Special Treat for Moffateers

(An excerpt from Moffat III, a work in progress. More information in the introduction on the site "read" page)

‘Your name, was it a secret to be kept from me?’

The smile assumed more human proportions.

‘Not especially. Although I prefer to travel incognito for the most part.’

‘Why is that, Jedermann?’

‘I’d have thought you more than anyone would know that names are important. Knowing someone’s true name confers power on those who discover it.’

‘Which of your names would you like me to use?’

He laughed, ‘I am travelling under Stoker.’

Which utterance I rewarded with a laugh, as he seemed to expect one, though I had no idea why it might be considered worthy of it. He withdrew something from his coat pocket and passed it from one hand to the other, before opening both hands and showing their empty palms,

‘Do you like magic?’ he asked.

‘In my experience it consists entirely of trickery designed to fool the gullible.’

He raised one setiferous eyebrow and said,

‘Are you quite, quite sure?’

At that moment I began to cough, then choke, feeling a sharp-edged obstruction in my gullet. I could not dislodge it. I confess, I feared for my life. In spite of this I was aware of the self-styled ‘Stoker’’s look of mild interest as he observed me choking to death. Finally, though I am not sure it was entirely due to my own strenuous effort, I ejected something very hard onto the table before me. Jedermann trapped it with his hand palm down on the surface.

‘Would you like to have it?’

I shook my head, wishing to indicate that I could not speak.

‘Once more, are you quite, quite sure?’

I gave a shrug and pointed at my mouth. This provoked a bellow of laughter that would have alarmed other diners, had there been any. He lifted his palm, to reveal a gemstone. A diamond, larger than any I had ever encountered. To my eye it was around 50 carats, which made it larger than the Hope Diamond, but possibly not the French Blue. It was an unfamiliar cut, and nothing like the cushion antique and pavilion of the Hope. The man’s hand fell to cover the diamond and a glass of porter appeared in front of me. The waiter backed away and I took a deep draught of the sour black ale. Jedermann removed his hand once more. The diamond was gone. I opened my mouth to tell him that I knew the stone was now up his sleeve or hidden elsewhere about his person.

‘Save yourself the trouble of speech, you will find it difficult for a while in any case.’

He stood and removed his frock coat, turning the sleeves inside to out. He turned out the pockets. His trews had none. The waistcoat pocket contained only his fob-watch. He made to remove his trousers, but I shook my head violently.

‘Drink up, Moffat. It will do you good.’

He was uncommon sprightly for a man of such evidently advancing years and was once again presentable by the time I drained my porter.

‘I am Jedermann, but my name is Legion. My cousins do not speak for me, Moffat. I wish you very good luck.’ He shot a glance over my shoulder, ‘Ah! Cattermole, back at last.’

I turned to look. Cattermole was descending the staircase. When I turned back, Jedermann was gone. I was sure I could hear the fluttering of wings. I picked up my glass, thinking to drain it of the dregs. There were none, just a large diamond of a very unusual cut. I scarcely had time to pocket the stone before Cattermole took the chair recently vacated by Jedermann. We ordered food from the Maître D’Hotel.