Page 15 of The Gentleman’s Thief

“I am looking for investors who share my passion for finding answers to life’s great adventure.” He said theatrically waving his hands.

Ah, so that was his ruse. Well, I hope he had not come begging for a donation! I’d be damned if he got a brass farthing from me for his occult nonsense. I must have looked rather distrustful and bemused at his explanation because Blake then said,

“I’m serious. I mean to penetrate the veil, Mr. Hannan. That is my goal—to penetrate the veil and return to tell what I have seen on the other side.”

That was outrageous, blasphemous even. I had heard of such men who sought ways to invite death and return to tell their tale—as of yet none had succeeded—although many con men professed to succeeding! So…this American was not just a Theosophist, he was a resurrectionist. I found I was rather appalled. Man cannot play God. He cannot toy with the gift of life or return it when life is extinct. My mouth went dry and I moved my hand up to the silver cross at my chest that gave me comfort, but then I remembered Sebastian had taken it in exchange for the Staff. Damn and blast!

“What service can I do for you, Mr. Blake?” There was an unimpressed, hollow ring to my voice. I did not particularly like this fellow for he challenged far too many of my long-held beliefs.

“Those who attend my lectures occasionally offer me gifts to assist with financing the great work. Several items were gifted to me at my show last night. I have no use for them and I wonder, would you appraise the items and put them up for auction?”

I noted that Blake called his lecture a ‘show’ and so I was even more dubious of his airy-fairy rhetoric. Lawrence Blake threaded his hand into the inner pocket of his frock coat and retrieved three silver items—a small spice box made in the shape of a fish, a snuff-box, and a silver stamp case. He passed the items to me. I removed my small magnifier from my waistcoat pocket and put it to my eye to inspect them. I checked the quality of the silver hallmarks, looked for dents and splits in the thin shiny metal, and anything else that may detract from the value. The stamp case was marked with the year 1888, James Allen of Birmingham. He was a good maker, but the item was not old, rare, or worth a great deal. The snuff box was of good quality, however, the top of the box was engraved with the initials BWC, and such personalized boxes were harder to sell because of the monogram. The silverfish was another matter entirely. The body of the fish was articulated and embellished with separate dorsal and pectoral fins, in addition to rows of chased scales. The fish head could be removed and a small quantity of spice stored within the body. It smelled as if it had once held powdered Cinnamon. I was stunned that an item of such beauty was randomly gifted at a lecture. I wondered why Blake had come to me to sell this silver trove when he could have happened upon one of the thousands of London Pawn shops.

“These two items here are worth a guinea,” I said decisively, placing the silver boxes on the table.

“But the fish is… the fish is… exceptional.” I turned the item between my fingers,

“It is Dutch silver, marked for the year 1800. The eyes are emerald, and the detailing is of the highest quality. I have seen only one such fish-shaped spice box before and it sold for a remarkable three guineas at auction.”

I expected to see a satisfied smile or some response of pleasure; however, Blake’s face did not register even a twitch of surprise at my appraisal.

“You will sell them for me?”

“I can do better than that!” I said. I wanted this man out of my office as quickly as possible and so I decided at once I would conclude our business today.

“I will buy them for my collection. Does three guineas and ten shillings sound fair?” I offered a little less than they were worth because, if I’d sold them at my saleroom I would have taken commission and so he would not get the full estimate!

“Indeed it does.” Again, no emotion showed on Blake’s face, but he held out his hand to seal the deal. My eyes fell on the long bony fingers of his right hand. He wore a gold band on the index finger. The signet ring was large and the face of the ring was engraved with entwined circles and the monogram of the backward letters FS. I realized to my horror it was the stamp I found impressed at the back of my red book, and upon the envelope sent to Baron Leopold. Disquieted, I did not take Blake’s hand but winced at the thought of touching his pallid skin.

I stood abruptly. “Excellent, excellent” I blustered to cover my bad manners and clapped my hands together. “I shall write you a bankers draft at once so you may obtain the funds for the sale of the items.”

