Chapter 1 - Joe’s story
On page 121 of Baedeker’s ‘Great Britain’, Portishead is described as a ‘small watering place and residential suburb’ on the Severn Estuary. As an 1890 edition the guide was four years old and still accurate, or so Joe P Dine hoped. He’d traveled 2925 nautical miles across the Atlantic in a noisy steam packet because of the request of a mystery poster displayed across much of the United States.
Joe followed the clerk’s directions from the Portishead railway station. They took him up a hill, past a small port with docked barges to a wooded headland looking out onto tall-ships anchored in deep water. Buildings sat at the edge of the headland, beginning with the solidly built ‘Royal Hotel’ and ending with a Georgian mansion that was Joe’s destination.
On arrival at the mansion, a thuggish looking butler took Joe to a lounge whose dark oak furniture and rosewood settees spoke of wealth. A gentleman of late middle age sat reading the ‘Times’, his foot placed upon a padded stool. Upon hearing the name of the visitor whispered into his ear from the butler, the gentleman rested his newspaper upon a center table, and looked up. He was dressed in a scarlet morning gown and upon his head sat a tasseled hat. He stood, extended his hand and gave a roguish smile of welcome.
“Ah Mr. Dine is it?” he asked, in words that were spoken with eloquence, but to Joe’s ears held the roots of poorest cockney London.
“I am,” said Joe taking the hand and studying the man. Yes… here was an iron fist within a velvet glove, someone who had worked, no… fought… his way up to his present station in life, thought Joe. The man had a firm grip and while they shook he returned Joe’s gaze. “Glad to make your acquaintance, I’m Colonel Withers. Please take a seat. You have traveled a great distance I imagine? Your appearance indicates Native American origins but your accent informs me you have lived within the more civilized parts of that continent for some time.”
Joe didn’t bristle. Inquiries concerning his origins were common. Derogatory comments came hand in hand with good, and most of the time people didn’t even realize they were being insulting – not that this was an excuse.
“Yes,” said Joe. I am Navajo by birthright, but I was taken to the Mississippi by a newspaper reporter who discovered me alive under the body of my mother. There had been a great battle and I was the sole survivor of my settlement.”
“Lucky chap,” said the Colonel. “I imagine then that you grew up in the South of America rather than the Western Indian Nation?”
“I did.”
“Good lad,” said the Colonel. “Now let us turn our attention to business. You were born an Aries and you are bereft of your little finger?”
“That is so.” Joe offered his left hand for inspection showing where his little finger terminated at the first knuckle.
“Marvelous,” said Colonel Withers. “Please, what’s your poison?”
“Pardon?”
“Drink lad. What do you drink?”
Joe replied ‘Bourbon’ and Withers signaled to his butler who brought the indicated liquor within a pair of rummers, upon an engraved salver.
“You know,” said Colonel Withers, “The ‘finger missing’ bit on the poster was a boon. Don’t take offence, but if the description did not include that then I’m sure I would have a lot more visitors saying they were Joe Dine.”
Joe smiled. “Requiring Sherlock Holmes powers of deduction to discover the correct man then I suppose?”
Colonel Withers shook his head once. “Sherlock is not as astute as one would imagine. I will speak more on that topic later. The addition of the ‘missing finger sentence’ to the poster has resulted in only four gentlemen presenting to me to date. Presumably all, including you, had existing missing fingers. By the good queen Vic, can you imagine anyone performing such an operation on themselves without knowing why one was sought?”
Joe nodded. “I can, sir, as I wager you do too. The poster promised compensation of traveling expense from America. Such expenses could entice an English man to masquerade as myself. A poor fellow might find several years earnings from such a scam.”
Colonel Withers sipped his bourbon, his expression a mask. “People masquerading as others and fraudulent behavior. Gad, what is the world coming to?”
“The world can be a dark place, Sir. I suspect you know that.”
