The Society

### Plot

All my greatest accomplishments began on a Monday, and this one was no exception. I was brooding in my office with a tray of day-old biscuits and a cup of weak earl grey, nursing the morning paper on my lap. The slog of retirement marched relentlessly on, an undertaking which I  regretted with the utmost sincerity. Time seemed to lose itself in middle-aged languor, becoming a cloudy theorem posited by the philosophers. Of course, the Home Office had no lack of young applicants, so it was without ceremony that I returned the required accouterments of my vocation.

I glanced up as the sunlight glided across the opposite wall of my study. It was morning, and it was sunny. Two rare occurrences in London. The article I was reading concerned that most intrepid band of heroes, the Flea Syndicate, a society whose fame rivaled that of James Kingston, that indefatigable bulldog of Scotland Yard, Arthur Morriston, bane of the Sussex Cabal, and Edward Lagrange, that saint who single handedly outwitted the Ring of Eight. They featured in the papers at least once every month. Nobody had ever seen them and the authorities weren’t letting out clues any time soon. The only confirmed fact was that there were four in number. But their cases had captured the hearts of every Londoner and the attention of every journalist. Just yesterday, the papers claimed, they had turned Lord Tho

mas Rothe over to the police on suspicion of embezzlement. I sighed, languidly swirling the dregs of tea-time. Despite the traps middle age seemed to be springing on me, I still longed for action. That thrill of the chase, when you were a solitary light in a dark alley and your prey might just as well be the predator. I had been a spirit of boundless energy in my prime. And here I was, slumped in a threadbare armchair, knowing there would be no mysterious stranger with a deadly secret behind the door I faced. How I longed to join those paradigms of criminal investigation, the Flea Syndicate. I gazed down at the newspaper. In the advertisement, between two large announcements advertising smelling salts and leatherworking, was a notice of only three lines. It read as follows:

Private Investigator wanted for the payment of £100 a year

for an indefinite period of time to be determined upon arrival

at 13b Leaf Row, Suite 25.

My mind whirled. It certainly wouldn’t be a bad way to spend the rest of my life. I reached over and rifled through a desk drawer. As I pulled out my license, a grin crept over my face. Finally, a detail I was glad Home Office had missed. I grabbed my hat and coat from off their corresponding pegs and threw open the door, exuding resolution with every step.

I was thoroughly lost by the time I arrived at Leaf Row. It had the look of having been destroyed, rebuilt, then destroyed again over a period of centuries. All manner of architectural styles were depicted, none with any apparent structural integrity. There were no pedestrians: the fog seemed to hang more thickly about the buildings in this sector of town. I followed the brass letters on the doors until I reached 13q, glancing around as I did so. To the left of this was 13a. To the right was 13c. 13q seemed to be unceremoniously sandwiched between the two. It was the typical gothic rowhouse: dilapidated and grey, with opaque windowpanes revealing rooms of total darkness. I concluded that whoever owned this establishment was either uncannily lazy, uncannily furtive, or uncannily both. After tripping up the crumbling mortar steps and swinging the brass knocker twice, I fiddled with the knob and found the door to be unlocked. I stood a moment in hesitation, my rationality niggling at the back of my mind before inverting the errant q and swinging the door inwards.

I found myself in a close and rather musty corridor, with a flight of stairs leading to the upper apartments at the very end. These I ascended to the third storey, my feelings of trepidation increasing before pausing at the door with the number 25. The facts were adding up in my mind to paint a dismal picture: a cartel, perhaps, who waylaid the innocent, lurked beyond. Yet to turn back now and return to that abominable flat with the half-eaten biscuits and weak tea scarcely beared consideration. I rallied my nerves for one last effort, telling myself this would be the last mysterious door I opened today. My palms were sweating so profusely, I didn’t even bother knocking but instead flung wide the door. I was only dimly aware of the dart which whistled past my cheek and stuck in the wall opposite the door. The door had a target painted on in black and white on the side facing the room. This was followed by a chorus of disappointed voices and a baritone cry of “A second throw, I say!”, which issued from the smoky and poorly-lit interior.

A figure shimmered out of the fog, clasping my hand in a vise-like grip. In his other hand, he held a mop. When I had gotten past the initial shock of both, my eyes beheld the man himself. He was lean, with a tweed jacket and bowtie. He wore his silk top hat poised at an angle on his thick sweep of brown hair. His nose was aquiline: his smile radiant. But his brown eyes were the great mystery: they seemed infinitely old, displaying great confidence, yes there was also the gleam of something which could have been youth (the man looked hardly to have emerged from adolescence) or insanity.