I made my way to my desk. Fishing in a drawer I found my ledger, and then a bank draft. With the scritch-scratch of my dipping pen, I swiftly filled in the information required to release the cash payment.

I blotted the bank draft then returned to my seat and offered the draft to Blake. He watched me with those penetrating eyes as if he could see how I trembled, and why I was rushing through with this purchase of silver. Blake accepted the draft, folded it, and placed it in his inner pocket. He retrieved his blue glass spectacles from the table and put them on, at once shielding his peculiar eyes. Then he picked up his copy of The Light periodical from the table. He stood and I thought he was going to pocket it, but again, Blake handed the periodical to me as if to insist that I read it. In a charming voice, he said,

“I’m speaking at The Theosophical Society tonight at nine p.m. It would be worth your while to attend, Mr. Hannan.”

Nine of the clock? I shuddered at the thought as I was reluctant to leave my house after dark. Part of me wanted to tell the Lawrence Blake I was unavailable but then I recalled his seeming friendship with the missing nobleman. I wondered if young Leopold would be at this lecture, and if so, I would like to ensure he had come to no harm—I also knew somebody else who would be interested!

Clutching the pamphlet I nodded and strode to open my office door.

“It was a pleasure to do business with you, Mr. Blake. I wish you a good day.”

As Blake passed me he paused, too close for comfort. He fixed my gaze, and said: “Bless-ed is the seed”.

The phrase winded and confused me for the second time. What did that mean? He smiled with satisfaction then moved off on those light dancers’ feet. I closed the door and knew at once, I must send a note to Sebastian.

Esoteric Occurrences

Fretfully, I gripped my cane as the growler carriage in which I sat turned from Bedford Square onto Goodge Street. I was traveling west across the city to The Theosophical Society in Kensington. As the twenty-minute journey passed by I fell into melancholic contemplation. Not for the first time, I worried about the strange ungodly path my life was taking.

This past fortnight had become the most adventurous, passionate, and troublesome I could remember. The routines of life gave me comfort. I thrived within the confines of my small, albeit loveless world. I cannot say that my life was happy, but I believed I was the captain of my own ship. However, it appeared that I had become blind to all that was going on around me. Not only had Sebastian admired me from afar for many months, but I had unwittingly become entangled—a pawn in someone else’s game—and the red book was central to that game. I believed I was… insignificant in wider society. I did not seek to court influence and did not believe I held any great sway. I was an ordinary man of business; honest, forthright, and trustworthy in my dealings; therefore, I was perplexed that a person unknown had seen fit to target me.

The strange gift of the book with the stamped monogram symbol was unsettling enough. But then the unexpected visit to my premises by the American ‘truth seeker’ Lawrence Blake further troubled my equilibrium—especially as the symbol found in the strange book, and on the back of the letter received by the missing noble was the very same monogram that I saw on the signet ring worn by Lawrence Blake. I knew I was being lured to The Theosophical Society for a reason, but the nature of that reason was still a mystery.

I drummed my gloved fingers on the silver pommel of my cane and considered all I knew of The Theosophical Society. There was a great deal written on the subjects of Spiritualism and the Occult over the past few years. The subjects seemed to have captured the imagination of the hoi-polloi, and in-turn generated sensationalizes weekly headlines in the newspapers. As I understood from stories I had read in The Times, the London Daily News, and the Evening Standard, the primary aim of The Theosophical Society was to seek the hidden knowledge and wisdom that offered an individual enlightenment and salvation. It appeared, at first glance, to be a virtuous endeavor, however, much of the work I read about—spiritualists communicating with the dead, and their questioning of the authenticity of the Bible, challenged many of my most deeply held beliefs.

The much-respected British Society for Psychical Research investigated The Theosophical Society and the report of their findings—some of which was printed in The Times over a whole week—was not kind. They did not believe that the research carried out by the Society was anything more than illusion, trickery, and fraud performed for the gullible and desperate. One would have thought madness had infected the Society’s membership if so many the higher echelons had not joined and actively set out on personal journeys ‘seeking truth’. Why so many men and women of great intellect filled the ranks of their membership was puzzling.