Muybridge turned up his collar against the chilly London rain.  It was every bit a downpour, and he was thinking to himself as he soaked to the skin that there were better ways for a man to make a living than the line he was in. He tugged at the brim of his Donnegal hat until its short brim fully covered his ears. Damn their eyes anyway, the blue bloods just loved playing spy, Muybridge thought. It might as well have been their national pastime.

He was on his way to meet Lord Anthelm at the lord's private club for a five p.m. supper. To Muybridge's amusement, the lord was one of those very British characters who took themselves more seriously than they really had a right to, and Muybridge might have been more eager to keep the engagement were its occasion only social. Lord Anthelm was widely recognized as a lithe conversationalist as well as a raconteur with many a story to tell of his derring-do amidst webs of intrigue. Muybridge understood he had been during the Second World War a high ranking official of MI 5, Britain's legendary intelligence branch, and the lord had never put this behind him, apparently. He was still with cloak and dagger, and he was a character in several other ways as well. The first impression he'd made on Muybridge was of someone who would have been more at ease in trunk hose and a doublet than the bowler he always wore or his Saville Row tailoring, and the image--somehow--stuck.  Lord Anthelm  had impressed him upon a first meeting as an amusing, patrician fop who was a thousand years removed from his proper place in history, and Muybridge had yet to shake this impression. He might add to it, as he sometimes had in the past two years, having discovered over time that the lord was always freshly shaven, polished, well spoken, ready to pay what he owed, even throw in a bonus. He might take away from it, thinking, as he was thinking at the instant, that the man was a pain in the rectum. But what came to mind first each time the lord wished to contract for his services was of doublets and trunk hose, so fully had this colored his view of the man from the get-go.

He had been told to be at the intersection of Kensington Road and Bright Lane at precisely a quarter past the hour, only if it continued rain.  He was to stand on the northeast corner, per usual, where a taxi would stop.  When he was asked where he wished to be taken, he was to say, "Not fit weather for ducks. I'm soaked through and through.  Forgot my umbrella. A silly  thing to do." He had been given as well a bushel of particulars, the registration number of the driver, something about a scarf to be found on the left side of the taxi that had been purposely placed to appear to have been lost in a rush.  More.  Muybridge really couldn't bother.

His rendezvous with the taxi was five minutes off, there was no scarf, but, so wet, so frozen to the bone, his identifying words rung perfectly true. So too did the response of the driver. The engine stalled as he pulled away from the curb.  Pumping the accelerator, he said, "Nasty little car.  Can't keep it started. Must be the choke.  And didn't I just have it worked on? I've got the receipt somewhere. Is something the matter?"

After being driven around London for the better part of an hour, Muybridge was let off at the point from which his tour had begun, Bright Lane and Kensington Road, though on the opposite side of the street. Muybridge waited for traffic to lighten before making his way across to a broken down four-door.  A car was badly parked at the northeast corner several feet into the street and at an angle to the curb, an ancient, yellow Ford, on its right fender a crimp several inches deep.  Its bonnet was up. Muybridge positioned himself beside it. He set foot off the kerb, looked up and down the block impatiently.  The car, from all appearances, was his. A taxi, identical to the one he had recently suffered a ride in but not, of course, the same one at all,  stopped, and Muybridge opened its door, ducking his head as he entered. He said,"Nasty little car.  Can't keep it started. Must be the choke. And didn't I just have it worked on?  I've got a receipt somewhere. Is something the matter?"

Meeting Muybridge's eyes in his mirror, the driver responded, "A gentleman friend of mine just cut his throat upon a beach."

They drove a circuitous route that led them past the Academy of St. Martin's in the Fields several times repeatedly, each at different speed.  Convinced that the taxi had not been followed,  the driver turned down a lane that few knew even existed and deposited his passenger.

