Touchstone (Meridian Series) Read Online Free

the concoction, screwed his
courage to the sticking point, and drank.
    As he savored the potion he
wondered about his clothing again. Perhaps he should do something a little more
adventurous on this once in a lifetime excursion. Why waste his time in a dive
when he might take in some high art at the opera? The thought of seeing an
original play from this era was suddenly overwhelming. But he couldn’t very
well mix in fine company dressed as he was. If the likes of Mr. Curtis had
noticed him, then he would stick out like a proverbial sore thumb at the opera.
What to do? Could he rent something?
    When the maid returned to see
that all was in order he asked about clothiers in the vicinity.
    “Oh, yes, sir. You’ll want
Madame Tussaud’s for rental of evening dress. There’s a shop over on King Street where you can hire for the
night. The usual prices are five shillings for a decent gentleman’s coat, two
for a nice vest, three for trousers, and another five if you’ll be needing an
overcoat, which I would certainly recommend on a night like this.  Of course, a
deposit of the value of the articles has to be left during the hiring.”
    “You are most kind,” said
Nordhausen.
    “Pray tell me, sir—will you be
off to see H.M.S Pinafore at the Opera Comique? I hear it’s all the rage in
town these days.”
    “H.M.S Pinafore?” Nordhausen was
absolutely delighted to hear that this original Gilbert and Sullivan hit was
actually playing in town.
    “Why, yes sir. And I hear that
you might even find Mr. Gilbert or Mr. Sullivan about in the clubs thereafter.”
She gave him a wink.
    “Indeed,” said Nordhausen, and
the light of discovery was burning fervently in his eyes, fueled by a healthy
dose of old Miss Plimsy’s Restorative.
     
    3
     
    He swirled the claret in his goblet, enjoying the light play in its ruddy
bowl, and watching the legs ooze down the walls of the glass. It smelled heady,
very alcoholic, rich and fruity. As he raised it to take a sip, the front doors
burst open, and a small crowd poured in, chattering away in the wake of  two
men who walked together arm in arm. He immediately took notice, thrilled that
he had been correct in his choice of club. Adjacent to the Opera hall, this was
a most likely spot for revelry after the show, which he had enjoyed immensely.
Several cast members has slipped away soon after, and he followed one to this
very spot, staking out a small table near the wall where he could enjoy a drink
and let the thrill of his evening subside a bit.
    The little group paused for a
moment, then headed for a cluster of chairs and sofas with a low serving table
that would seat them all.
    The younger man, perhaps 25
years old, was strikingly tall, several inches over six feet, and with thick
dark brown hair, parted in the middle, and pouring down to his shoulders. He
was dressed in a heavy lavender overcoat, with darker purple Astrakhan fur collar and cuffs. Certainly
more outré than anything Nordhausen had seen in London so far. He gesticulated languidly as he spoke, his large hands
flapping like thick pale birds, punctuating his speech.
    “Such a success,” he was saying,
“I counted three
acclamations, fully fifty three hilarities, two thrilling movements, four
renewals of applause and two indefinite explosions. The audience was in the
palm of your hand! Perhaps I shall write for the theater…”
    The other gentleman was almost
as tall, perhaps twenty years older, and seventy pounds heavier, with black
hair slicked with macassar oil, and an exuberant mustache blossoming between
his nose and lip. He was conventionally dressed for the evening, in black with
a white cravat, and a sharp gold headed walking stick. He was listening
attentively, with a twinkle in his eye, to the torrent of words flowing from
the younger man, as the two made their way to a table in the middle of the
club. He held the chair for one his companions, and said, “I have an
enthusiastic chef du claque.   We