A hand tapped on my shoulder. With some difficulty, I turned around to see Mr Ambrose standing before me, his face as cold and expressionless as ever.
"I believe I have discovered our man," he hissed, and made an inconspicuous hand gesture. "His name is Thomas Gurney, a factory worker who now and again seems to like doing work not quite legal to improve his monthly earnings. He's sitting at that table over there, engaged in gambling activity. I believe I can..."
Suddenly, he stopped. His voice turned lower and darker as he asked: "Why are you grinning, Mr Linton?"
"Because p-pig ears are w-wonderful," I declared, my grin widening. "Truly, they are. I must remember to congatel... concattle... congratulate a farmer the next time I see one. It is really worth raising all those pigs and fattening them up and whatnot, just to get such wonderful pig ears to d-drink."
I frowned.
"The only thing I d-don't understand is how they end up liquid in a tankard. I c-could swear somebody told me, only I c-can't remember..."
"Mr Linton?"
"Y-yes Sir? I'm here Sir! Ready to obey your every command, Sir!"
"Speak lower, Mr Linton. And do not call me 'Sir' while we are here incognito."
"Yes, Sir! Of course, Sir!"
"Mr Linton, I have a question."
"Shoot!"
He leaned forward, until his granite face was only a couple of inches away from mine.
"Are you intoxicated?"
I blinked. That word had too many syllables for my current mental capacity to cope with.
"Intoxiwhatsy?
"Intoxicated. Inebriated. Lashed. Mashed. Tiddly. On a bender. In other words, Mr Linton: are you drunk?"
Slowly, the frown on my forehead deepened.
"D-don't know. I've never been drunk b-before. How do you... How do you tell, Sir?"
"Well, the inability to speak correctly, is generally considered a reliable indicator of intoxication." I may have imagined it, but his reply sounded a tiny bit sarcastic. "And I told you to not call me Sir!"
For a moment, I considered complying. But he had hounded me for so long to call him Sir, it was too good an opportunity to get back at him by doing what he'd actually demanded of me.
My grin returned.
"I owe you p-proper respect as my s-superior, Sir. I could never be so d-disrespectful as to forget that, Sir."
His eyes narrowed infinitesimally. "Or at least while you're drunk you can't be, apparently."
"Yes, Sir! Exactly, Sir!"
He gave me his coldest glare yet this evening. But then, suddenly, his eyes shifted upward, looking over my shoulder. Turning my head, I followed his gaze and saw the grimy landlord watching us with suspicious little eyes.
"Over here," Mr Ambrose commanded in a low voice, and without waiting for an answer, grabbed me by the arm and dragged me into a quiet corner.
"I can't believe it!" There really was disbelief in his voice, mingled with exasperation, and wonder and... well probably a lot of other things I was too intoxiwhatsicated to notice. "I can simply not believe it. You have been drinking. And not just drinking any drinks, but drinks containing alcohol!"
"What's so strange about it?" I mumbled. "People do it every day."
"Men do it every day! But you are... you are..."
"Yes?" I smiled up at him. I felt like smiling. I felt like it was a happy world. "I am what?"
"A girl!"
"Really? Gosh. I hadn't noticed."
He drew a deep breath.
"When men gather after dinner to consume alcoholic beverages, Mr Linton," he pointed out in a very tight, controlled voice, "it is the custom of civilized society that women leave the room, because women have no interest in alcohol, and no business drinking it. It is not within their nature."
"Very interesting, I'm sure." My grin grew wider. It was getting a bit easier to talk without stumbling over my syllables. "But since, as you're so often kind enough to point out, I am Mister Victor Linton while in your employ, what do those poor, alcohol deprived females have to do with me?"
"Why in heaven's name did you drink?"
"You ordered me to."
"I never..."
"You said to behave like everybody else. Everybody else was drinking. You were." I nudged him playfully in the ribs, something that I vaguely knew I normally wouldn't have done with a ten foot pole. "Don't you remember? Another one, me good fellow, hm?"
From the look Mr Ambrose gave me he didn't appreciate being nudged playfully in the ribs very much. Nor did he apparently appreciate vocal impersonations.
"You," he told me in a tone that could have frozen the Sahara, "are a disgrace to your sex."
"Which one would that be?"
From freezing the Sahara, his eyes went right on to the Kalahari.
"That is a discussion we will have at a later time. Right now, Mr Linton, I have to go interview the man we came to look for, before he decides to leave."
"How may I be of assi... assissi... assistence, Sir?"
"You may go into that room there," he said, pointing to the door which led to the pub's back room, "sit quietly in a corner and not touch another drop of alcohol until I come to get you. Understood?"