Muybridge entered the building with minutes to spare before his five p.m. supper and he used this time to enjoy his surroundings. The club was not overly large, nor were there so many rooms, but all of its appointments were striking to the eye,  and no doubt authentic. Lord Anthelm had once said in passing that he no longer attended state banquets because they'd been reduced to the level of a catered affair for conventioneers. Neither would he dine at Buckingham Palace. No longer was there a display of objets d'art, no personal belongings, nothing from the Royal gardens since even the flowers were provided by florists once controlled by Rupert Murdock.  For fear of souvenir hunting, anything a part of the Royals daily life was carefully removed hours in advance of the event. "Not so much as a show of plate!" Lord Anthelm protested. It was precisely the sort of club, then, of which a Lord Anthelm might be a member. 

Once Muybridge deposited his very damp trench coat and hat, he proceeded toward a vestibule where Muybridge was to meet his host. He rubbed his hands together, as if warming them over a fire.  No, it was not, he thought, as such clubs went, what one might have expected. No smoky male retreat. No roaring fire or worn leather sofas or whiff of the cricket pitch. No polished dark wood paneling.  No mustachioed, masculine aura. The farthest thing from it, he dared say.

At one end of the vestibule, a banquet was being arranged in a room set aside for that purpose alone. Its double doors were temporarily open. He'd dined here twice before and they'd always been locked.  He knew. He'd tried them. It was a sign of the way he lived his life that he found nothing half so inviting as a door that was locked to him, save, perhaps, a locked door suddenly opened.  From Muybridge's partial view, enough could be seen to pique his curiosity even more.  With no one watching, he thought to himself, so long as he didn't step inside, he didn't see why anyone should mind. Right you are! Too, he had years of practice to draw upon.  Insinuating yourself into places you didn't belong was a necessary skill to those who  murdered strangers for a livelihood.

The room was not large and since two grand pianos were arranged side by side, it was smaller than it needed to be, making service for twelve a cross between plans for a landing at Normandy and the fussy choreography of the Bolshoi Ballet.  Muybridge looked up at the walls.  Ornate appointments.  Far too self-involved. His eyes surveyed the ceiling, brushing them in a way that was so light yet tactile he might have been running the edge of his thumb across the blade of a very sharp razor. He had no taste for those torturous rococo curves. No, it was nothing he'd have in his own digs, not even if he could afford it. But the room was no less impressive for that. A serving staff was moving in and out of the room  now, preparing for the evening ahead.  He waited for a moment when the room was empty to peek beneath the dish covers.  The table was yet to be dressed. They were its sole decoration. Even so, he thought,  they were precisely arranged in a row so straight it might have been measured in millimeters with those tiny blue flexible rulers, which, in fact, he had no doubt had been the case.  Lord Anthelm had explained that they'd come from the Duke of Windsor's estate. They'd been made for the court of Catherine the Great by a direct descendant of Josiah Wedgwood at  the Wedgwood factory in Chelsea, Stratfordshire, each depicting a famous event from ancient Greek mythology. Each gigantic ceramic dish cover was surmounted by the crest of a different royal family from the glory days of Europe. An amusing thought occurred to him: in one of them, at least, was he sure to find a crack?  As he was about to lift the nearest one, Lord Anthelm said, "There you are, Muybridge, how good of you to come.  I thought perhaps we'd lost you. Wasn't anyone here to show you in?"

 Right, thought Muybridge.  He would not, of course, have been welcome in any of the dining areas without the presence of his host here. He would have been shooed away like a stray dog had he gone it alone. "Good evening, Lord Anthelm," said Muybridge, extending his hand.

Rather than take his hand, Lord Anthelm steered him back to the vestibule by the elbow, which was more in keeping, he meant Muybridge to realize, with where Muybridge belonged.

