railway carriage.
Warrington checked his timepiece again. The message from this chap had been quite explicit. It was this station, this tea-house, this booth – third one along – and this time.
Warrington had wondered how this mysterious Candle Man could be so confident that this particular booth was going to be vacant for him to sit in, but it had been. The ones either side, he noted as
he sat down, had both been occupied.
He watched the people milling outside the wrought iron enclosure, curious as to whether he would be able to pick this man out as he approached. A man conspicuously on his own, a man fresh from
America, trying to make sense of the curious way the British lay out their railway stations. A man clearly off his familiar ground.
But he won’t stand out, will he? Not if he is as good as they say he is.
The old man, Rawlinson, told him the Candle Man never made face to face contact. That he guarded his identity as if it was his very soul.
A note, then. That’s what Warrington expected now. Not a direct approach, but a hand-delivered note. He could imagine some errand boy, red-cheeked and puffing wind. ‘I fink this is
for you, mister!’ Crushing a creased envelope into his hands. He looked around for just that: a mysterious stranger stooped over a small boy, waving a finger in his direction as he uttered
instructions into a pink ear and pressed a shilling into a grubby hand. But he saw nothing like that.
‘He’s late,’ Warrington muttered to himself, realising for the first time that he was actually a little bit nervous. The cautionary advice he’d been given, the parts of
the letter from America he’d been allowed to look at, seemed to be mythologising him a little, turning him into something much more than what he was: simply a very well-paid shiv man.
A cannibal, for Christ’s sake? He shook his head. Quite obviously that was the kind of fairground patter the Candle Man was happy to see propagated about him. Making him sound like
some sort of monster, like some species of gargoyle arisen from the dark depths of the underworld to snatch another victim from the world above, to be taken down and cooked in a pot in some cavern
below.
He smiled at the theatricality of it. Well, if their American colleagues were gullible enough to include that kind of nonsense in a communiqué – stories of crime bosses eaten for
their sins – more fool them. Provided this chap was actually worth his fee, was discreet and not going to try and pull the same foolish trick as that thug, Tolly, then all would be well.
Two weeks since they’d last met. Tolly had sounded edgy and irritable then, demanding an advance payment of some of the money he was hoping to blackmail them out of. Warrington was there
to placate him and actually did give a generous advance on the money and an assurance that if he could be patient, wait just a few more weeks, he’d be able to have all of the amount he was
asking for.
But he had the sense that Tolly was getting anxious about the whole thing now. Perhaps worried that this situation was too big a bite for him to chew, bigger than he’d originally realised.
Warrington had to wonder whether the man had been doing some homework. Whether Tolly had thought to investigate this trinket, to investigate who was on this portrait it supposedly contained.
Is it possible he’s worked out who it is?
He’d decided probably not. If Tolly really knew, or even suspected he knew, then the asking price would undoubtedly have been increased. Substantially. He suspected Tolly didn’t know
yet, but maybe that was only going to be a matter of time. The newspapers printed regular photographs and illustrations of the man. Given that he was such a busy bee, at some point Tolly was surely
going to catch a glimpse of his face on a front page and realise he recognised it. Realise exactly what he had in his possession.
But he doesn’t know yet.
That much was for sure.
Tolly was clearly
Warrington checked his timepiece again. The message from this chap had been quite explicit. It was this station, this tea-house, this booth – third one along – and this time.
Warrington had wondered how this mysterious Candle Man could be so confident that this particular booth was going to be vacant for him to sit in, but it had been. The ones either side, he noted as
he sat down, had both been occupied.
He watched the people milling outside the wrought iron enclosure, curious as to whether he would be able to pick this man out as he approached. A man conspicuously on his own, a man fresh from
America, trying to make sense of the curious way the British lay out their railway stations. A man clearly off his familiar ground.
But he won’t stand out, will he? Not if he is as good as they say he is.
The old man, Rawlinson, told him the Candle Man never made face to face contact. That he guarded his identity as if it was his very soul.
A note, then. That’s what Warrington expected now. Not a direct approach, but a hand-delivered note. He could imagine some errand boy, red-cheeked and puffing wind. ‘I fink this is
for you, mister!’ Crushing a creased envelope into his hands. He looked around for just that: a mysterious stranger stooped over a small boy, waving a finger in his direction as he uttered
instructions into a pink ear and pressed a shilling into a grubby hand. But he saw nothing like that.
‘He’s late,’ Warrington muttered to himself, realising for the first time that he was actually a little bit nervous. The cautionary advice he’d been given, the parts of
the letter from America he’d been allowed to look at, seemed to be mythologising him a little, turning him into something much more than what he was: simply a very well-paid shiv man.
A cannibal, for Christ’s sake? He shook his head. Quite obviously that was the kind of fairground patter the Candle Man was happy to see propagated about him. Making him sound like
some sort of monster, like some species of gargoyle arisen from the dark depths of the underworld to snatch another victim from the world above, to be taken down and cooked in a pot in some cavern
below.
He smiled at the theatricality of it. Well, if their American colleagues were gullible enough to include that kind of nonsense in a communiqué – stories of crime bosses eaten for
their sins – more fool them. Provided this chap was actually worth his fee, was discreet and not going to try and pull the same foolish trick as that thug, Tolly, then all would be well.
Two weeks since they’d last met. Tolly had sounded edgy and irritable then, demanding an advance payment of some of the money he was hoping to blackmail them out of. Warrington was there
to placate him and actually did give a generous advance on the money and an assurance that if he could be patient, wait just a few more weeks, he’d be able to have all of the amount he was
asking for.
But he had the sense that Tolly was getting anxious about the whole thing now. Perhaps worried that this situation was too big a bite for him to chew, bigger than he’d originally realised.
Warrington had to wonder whether the man had been doing some homework. Whether Tolly had thought to investigate this trinket, to investigate who was on this portrait it supposedly contained.
Is it possible he’s worked out who it is?
He’d decided probably not. If Tolly really knew, or even suspected he knew, then the asking price would undoubtedly have been increased. Substantially. He suspected Tolly didn’t know
yet, but maybe that was only going to be a matter of time. The newspapers printed regular photographs and illustrations of the man. Given that he was such a busy bee, at some point Tolly was surely
going to catch a glimpse of his face on a front page and realise he recognised it. Realise exactly what he had in his possession.
But he doesn’t know yet.
That much was for sure.
Tolly was clearly
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