“Indeed.” The Colonel smiled and cradled his glass. “The previous fellows who presented themselves to me were indeed English and fakirs. You certainly thought so didn’t you, Max?
Joe glanced at the butler. The man had the flattened nose and ham-like fists of a boxer. “Wivout a shadow, sir.”
Joe felt a tinge of apprehension. “What happened to these men?”
“I gave them a good meal, a carriage ride to the station and a crisp one pound note to send them on their way,” said Colonel Withers. “The parting was amicable, wasn’t it, Max?”
The servant cracked his knuckles in an ominous way as he stared at Joe. “Yes, guv, it were.”
Colonel Withers watched Joe as if he waited for signs of fear. Joe gave him none. “Don’t worry Mr. Dine. I’m not about to ask my manservant to beat you and throw you to the rocks below my home.”
“I am grateful, Sir. Do you believe you have found in me the fellow you seek?”
Colonel Withers frowned. “Your answer to the next question I pose will be the judge of that, lad.”
What question could that be, thought Joe. “Ask away.”
Colonel Withers placed his glass of bourbon on the mahogany of the table beside him. The movement was smooth but his manner spoke of contained tension.
“Mr. Dine, there is a woman you have known who would have referred to herself at some time, I am sure, as ‘Number 10’. Please describe her to me.”
Ah, thought Joe, so it is as I thought. He knew this woman. She had arrived into his life three years ago with exotic Middle Eastern swirl, and had never left it. He held in his mind a picture of chestnut eyes and ruby lips. Yes she called herself ‘Number Ten’ sometimes, when she was in a mood of self-recrimination.
Joe described this women: a Persian princess who loved to travel on the paddle-steamers of America. He described her completely.
Colonel Wither’s eyes narrowed upon the first words and by the last his face had paled. “My gawd. At last. Yes, at last!” he exclaimed, speaking as would a commoner of London.
“Did I give the answer you hoped?” asked Joe.
Colonel Withers no longer appeared to try and contain the emotion he felt. “You did lad. You have no idea. Now… I must tell you a collection of tales, each set within the other like mysterious Baltic Russian dolls. You will learn of worlds that are mere playthings of greater worlds. You will learn many truths. Do not be afraid. You must learn what threatens us all…”
Joe followed the clerk’s directions from the Portishead railway station. They took him up a hill, past a small port with docked barges to a wooded headland looking out onto tall-ships anchored in deep water. Buildings sat at the edge of the headland, beginning with the solidly built ‘Royal Hotel’ and ending with a Georgian mansion that was Joe’s destination.
On arrival at the mansion, a thuggish looking butler took Joe to a lounge whose dark oak furniture and rosewood settees spoke of wealth. A gentleman of late middle age sat reading the ‘Times’, his foot placed upon a padded stool. Upon hearing the name of the visitor whispered into his ear from the butler, the gentleman rested his newspaper upon a center table, and looked up. He was dressed in a scarlet morning gown and upon his head sat a tasseled hat. He stood, extended his hand and gave a roguish smile of welcome.
“Ah Mr. Dine is it?” he asked, in words that were spoken with eloquence, but to Joe’s ears held the roots of poorest cockney London.
“I am,” said Joe taking the hand and studying the man. Yes… here was an iron fist within a velvet glove, someone who had worked, no… fought… his way up to his present station in life, thought Joe. The man had a firm grip and while they shook he returned Joe’s gaze. “Glad to make your acquaintance, I’m Colonel Withers. Please take a seat. You have traveled a great distance I imagine? Your appearance indicates Native American origins but your accent informs me you have lived within the more civilized parts of that continent for some time.”
Joe didn’t bristle. Inquiries concerning his origins were common. Derogatory comments came hand in hand with good, and most of the time people didn’t even realize they were being insulting – not that this was an excuse.
“Yes,” said Joe. I am Navajo by birthright, but I was taken to the Mississippi by a newspaper reporter who discovered me alive under the body of my mother. There had been a great battle and I was the sole survivor of my settlement.”