"There seems to be a banquet in the works for this evening, Lord Anthelm." He wanted to add, in whose honor is it being held, Bismarck's?  Napoleon's? Frederick the Great's? A little shindig for the Hapsburgs perhaps? Looking down the narrow hallway through which he was now being led, it would not have surprised him to see a row of pages lined up against the walls in white-satin knee britches and satin waist-coats with bullion embroidery, each boy with his own powdered wig and a sword in an enamelled scabbard. Lord Anthelm seemed to have guessed this from Muybridge's expression. He was not about to allow Muybridge the pleasures of social inferiority.  Their meeting, apparently, had already begun.

"What, oh that?  Just a small dinner party, actually. The members are bringing their wives. A few convivial friends who have nowhere else to wear their formal clothes. No one dresses for dinner anymore you see.  Not even in the city's best restaurants. You're mistaken for the maitre'd if you so much as dare to.  It's more for the wives than the members, really.  They need a place where they can show off their bobbles without feeling conspicuous. Being well-heeled has become the cultural equivalent of the eighth deadly sin.  Here, no one really bothers. You'd be surprised how hard it is to recruit a younger membership.  We show them around and you'd think from their expressions we were Madamme Tussaud's. And for all I know, we actually are.  What to my generation was simply a part of l'art de vivre has gone  by the way, apparently.  Something better left to a wax works museum. Though I suppose it can't be helped. It all depends on how you look at it, doesn't it? One generation's era of l'art de vivre becomes the epoque de mauvais gout of the next?"

When they were seated at a table for two by a steward, Lord Anthelm  got right to the point. "I'm told there's a problem. I handpicked you, you realize, Muybridge. You recognize, of course, you're putting egg all over my face?"

Muybridge removed his serviette from a solid sterling collar. "That wasn't my intention.  I want to know more about what I'm getting myself into, that's all. I've come to you before. You've heard me out.  We've talked."

Lord Anthelm took his linen serviette from the plate before him and spread it neatly across his lap, smoothing its edges as he spoke. "These new heads, Muybridge, they haven't appreciation enough for practical politics, the Real Politik, as it was called in my day. So many of these chaps I run into imagine differences of opinions among longstanding enemies can simply be jawboned away. No sense of bad blood, of how deeply it runs. Too much faith in the wizardry of words."

Muybridge said, "Too little stomach for what needs to be done."

"Precisely," said Lord Anthelm.

So at least they had that much out of the way, thought Muybridge.  Someone, somewhere, would have to be assassinated. Thank God it was on the table. He'd been afraid in the taxi this might drag on for hours, late into the night. 

Lord Anthelm continued, "All the pleasures of a job well done come from the felicity of the way they phrase things, you see. We've raised a full generation of talkers.  Talkers, not doers, as the Americans like to put it." 

Muybridge had been raised in Leicestershire, but he was Canadian by birth and he was never sure when Lord Anthelm mocked the Americans this way if he was being taken into the man's confidence or being tested to see if he would recognize the snub.  Muybridge smiled graciously. There'd been something contemptuous in Lord Anthelm's tone, he thought, and it was important that his reply be gracious in precisely that amount. He'd felt in his throat a spasm of anger at Lord Anthelm's remark.  He hated being mocked by his betters.  He was a man who was quick  to anger.  It had been a problem all of his life.  Twice it had caught up with him. The  first time it had cost him a stint in a brutal penitentiary, the second a stay in an even worse asylum. In a tone belying the point he was making, Muybridge said, "Then I suppose you've no one to blame but yourselves, have you, Lord Anthelm."  He searched the man's eyes for some reaction to his impudence. The pause that followed was awkward.  

Lord Anthelm raised his hand. Beckoning for the waiter, Muybridge imagined in passing.  Menus, he supposed. Then, as if Muybridge had spoken those words aloud without realizing it, Lord Anthelm said,  "I took the liberty of ordering in advance for the two of us, I hope you won't mind. Proscuitto and melon. It's generally rather good." That Muybridge had gotten it wrong seemed to confirm Lord Anthelm's assumption that he would. Lord Anthelm waited for their sommelier man to arrive before he continued speaking to Muybridge. It seemed to Muybridge he was savoring the moment this took. "It's one of the advantages to dining here as opposed to a restaurant, ordering off menu, I mean.  What's left over from lunch isn't being touted as fresh by some insolent waiter who was only last week a zinc miner in the north."

