Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - Saint-Germain Story - A Question of Patronage

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The Vengeful Spirit of Lake Nepeakea

A Question of Patronage

A Saint-Germain Story

Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

Outside it was dank and clammy; inside it was stuffy and over-

warm. The clerks in the merchants' emporium office yawned as the

afternoon ran quickly down to the early falling November night.

"Do you lock the door, John Henry," said the oldest of the clerks to

the youngest, exercising his privilege. "No one will come at this

hour."

John Henry Brodribb got off his stool and bowed to the senior clerk

with a flourish that amused and annoyed the other clerks; John

Henry was known for his lavish, theatrical manner. He pitched his

voice to carry. "Whatever you desire, Mr Tubbs, it is my honour to

perform for you." His accent was a curious mix of London public

school flavoured with a broadness that might be Devon or Cornwall.

He was long-headed and lanky with the last remnants of youth; he

was three months shy of his eighteenth birthday.

Before he could reach the door, it opened suddenly and a man in a

black, hooded cloak stepped into the office, looking like a visitor

from another age; a monk from the Middle Ages, perhaps, or an

apparition of a Plantagenet in disfavour with his cousins. "Good

afternoon. Is Mr Lamkin available?" he asked in a pleasant, foreign

voice, taking John Henry's startled surprise in his stride. There was

a suggestion of a glint in dark eyes within the shadow of the hood.

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The Vengeful Spirit of Lake Nepeakea

"Is he expecting you?" asked John Henry, recovering himself

adroitly, and doing his best to match the style of the man.

"Yes, but not necessarily at this time," said the stranger. "I have

only just arrived in London, you see." He threw back his hood,

revealing an attractive, irregular countenance, fine-browed and

mobile if unfashionably clean-shaven; his hair was dark and waved

enough to make up for his lack of mutton-chop whiskers or

moustache. Although he was somewhat less than average height, he

had a presence that was commanding no matter how amiable his

demeanour; it originated in his dark, compelling eyes.

"Mr Lamkin has left for the day," said John Henry, glancing

towards the door of the office of the man who handled the firm's

overseas business. "He will not be back until Thursday next. He is

bound for Southampton, to inspect the arrival of a cargo of muslin."

"From Egypt or America?" asked the foreigner with enough

curiosity to require an answer.

"From Amer—" John Henry began only to be interrupted.

Mr Tubbs, the senior clerk, intervened, shoving himself off his stool

and hastening towards the newcomer, prepared to take charge of the

unknown gentleman. "I am Parvis Tubbs, the senior clerk; good

afternoon. May I, possibly, assist you, Mr… ?" He waited for the

stranger to give his name.

"Ragoczy," he answered. "Count Ferenc Ragoczy, of Sain—"

John Henry cut him short with enthusiasm. "Ragoczy! Of almost

everywhere." His eyes lit and he flung out one hand. "I've been

copying your accounts, sir, and let me say you are by far the most

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The Vengeful Spirit of Lake Nepeakea

travelled gentleman of all those buying from us abroad. You have

holdings in Bavaria, in Saint Petersburg, in Christiania, in Holland,

in Italy, in Prague, in—"

Mr Tubbs stopped this catalogue. "I am certain Mr Ragoczy does

not wish his affairs bruited about, John Henry."

The youngest clerk lowered his eyes and stifled himself. "No, Mr

Tubbs," he said.

Ragoczy took pity on him. "It is good to know that at least one of

your staff has my interests in hand." His smile was quick and one-

sided, and held John Henry's attention as Ragoczy turned towards

him, encouraging him. "Where else do I have property: can you tell

me?"

Now John Henry faltered, upset by Mr Tubbs's covert glare. "In…

in Hungary." He steadied himself and went on. "There are two

addresses in Hungary, now I think of it; one in Buda and one in a

remote area of the eastern sector. In the Carpathians. That place is

in Hungary, isn't it?"

"Technically, yes, at present it is," he replied, and glanced up as the

office clock struck the half hour. "Although it is closer to Bucharest

than to Buda-Pest. Saint-Germain is on the current border of

Hungary and Romania, but that has not always been the case. It is a

very ancient estate." Ragoczy fell silent.

After an awkward pause, Mr Tubbs said, "Is that all you can tell Mr

Ragoczy, John Henry? You are the one who has his ledger to copy.

Show him you are not a laggard."

Stung by this reprimand, John Henry squared his angular shoulders

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