CHAPTER 59

SAFE HOME

Mr Sharp did not linger on the matter of his departure: he took the Coburg Ivory from the empty shelf in the Red Library and walked down to the kitchen. Hodge and The Smith were sitting at the table, working on their pipes, adding a tobaccoey fug of their own to the steam from the burbling pudding-boiler on the range.

Jed sat up from where he was stretched out in front of the range and allowed Mr Sharp to scratch his head. The other two pointedly ignored the tell-tale ivory ball in Mr Sharp’s hand.

“Got your knives?” said The Smith.

“Yes,” he replied.

The Smith pulled a small thin-bladed dagger in a scabbard from his waistcoat and held it up without turning to look at him.

“Always room for one more.”

Mr Sharp took it and drew it out of the shagreen sheath.

“Beautiful work,” he said.

“Thank you,” said The Smith. “Meteorite iron went into that, and that wavy line down the blood’groove is purest silver I could find. Handle’s made of oak, ash and thorn.”

“So I see,” said Mr Sharp. “Thank you, Wayland. I am most obliged.”

“May help you more than a normal blade against some comers,” said Hodge. “I made the sheath. Lined in red silk inside, it is.”

“Thank you, both,” said Mr Sharp.

They did not comment on the fact that he took his free hand and wiped it on the mixture of chimney soot and grease lining the brass catch-all above the range. He crossed to the door to the secret passage and opened it.

“I have been honoured that you all…” And here he coughed, cleared his throat and scratched Jed’s head again, including him in what he was saying. “I have been deeply honoured that you all have done me the great kindness of being my friends since first I came here as a child. It has changed my life, and only for the better. I hope to see you again soon.”

And with no more ceremony than the hint of a bow, he went into the passage and closed the door behind him.

“What did you say?” said Hodge, sure he had heard The Smith muttering something.

There was a pause.

“I said, ‘Safe home’ if it’s any of your damned business,” said The Smith eventually, puffing furiously at his pipe.

They both sat there for a while, watching the smoke eddy.

“Sorry,” said The Smith.

Hodge waved the apology away as if it had been nothing, and then stopped.

“What’s that noise?”

“Can’t hear it,” said The Smith.

Hodge shrugged.

“Thought I heard singing.”

The Smith snorted.

“Have you ever heard him sing?”

“No,” admitted Hodge. “He whistles sometimes.”

And they left it at that.

And later, when they went into the passage to turn off the lanterns and snuff the candle in the Murano Cabinet, Mr Sharp was gone. All that remained was one new handprint on the wall by the door with his initials scratched below it.