He debated with Muybridge the merits of two French wines, both of them white, apparently, one of them fruitier than the other,  while the sommelier looked on, as of yet unacknowledged.  The actual debate was between the sommelier and his host, Muybridge warranted, for the sommelier suggested a red alternative when the final choice was left in his hands, a French bordeaux,  a 1981 Chateau Mouton Rothschild, a suggestion he made in a diffident voice.

"Won't that overpower the melon?" asked Lord Anthelm. He was assured that it wouldn't. "Then speak to the chef and make sure our melon is the ripest of the lot, would you be so kind," he instructed the sommelier.

"Very good, Lord Anthelm," responded the sommelier, not quite clicking his heels, Muybridge thought.

Who, Muybridge wondered, would have to be murdered?  That's what he wanted to know next.  It would be in keeping with what he knew of Lord Anthelm for the man to shift the blame for some snafu to someone else, then have that person killed. He was not above being a scurrilous coward, not when it came to a cock-up. Kill or be killed.  Eat or be eaten.  One of the higher-ups, Muybridge guessed.  Tag, you're it! Bang, you're dead!!Yes, that was one alternative, certainly. 

As the sommelier disappeared to the wine cellar, Lord Anthelm resumed their conversation from an earlier point as if nothing else had interceded.  "Talkers.  Not doers.  Not men like ourselves.  You've distinguished yourself to me, I hope you realize that, Muybridge."

"Distinguished myself?  How?"

"You're not like all the others. Big eyed ideologues.  Ersatz soldiers of fortune still wet behind the ears.  Some of the chaps I meet are sociopaths, better off behind bars. What passes for spirit is nothing but breathtaking audacity. Others have spirit enough, but not enough talent. You're singularly impressive to me, Muybridge. I feel by now as if we've established a rapport. I like to think we understand one another.  That we can trust one another."

Muybridge waited for Lord Anthelm to continue.  Had the lord been not a man but a woman, Muybridge might have anticipated a brush of her hand against his own, or to have his knee touched in some intimate fashion. A gesture meant to warm him up, not arouse him, of course. That would have to come later.

"Tell me something, Muybridge.  What keeps you at this?  It can't be the money.  What is it, the intrigue?"

"It's what I do best."

"I thought perhaps it was a matter of principle. You must have some beliefs."

"I have no principles.  I can't afford them.  I'm straight out of an American Western movie, Lord Anthelm.  A hired gun.  A gun for hire to the highest bidder. I don't see why you should find that very hard to believe."

Had he been wearing them, Lord Anthelm might have been looking at Muybridge over the top of his demi-lune spectacles, the ones he sometimes wore for reading. "You realize, finding myself in a tight spot, I could have turned to anyone.  I chose you in particular.  I like to think we understand each other.  In fact, I like to think we're cut from much the same cloth."

"You flatter me, Lord Anthelm."

"I don't really think so."

"You've established a reputation for yourself in these matters that will never be equalled, at least not in your life time."

"Now who's flattering whom, Muybridge.  Come,come. Mais couvrez vour done, cher cousin."

So that was it, thought Muybridge.  A tight spot,was it?  It wasn't Muybridge who had distinguished himself from a vast cache of readily available independent contractors. It was the assignment itself that was different. That was not a good sign. What was that expression about the hairs rising on the back of one's neck as an instinctive response to some imminent danger? His own stayed put. But he understood the figure of speech. He had a very good sense of the rum situation. It was every bit a necessity in his line of work.