"Y-yes, Sir... I understand." Damn! I was stumbling over syllables again. "But how will that help you f-find the file?"
"By having you out of my way. Now go!"
With that, he turned and strode towards the tables.
I scowled after him. That hadn't been very nice. And I didn't like it when people weren't nice to me, particularly not him! Still scowling, I moved towards the door he had indicated. It took me a few moments to get through it, because it was rather difficult to determine which of the three doors that kept dancing around in front of my eyes was the one I wanted, but eventually I managed it. In the back room, there were more tables, and a maid was running around, taking orders.
Most of the men here were drinking from mugs or glasses that were a lot smaller than the ones out front. I slumped down at one of the tables, where another man was already sitting and waved the maid towards me.
"I'll have what he's having," I'll ordered. "And there'll better be no donkey's hoofs or bull's horns or other animal parts in there!"
The maid blinked at me in confusion. "Sorry, Sir?"
"Oh, forget it! Just get me a drink!"
"Aye, Sir."
I watched her buzzle away and gave a derisive snort. Blast Mr Ambrose! Don't drink any more my foot. I would show him!
"Here, Sir."
Ah, my mug had arrived. I took the tiny little thing, sniffed—and broke out into a coughing fit. By George, that smelled sharp! But I had already ordered it now, so I might as well drink it. And anyhow, it wasn't as if it could do much harm. The mugs were much smaller here, after all...
*~*~**~*~*
I had to confess, after a while I got rather fond of the stuff that came in small mugs. Admittedly, at first it made your throat burn and your eyes water, but in the long run, it had the most interesting effects. For instance, not so long ago, a troop of jolly little yellow pigs had come out of the chimney and started to dance on the back wall. They were performing quite excellently, all thanks to this amazing liquid that had opened my eyes to a new world.
I pounded the table with my fist.
"Another one! Another cow's ear... or was it pig's tail... Darn it! Another cup of this stuff!"
The maid hurried to my table and deposited another cup in front of me with an anxious expression. Was she afraid of me? Maybe it was this miraculous substance that I was consuming making my voice all rough and manly that made me more intimidating. I grinned. I liked the idea.
Swiftly, I grasped the metal cup and gulped down its contents. Yes, I could really grow to like this drink. It made you feel pleasantly woozy.
"Ey there, little fellow! Are ye planning to drink the whole River Thames in one night? Leave something for the rest of us."
Somebody laughed. I looked up from my empty cup and saw that the words had come from the other chap sitting at the table. He hadn't said a word before, but now he was grinning at me.
I gave his question a few moments of serious contemplation.
"No," I finally decided. "I don't want to drink the Thames. There's too much crap swimming in it."
That got another laugh from him, and a few of the other people around us.
"Blast it," my table partner told me, raising his cup to me, "I'm impressed. Ye 'old your licker well, considering."
"Considering? Is that supposed to mean that wom- that little people can't drink as much as a big fellow like you?"
He grinned, displaying several missing teeth that gave his gnarled old face a jaunty look.
"No. They just usually end up unconscious under the table if they give it a go."
"Well, I'm not nearly drunk enough for that yet!"
"Let's drink to that." He raised his cup. "Bottoms up!"
"No," I told him, raising my cup but shaking my head. "Bottoms down. I won't take my bottom of this chair until I am completely intoxi... intoxiwhatsy.... well you know what I mean."
"No, I ain't got no clue, to be honest, lad."
"Doesn't matter."
We sat there and drank for a few minutes in companionable silence. I studied my counterpart as I did so. He was an old chap, sixty years or more, a sailor's cap covering his bald head, and his wiry figure wrapped in an old, faded jacket. I liked him. He didn't seem to be in a very good mood, though. He was staring into his cup dejectedly, and whenever he showed his charming toothless grin, there was a tinge of melancholy to it.
"The world just ain't what it used to be no more, lad," he said, smiling sadly, and raising his cup again.
"We can agree on that," I said, and we clinked cups, and drank. After all, I was sitting in the back room of a disreputable pub in the East End, getting thoroughly and royally drunk. If somebody had told me a few months ago I would be doing this, I'd suggested they see a doctor.
"No honesty, you know," he added, dejectedly. "Nowhere."
"Quite right."
We clinked cups again. We drank.
I wondered what would happen if I told him that he was having this conversation with a girl in disguise. Maybe he would be angry about my dishonesty? Though something about the glassy look in his eyes made me think that maybe he'd laugh at the good joke, or maybe just not understand what I was saying.
"Makes me really want to get drunk," the gnarled old sailor said.
I nodded.
We clinked cups. We drank.
"So... why do you want to get drunk?" He asked.
I scowled.
"Because somebody I despise told me not to."
