Free The Devil's Mask by Christopher Wakling

reading; I signalled my awe with a grunt. By keeping my mouth shut, I hoped to stop my teeth from jolting loose in my head.
    â€˜What are you going to tell Orton?’ I asked when the carriage finally jerked to a stop.
    â€˜Me? Nothing. I’ve done my share of the talking this morning.’ Carthy folded the step back on to the running board with ridiculous care. ‘You tell him what’s what.’
    I ground my teeth, but said nothing. Although I hadn’t had a chance to plan what I’d say, the uncertainty principle by which Carthy generally led meant I was prepared to feel unprepared.
    We were shown into a room with tall, grand windows, whose grimy panes admitted little light. Our client, John Orton, was already seated behind a French-polished table.His face shone dully in its surface. Two heads. The facsimile was smoother than the original. Although in his early middle years, the real Orton was creased as an old man. When he rose to shake hands his palm felt papery. There was something the matter with his skin, I saw: it wasn’t wrinkles so much as cracks that crazed Orton’s brow and cheeks.
    Before he’d finished greeting me, Orton was addressing my master. ‘Adam. A pleasure. You’re in good health I trust?’
    â€˜I’m bearing up well enough. As, I hope … How are the … rocks?’
    Orton gave what passed for a smile. ‘Multiplying. I was out collecting just this weekend. Down towards Dorset. These fossils are God’s own fingerprints. They will afford us a view of life as far back as the flood.’
    Carthy’s ‘Fascinating!’ was warm enough to convince the Dock Company official to go on, but to my ear it rang hollow. Prod a man along a route he’s already set upon travelling, however, and he’ll continue well beyond the next milestone. Orton began expounding about sediment and alluvial deposits and natural history’s own picture-book as the three of us took seats around the big table, and he continued to talk long enough for me to collect myself in advance of presenting our findings. A tongue of fire, tiny in the yawning mouth of a grand hearth, underscored the room’s chill. It was warmer than this outside. Fossils: dry bones. There was an odd smell in this room, of lemon zest cut with something noisome. Finally, the man’s droning stopped.
    â€˜So, how have you got on?’ he asked Carthy after a pause, with what sounded like a note of resignation in his voice.
    My master turned to me.
    â€˜Well, we’ve made progress …’ I began. And on I went, carefully outlining the work we had done, the sound of my voice in my head measured and professional and, it appeared, of no interest at all to my client. As soon as I began speaking, Orton started picking at his fingernails, absently at first, but with increasing intent. He was soon ripping off bits of cuticle and flicking them under the table. The conviction drained from my voice. With a look of relief, Orton turned back to Carthy.
    â€˜And your conclusions?’
    â€˜Oh, Inigo’s drawn those,’ Carthy said lightly. He nodded at me again. ‘Such as we’ve been able to make.’
    Although my master’s flippant tone unsettled me further, I had no choice but to continue. Yet the discrepancies in the Western Trading Company’s duty payments seemed suddenly petty as I spelled them out, and in the deadening quiet of the meeting room my deeper misgivings about the Belsize came across as more or less groundless. Orton just sat there scratching at his wrists. If the matter was of this little consequence to our client, then why was I allowing it to trouble me? Three faces stood reflected in the sheen of the table, ghosts swimming beneath ghosts. What in God’s name was I doing here? There was a whole world of flesh and blood beyond this one. I had a sudden vision of Mary, the waitress from Thunderbolts, her rounded forearm and