Two goblets were placed before them by a boy in his teens in an ill-fitting tuxedo shirt too wide at the collar. The sommelier returned with the bottle of bordeaux. Lord Anthelm offered Muybridge the honors, which he was expected to refuse. So expected, he refused and watched with feigned interest the hollow ritual that followed. Yes, it was all a hollow ritual, he thought to himself. The all-too early supper. Selecting the wine. Selecting the killer. It was all a deadly but hollow ritual.  After sniffing at his goblet and swirling the vintage about, Lord Anthelm glanced at the bottle, which the sommelier had wrapped in a towel while leaving its label exposed.  As if there was some reason to question the year, the sommelier said, simply, "1981, Lord Anthelm."

"Quite," responded Lord Anthelm. "Muybridge?"

"Please, then," said Muybridge.  "I'm in your hands."

The wine was poured to within a precise half-inch of the top of their goblets.  "And from now on," said the Lord, "I'll have it with the meal, not before."

"Very good, my Lord," said the sommelier.

Lord Anthelm brought his goblet to his nose and savored the aroma.

Seeing there was no toast in the offing, Muybridge drank a full swallow without any such fuss and bother. He looked at Lord Anthelm across the rim of his glass. Yes, thought Muybridge, he wasn't far off the mark, an Arthurian knight.  An old knight errant on a grail quest. But no reason to underestimate him. Couldn't assume a Don Quixote.  Less quixotic, less comic. A knight wandering on foot through a waste land--yes, that was closer to it. And having slaughtered his horse for food, there was nothing to do now but look back at its bony remains as he came to terms with starving to death himself or dying of exposure. Muybridge said, "I've been thinking of getting out of the business, actually.  I'm beginning to lose my nerve, I think."

"That's an important consideration.  A golfer addressing  his ball on a tee who wonders if he may hit  into the foursome head of him isn't really ready to hit a good drive.  It makes no difference, it seems to me, if the foursome up ahead is well beyond his normal range.  When the last thought in his mind is a fear of hitting too long, he's sure to pull off in some manner. Step back,is my advice to him.  Let his partner tee off out of turn. He'll be much better off in the long run. You golf, I imagine, Muybridge?"

"Not for many years.  And not well when I played."

"Quite so.  That's reason enough right there to give up the game.  If you can't do it well, why do it at all."

Their eyes met, unblinkingly.  Muybridge smiled. Lord Anthelm did not. Lord Anthelm took a sip of the 1981 Rothschild and wiped his lips with his napkin. "It seems to me that there needs to be a display of some minimal level of skill before they allow a golfer to have access to the links. He can ruin things for everyone, if the poor dear's a duffer. Always way off in the rough.  His foursome there as well, looking for his ball. What fun is that, you see?"

"It's golf we're discussing now?  Not anything else? I wouldn't think my level of skill would be a matter of contention."

"Oh, dear boy, it's not. I'm trying to say I'm in complete agreement, that's the  point I'm carrying home.  Nerves, you see. That's the point I'm trying to make to you. They can get the best of the best of us, as it were. Say I play to a handicap three but come down of a sudden with a case of the yips.  I'm no different than a duffer, always slicing and hooking. Always doubting my sense of the rub of the green. Of course I can't putt then, of course I'm unable to swing a club with authority. I'm much better off at the practice range, reclaiming my game.  I shouldn't feel banished if I'm not allowed to play. Keep me off the course until I can prove myself worthy, then let me back on with my dignity whole. It's really the best for everyone. I have no right to complaint."

Their meals were brought to the table, identical plates of carefully ripened melon and stingy strips of Italian ham.  At once gracious but brusque, Lord Anthelm had mastered the art of dealing with servants. He dispatched their servers with nary a thought to their presence.  Lord Anthelm spoke with food in his mouth. "Try your prosciutto, Muybridge. Mine's damnably tasty.  Is yours as well? Though your kind begin with the melon, I imagine."