“Lucky chap,” said the Colonel. “I imagine then that you grew up in the South of America rather than the Western Indian Nation?”
“I did.”
“Good lad,” said the Colonel. “Now let us turn our attention to business. You were born an Aries and you are bereft of your little finger?”
“That is so.” Joe offered his left hand for inspection showing where his little finger terminated at the first knuckle.
“Marvelous,” said Colonel Withers. “Please, what’s your poison?”
“Pardon?”
“Drink lad. What do you drink?”
Joe replied ‘Bourbon’ and Withers signaled to his butler who brought the indicated liquor within a pair of rummers, upon an engraved salver.
“You know,” said Colonel Withers, “The ‘finger missing’ bit on the poster was a boon. Don’t take offence, but if the description did not include that then I’m sure I would have a lot more visitors saying they were Joe Dine.”
Joe smiled. “Requiring Sherlock Holmes powers of deduction to discover the correct man then I suppose?”
Colonel Withers shook his head once. “Sherlock is not as astute as one would imagine. I will speak more on that topic later. The addition of the ‘missing finger sentence’ to the poster has resulted in only four gentlemen presenting to me to date. Presumably all, including you, had existing missing fingers. By the good queen Vic, can you imagine anyone performing such an operation on themselves without knowing why one was sought?”
Joe nodded. “I can, sir, as I wager you do too. The poster promised compensation of traveling expense from America. Such expenses could entice an English man to masquerade as myself. A poor fellow might find several years earnings from such a scam.”
Colonel Withers sipped his bourbon, his expression a mask. “People masquerading as others and fraudulent behavior. Gad, what is the world coming to?”
“The world can be a dark place, Sir. I suspect you know that.”
“Indeed.” The Colonel smiled and cradled his glass. “The previous fellows who presented themselves to me were indeed English and fakirs. You certainly thought so didn’t you, Max?
Joe glanced at the butler. The man had the flattened nose and ham-like fists of a boxer. “Wivout a shadow, sir.”
Joe felt a tinge of apprehension. “What happened to these men?”
“I gave them a good meal, a carriage ride to the station and a crisp one pound note to send them on their way,” said Colonel Withers. “The parting was amicable, wasn’t it, Max?”
The servant cracked his knuckles in an ominous way as he stared at Joe. “Yes, guv, it were.”
Colonel Withers watched Joe as if he waited for signs of fear. Joe gave him none. “Don’t worry Mr. Dine. I’m not about to ask my manservant to beat you and throw you to the rocks below my home.”
“I am grateful, Sir. Do you believe you have found in me the fellow you seek?”
Colonel Withers frowned. “Your answer to the next question I pose will be the judge of that, lad.”
What question could that be, thought Joe. “Ask away.”
Colonel Withers placed his glass of bourbon on the mahogany of the table beside him. The movement was smooth but his manner spoke of contained tension.
“Mr. Dine, there is a woman you have known who would have referred to herself at some time, I am sure, as ‘Number 10’. Please describe her to me.”
Ah, thought Joe, so it is as I thought. He knew this woman. She had arrived into his life three years ago with exotic Middle Eastern swirl, and had never left it. He held in his mind a picture of chestnut eyes and ruby lips. Yes she called herself ‘Number Ten’ sometimes, when she was in a mood of self-recrimination.
Joe described this women: a Persian princess who loved to travel on the paddle-steamers of America. He described her completely.
Colonel Wither’s eyes narrowed upon the first words and by the last his face had paled. “My gawd. At last. Yes, at last!” he exclaimed, speaking as would a commoner of London.
“Did I give the answer you hoped?” asked Joe.
Colonel Withers no longer appeared to try and contain the emotion he felt. “You did lad. You have no idea. Now… I must tell you a collection of tales, each set within the other like mysterious Baltic Russian dolls. You will learn of worlds that are mere playthings of greater worlds. You will learn many truths. Do not be afraid. You must learn what threatens us all…”