He laughed. "Is that so? You don't despise him, little fellow!"
"And how would you know? You don't even know who I'm talking about!"
"Because if ye despised him, ye wouldn't care what he told you to do. Ye'd just ignore him for the puddle of piss he is. Ye respect him. And ye want him to respect ye. That's why ye ain't doing what he's told ye. So ye can show him ye've got your own 'ead on your shoulders!"
"What are you? A doctor or gipsy fortune-teller or what?"
The sailor's shoulders slumped. "Ne, lad, just an old man who's seen too damn much of the world."
"So what about you?" I asked, eager to change the subject. "Why are you getting drunk?"
The shoulders slumped even farther.
"I told ye. Dishonesty."
"Yes, but what kind of dishonesty? Were you tricked?"
"Aye, tricked, lad. Tricked as surely as ever a fellow was."
He gave a deep sigh.
"So you really want to 'ear my sad story, lad, do you? I warn ye, it's as sad a story as ever you 'eard."
"As I said," gesturing to the chair I was sitting on, "Bottoms down. I'm not going anywhere for a while. You might as well unburden your heart while we get drunk."
"You're a good lad."
The old sailor sighed again. "Oh, well... I've got this partner, you know? 'ad him ever since I came to London. When times are tough, we... do jobs together, ye know? The world ain't what it used to be. Surviving can be 'ard, sometimes."
I had the feelings that the 'jobs' he alluded to weren't exactly legal. But I wasn't feeling particularly judgemental tonight. He seemed like a nice old fellow, for a man, and besides, the yellow piggies were still performing so delightfully at the back of the room—I just couldn't be in a bad mood...
"We were real pals, this fellow and me," the old man continued sadly. "Did everything together, shared everything together. If one of us found a job, we always got the other, and we split the cash. But then, the other night, he came in 'ere, drunk like the dickens, and started playing at cards, ye know. And he starts wearing fancy stuff he ain't got the money for. So I go and asks him where the money's coming from, and he tells me, he's got luck at the tables. But ye see, I know he's not telling the truth. I know he's found a good job and don't want to share. So I follow him, and what do I see? Him going of to meet some posh geezer. Gives him something, and gets a bag full of cash in return, the little weasel!"
He took another large swallow from his cup, and gave a big, big sigh.
"The world really ain't what it used to be. I wouldn't never have expected that of 'im. Not of old Tom Gurney."
I nodded, philosophically. Only a few seconds later did the name register in my befuddled brain.
I choked on my next mouthful of the burning drink.
"W-what did you say his name was?" I gasped, coughing.
"Tom. Thomas Gurney, the little weasel. Can't imagine he did that, and to me, who looked after him ever since his mum died. Aye, the world ain't what it used to be no longer..."
"Yes, yes, I'm sure it aintn't... um... isn't. Tell me... where exactly was this house where your partner met this 'posh geezer'?"
*~*~**~*~*
I had a nice, long talk with my friend the old sailor, and afterwards sat and watched the amazing visions produced by the burning drink. The dancing piggies at the back of the room had performed about half of Russian ballet, when I heard a familiar arctic voice from the main room.
"Mr Linton? Mr Linton!"
"Ah." I sighed, and nodded to my drinking companion. "Duty calls."
He grinned at me.
"Don't be too hard on him, lad."
"I?" I demanded, outraged. "Hard on him? He's my superior, not the other way around."
"Exactly."
Shaking my head, I stumbled towards the door. The old fellow as nice enough, but strange.
Out in the main room, Mr Ambrose awaited me, displeasure evident in every unmoving line of his face.
"We're getting out of here," he stated. "The lips of that man Gurney are sown shut! I cannot get a single word out of him. This was a waste of time. We'll have to try something else."
I raised an eyebrow. Or maybe both. Control over my facial muscles was rather difficult to maintain at the moment.
"Really?"
"Yes, of course!"
"You got nothing at all, did you?"
"No."
"Not the tiniest-winiest tiddly bittly bit of information?"
"I am not in the habit of repeating myself, Mr Linton. Now, I got nothing. Now let's go."
"Tut-tut..." I smirked at him. Or maybe I drooled at him a little. What did it matter? This was great! The little yellow piggies were doing pirouettes, just for the special occasion of my triumph. "N-not so fast, Sir. I think I have some interesting news for you..."
———————————————————————————————————————
My Dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,
Isn't Lilly fantabulous? ;-) Even drunk and halluzinating, she still does a better job than a certain someone...
No long author's note today. My university just got it into their heads to change the subject of my dissertation, and two months of research will have to go into the bin. Hands up, who wants to take their victorian pistols and pitchforks and join me in a revolt against the modern educational system? ;-)
Yours Truly
Sir Rob