They ate a few bites apiece before continuing their talk. Neither seemed to have brought much of an appetite to the table.  Still, eating a meal was all part of a thin, social veneer that might explain away the real occasion of their meeting. Muybridge was conscious of the sounds of their cutlery, its clank against the china. Something about this charade made him slightly uneasy, as if it were effeminate. They played with their food the way two little girls might have pretended a tea.

Muybridge played with his melon, cutting it length wise before dividing it into sections. He put the most carefully sectioned of those before him into his mouth, then inspected a tine of his fork as if it were out of alignment, thinking to himself, It served him right for that your kind remark. That's what he'd meant, of course.  Canadians, Americans, you're one of a kind. Maybe he'd think twice before he mocked him again.  Muybridge would call him on it next time, if there was a next time.

There was an audible silence between them. Muybridge thought to himself, I'm not certain of what's going on here, but I don't think I want any part of it.  I listen to you, but nothing you've said this evening so far relieves this nagging suspicion of mine that whoever you hire is going to be sacrificed, all done in the name of the greater good, of course.

While Lord Anthelm continued with his meal,  Muybridge made a show of appreciating his surroundings. It was smaller than it appeared to be. Nevertheless, he thought. Nevertheless. Although of only moderate dimensions, the room in which they were dining might have been inch for inch a room in a  palace, he thought. It had an arched, painted ceiling with its coffered gilt-work done in high relief. Beautiful chandeliers hung down from  this ceiling.  Cut rock crystal, he assumed. Reflecting the light, which reflected again off the molding, for  a molding of uninterrupted gold separated the wall from the ceiling, and helped to define its shape. A room of rectangular shape decorated in that florid rococo style, each wall with its carved pilaster, each with its own hand painted mural representing the four quarters of the world.  

It was common practice to work out the terms of an assassination well before its target was indicated. A name was never proffered before all the terms were settled--it simply wasn't done, at least not among professionals.  This was more than common practice.  More, too, than good form.  Such procedures had about them a kind of transcendental quality that kept the grimy business at hand from soiling one's fingers.

Muybridge took a sip of his wine, holding it in his mouth before swallowing it down. Lord Anthelm took a sip of his own. When Muybridge smiled, Lord Anthelm smiled woodenly.

He assumed, obviously, that Muybridge was testing the waters for gold. And, in fact, when Muybridge demanded to see him, money was precisely what he had in mind, not background information. But something about the evening thus far struck Muybridge as being slightly off base.  It had to do with those hairs on the back of his neck  that should have stood up, but didn't.  Something here, he thought to himself. Something fishy. For the first time since Muybridge had met him, Lord Anthelm seemed to be showing the ill-effect of his age.  Muybridge kept expecting to detect a tremor of his hand, a slight palsy of the head.  Something. There was none to be seen.  Still, that was the effect this supper was having upon him. It was as if the old boy had suffered  a reversal of fortune of late, for Lord Anthelm seemed to be dealing from a position of weakness rather than strength, from shopworn wisdom instead of virility. Or maybe it was something else, a desperation he was unaccustomed to seeing across the table. If so, that was worse. Muybridge did  not do business with desperate men. Not if he could help it.  At least he did not do business with desperate men unless he very well compensated for the additional risk this entailed to his life and well-being. He decided upon ploy.  He would ask to be told who was to be assassinated before a money amount was agreed upon.  Insofar as Lord Anthelm stood his ground, they might yet be in business.  If he capitulated, though, the evening was finished.  He'd have to stall for time.  Ring up a few friends in the morning. Find the back door. Metaphorically speaking, leave by the fire escape. Lord Anthelm would have to be very desperate indeed if he gave him the name. That would be tantamount to contracting for the murder himself. No, he did not do business with desperate men if there was any good way to avoid it, particularly those who fancied themselves as being honorable men, as did Lord Anthelm. Those were the worst of all. If they found your wallet stuffed with pound notes between the cushions of their sofa, they would drive hell to leather in order to return it, refusing to rest until they saw it in your hand again.  While at your cottage, however, if they lost a sixpence bet, they would sooner leave England than pay you what was yours.

