Gibbous House 23

The documents I had failed to read sufficiently closely were clasped so to Brown’s chest as like to put one in mind of corsets made of paper. The man himself remained mute and motionless, and, for the second time in less than a week, I found myself propelled from a place of business without courtesy or dismissal. Maccabi attempted a light touch on my elbow as we crossed the emerald portal, but the somewhat heavier touch of mine on his ribs thwarted his presumption.

He did not gratify me with a grunt, however, merely looked me in the eye as any equal might and said:

‘I thought…. Perhaps…a tailor?’

I was too surprised at his effrontery not to reply:

‘Here? I had supposed that Alnwick would house the very nearest!’

‘In that you are quite correct, Mr Moffat. However, I have taken the liberty of summoning one such to the Coble Inn to await our pleasure this very afternoon. He would not depart without seeking leave to do so, I think.’

Had I not already taken against him so, I would have admired his foresight. Instead, I merely enquired:

‘Coble?’

He threw back his head and laughed his unmusical laugh:

‘A natural enough name for an inn in a fishing village. It is the local dialect for a fisherman’s boat.’

‘And my benefactor’s given name? How serendipitous!’

Maccabi eyed me closely, and in a voice devoid of humour, declared:

‘There is little of chance in names, Mr Moffat.’

The Coble Inn was as mean a hovel as ever I had seen. It stood, or rather stooped, on Main Street at the point where this thoroughfare touched the shore. Its sandstone walls had never felt the mason’s chisel. No afternoon sun had sweetened the salt spray from the rollers crashing in from the North Sea, and for that reason alone I welcomed the low accommodation as a haven from the evil elements. Inside the inn was a single,long room: all carpentry on view was of a rough and unfinished kind, even the counter behind which the landlord stood. He continued to stand, mute, when I enquired of the tailor. Only the dart of his eyes to a darkened corner convinced me that he was not some tall carving into which the unknown carpenter had poured all the dedication missing from the furnishings. Turning to Maccabi, I allowed that our host was a talkative cove. Maccabi grinned and said:

‘Hardly that. John Bill is a mute, hasn’t spoken a word since washed up on the sand outside. His brother has never been found, nor even a plank from their boat. Coble placed him here, an uncommon generous act, Moffat, I should say.’

‘And so would I.’ I replied, resolving to ascertain if Coble had left me any interest in this property, and to knock it down if so.

A bent and cringing figure had risen as best it could behind another rustic table. A dark and vigorous voice emerged, its beauty marred only by an accent foreign to British shores and testament to the wanderings of its owner’s tribe.

‘Elijah Salomons, gentleman’s tailor, at your service: Mr Moffat.’

Turning to Maccabi I eyed his fashions of fifty years since and remarked:

‘I am sincere in hoping, despite the evidence of my ears, that this is not your tailor.’

His lips grew thin and I was glad at last to have punctured his poise.

‘No sir, he is not. Mr Salomons is the best tailor north of Newcastle, south of Selkirk and numbers the Duke of Northumberland among his clients. I am most appreciative of his attending on yourself here in Seahouses.’

Offering a smile to my servant, I turned to the tailor:

‘Now, tailor, take my measure, while you can.’