Then he went to the fireplace and looked in the tarnished mirror above the mantel. “These are your rooms, but the rest are to let, aren’t they?”
Watching him, rather enthralled, Paul said, “Yes. It’s been a public house since its earliest days, this place, with the handful of rooms above being let from time to time. There are two men taking rooms on either side of me.” Fondly, he added, “Bless her, The Queen Anne is starting to show her age and she can’t compete with the hotels. I don’t try.”
Though babbled a little, he succeeded in not telling his guest these rooms had been his family’s. That he and his brother had shared the smaller bedroom, now a study where he could keep track of the accounts, and his mother and father had used the larger bedroom where he now slept. That this large middle room with exposed beams and an uneven floor had served as their parlor, though they’d had the run of the place.
And how, despite valuing solitude and privacy and possessing a handful of good friends, he felt quite alone.
He said none of that.
“But it’s clean and quiet,” said Alastair. “I think it’s charming.”
“Our cook is also wonderful,” said Paul, followed by yet another smile. This stranger had him smiling excessively. “She was a maid at the Langham and one of the chefs tried to carry on with her, so she had to go. Found it was best to leave London entirely. At least she picked up some knowledge for her trouble. She says the patrons treated her like shit.”
“I’d believe her.”
“Oh, I do. We get all sorts who feel they’re better than those who are poorer than them. I’ve not had much of that because I won’t tolerate it. I’ve turned down custom before. But… can’t say I haven’t seen it.”
With a slyness in his expression that Paul definitely enjoyed, Alastair circled back to the sofa and sat next to him. Not close enough to touch, but closer than most strangers would. So, Mr. Apollyon, if you’re so stern regarding what you tolerate from others, I suppose I don’t get to know your name. Would be uncouth for me to ask, wouldn’t it?”
“Paul,” he blurted. He had not wanted to blurt, or at least he wanted to sound more dignified while he blurted.
“Well, Paul… thank you again for allowing me to use your cellar.”
One time hearing Alastair say his name and he was lost. He knew it. He didn’t have to like it, but he knew it. “You’re lucky I despise Sykes.”
“Do you? That is lucky.”
“He’s awful. Reputedly violent… and pretends to be many things. Most recently, I heard he thinks he’s a smuggler now. He’s just one of those types who likes to seem dangerous.” Paul snorted and shook his head. “There are plenty of smugglers around who are, I assume, good at what they do. And I suspect many are more principled than a man who hurts his daughter.”
“You’d win that wager,” said Alastair. “And he is. Awful. Never been violent in front of me, but I think it’s there, simmering under the surface.”
This was probably as good as he’d get that Alastair was adjacent to crime, and he didn’t care. Pausing to think before he spoke, Paul said, “Why was he chasing you?” He rose from the sofa with the aim of sitting right back down after he’d secured them a drink. “And do you like cognac? I haven’t any whisky up here, if that’s what you prefer, but if you take cognac… I’ve a good one.” He shouldn’t assume that someone from Scotland always wanted whisky, but it was out before he could stop himself saying it.
“What kind of question is that?”
Paul went to a sideboard opposite the fireplace and poured them each a large measure, mindful not to trip over the uneven floorboards and look a fool. He handed a squat, crystal glass to Alastair, lulled by the heat between their fingers that did not even touch.
Then he sat, careful to sit even nearer than he’d previously been seated. If Alastair noticed, he didn’t comment, and instead he raised the glass in a silent toast before sipping. Feeling there was little to say, and it was somehow more momentous to say nothing, Paul did the same.
After his sip, Alastair said, “Thanks. Shit, that’s lovely. He chased me because his daughter hired me to do something for her, and he saw me in her room. I was able to get out through a window, but he did tear after me. And for a fucking drunk, he’s quick.”
Puzzled, Paul tried to understand. He couldn’t even summon a laugh at Mr. Sykes being characterized as a fucking drunk. He was, but in an obdurate, unobtrusive manner that didn’t make him a loud public nuisance. Just a simmering private one.
“Muriel… paid you…” He knew where his mind wandered when he looked at Alastair, and he wasn’t naive enough to think women couldn't pay men for fucking. He was sure they might engage in the practice if they had money and time of their own. “Is she all right, now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if she hired you to do something in her room…”
“Ah, I see. No, it wasn’t for that… she was out when this happened. He wasn’t able to confront her or anything. But I should have met her somewhere else.”
“So she’s not… paying you… for…” Paul waggled his head a bit, not reluctant to say anything vulgar, but unprepared for the envy he felt.
Apparently delighted by his attempt at being tactful, Alastair laughed. “No, not at all, though I’m flattered you think she would. She’s had me deliver certain correspondence.”
“Oh?”