“Hello, hello,” he gushed in a soft yet ecstatic voice. “The sandwiches have just been served and if we hurry, you can snag a few before Cheeves scarfs them all down. I say, none of that pomp and ceremony around here if you please,” he said, waving away the license I had proffered to him in dumbstruck confusion. I shook my head.

“There was an advertisement in the paper which directed me to this address.”

“Was there?” The fellow replied with a distracted air.

“You said you needed a private inspector,” I tried desperately.

“Did I?” He said in that same abstracted tone. Then, “I did! Then that means you are…” he said, rubbing his chin in a contemplative manner. Then he snapped back with an intensity which frightened me.

“Come in, my good man, right this way!” He led me, stumbling, into the sitting room. In the middle was the warm glow of a fire. The thick smoke dissipated and I perceived the forms of three other men. One was a strapping fellow with a stubbly jaw and waiter’s attire. His hulking frame was bent over a plate of cucumber sandwiches, from which a second fellow was snatching bites when the giant wasn’t looking. This was a short, skinny character with a black mustachio whose looks were faintly rodentine. He was dressed as the typical London businessman of the seedier class: greasy, twirling his bowler hat in his spindly fingers when not stealing sandwiches. The third member was lounging in a fading velvet armchair. He was a portly old gentleman with a curling mustachio, a hoary shock of hair gracing his otherwise bald pate. He was dressed in a crimson bathrobe. His left leg ended at the knee in a wooden dowel.

They all looked up upon my advent. The man in tweed turned to me. “Well, here we are. Small, yes, but a merry lot all the same. Pierre will escort you to your room. Tea is in thirty minutes.” I grew pale at this unexpected turn of things, but the man cut me off before I could protest by smacking his forehead. “There now, I’ve forgotten introductions. Right.” He indicated the burly fellow. “Pierre: a former groomsman at the Versailles livery. Decided he wanted to cook for a living and popped off to London. Makes the most delectable meals. He’ll see to all your needs.” Pierre bowed.

“It is an honor to serve alongside you, monsieur,” he said in a thick accent. My host next indicated the thin one. “This is Cheeves, one of the most capable bankers this side of the Thames. Dissects sums like frogs. Eats them for breakfast.” Cheeves murmured something bashfully, then continued to devour the sandwiches.

“And this,” said my host, “Is Granddad. Some say he lost his leg in one of the wars. Others say it was chewed off by a wild boar.” He shrugged. “He won’t tell us either way.” Granddad tapped his nose and winked.

“It is a rare and unexpected pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he pontificated in the voice I had heard earlier. My host turned to me. “And I’m the Professor. No, no need to speak of the mop,” he proceeded, mistaking my stupefaction for an unspoken question. “I was being chased back in the ‘80s…no, don’t ask which, I can’t remember, and, long story short, it saved my life when I was trapped in a broom closet. And you are…?” He smiled at me in expectation.

“Grayson,” I managed. “Edward Grayson. But look, what’s all this about my room…my salary…remuneration…” I couldn’t piece together any of this madness. The Professor, finally seeming to sense my unease, grabbed me by the shoulders, staring deep into my eyes.

“The fact is, Grayson, none of us are good shakes cracking cases. The last few runs have been quite the strokes of luck, actually. So we-”

“You,” interrupted Cheeves. “I never said it was a good idea.”

“Yes, well I,” he continued, “Thought it would be the wheeze of the century if we hired a man of the right stuff. Someone who played cat-and-mouse before but was desperate enough to accept a position on the merits of a one-day advertisement.”

“And the price to feature in the paper for a day depleted our funds,” muttered Pierre.

“So what say you, Grayson?” asked the Professor with that same intense eagerness.

“Then there is no salary?” I asked.

“Not strictly speaking,” said the Professor, his face reddening. “But isn’t the thrill of the chase reward enough?” I then realized what I was facing: a gaggle of second-string amateurs. I was once again in full control. I folded my arms.

“No,” I said, with decision. “I am perfectly well off on my own means without a gang of dilettantes to give me room and board.”

The Professor seemed to consider a second before plunging into his roundabout speech.

“Listen Grayson, I know this doesn’t seem like the greatest of deals, but look at us. We’re all lost in some way or another. I more than anyone else,” he added with regret in his voice. “Life hasn’t done us a good turn, but we still continue to fight for justice. Eh? Isn’t that what you want as well?”

I shook my head, moving towards the door. “I regret to inform you that I have greater matters to attend to and cannot be occupied with the cases of whatever society you call yourselves…”

“The Flea Syndicate,” said the Professor, looking at the floor.

“Rather cunning anagram I thought up,” said Granddad with pride.

“I beg your pardon?” I said, my hand on the doorknob.

### Cast

The Professor

Edward Grayson

Cheeves

Granddad

Pierre