"What do you think, Muybridge," asked Lord Anthelm, "too flouncy? Are you a Bauhaus man?  I'd imagine you are. A taste for basic shapes and simple lines."

Muybridge listened for derision in the tone of Lord Anthelm.  He was prepared for  as much.  But none was to be found.  He said, "No, it's not to my taste, actually. Impressive, nevertheless."

"It's not to my taste either, my boy.  It's always seemed to me that the rococo style is, well, too much ado about not quite enough, if you see what I mean. Tell me something, will you?"

"That depends."

"Yes, quite.  I was wondering, Muybridge, do we amuse you, the old uppercrust, I mean?  I was watching your face as you were looking around the room, you see. It's quite all right if we do.  We amuse the Americans, I know. They think we're quaint.  Something straight out of Austen or Thomas Hardy. Or something off of their tele, the educational channels. I won't take offense, I swear."

There was that mocking tone again. "Interest me, perhaps.  Not amuse me. I was wondering earlier who would be attending that banquet I saw being set as I arrived, for instance."

Cutting the last of a strip of proscuitto, Lord Anthelm answered, "A duke.  A duchess. Your odd baronet. No one very remarkable, really. Do you know that story about the American writers, Hemingway and Fitzgerald? I'm certain you do.  Fitzgerald said, Ernest, the rich are different than you and I. Hemingway is said to have answered, That's right, Scotty, they have more money.

"That's all it is, really.  A title.  Some money." He looked down at the cut of ham he'd prepared to eat, thought better of it.  He put his tableware on his plate. He'd eaten but half the food before him.  Nevertheless, as if on cue, a waiter appeared out of nowhere and removed the setting. The sommelier refilled their glasses. As Muybridge went on with his meal, Lord Anthelm brought the fresh Bordeaux to his nose. Lord Anthelm sipped from his wine glass.  Something in the way he held it put Muybridge in mind of a man at a cocktail party with a Gibson in one hand and a Noel Coward cigarette holder in the other, amusing all the tipsy guests.

"Something wrong with the melon, is there?"

"Mine's green."

"Mine was rather green as well, actually."

Lord Anthelm made Muybridge uneasy when the man seemed ready to concede a point. It was as if he was giving up too easily what he thought he needed least, it seemed to Muybridge. Lord Anthelm knew how the game was suppose to be played.   It was like sacrificing a pawn in a chess game. You had to arrange your pieces far in advance and make the vulnerable pawn seem nothing but an oversight. He would have preferred Lord Anthelm kept reminding him that he wasn't British by birth, insulting him. That would have been preferable to negotiating a contract as if dealing with a dolt. He was in much too big a hurry, Lord Anthelm. Or careless. Or worse, contemptuous of Muybridge, condescending. Yes, that was more likely. 

Lord Anthelm signalled for coffees.

Muybridge pushed his plate forward, placing his cutlery atop it in the shape of an X. He wiped his mouth.  "Where, precisely, do I fit into all this, Lord Anthelm?"

"As you suspect, there is someone who needs to be removed from our consideration."

Their coffees were set before them by a ginger-haired waiter. Offered a liqueur, Muybridge deferred politely to the choice of his host.  If Lord Anthelm was having a brandy, he would have one as well. Lord Anthelm said to their waiter,  "I don't think so, not just now. We'll make do with our coffees."

Lord Anthelm stirred at his coffee with at a tiny sterling spoon, held delicately between his forefinger and thumb.  Still stirring his coffee to cool it, Lord Anthelm made what amounted to a particularly attractive financial offer without naming a precise figure, though, had the offer been taperecorded, there was no way to prove that. Had the offer been made in any other form, Muybridge would have left the table and walked straight out the door, never to have contact with Lord Anthelm again. "That's our final offer, by the by, though I'm confident you'll find this very generous indeed," said Lord Anthelm. 

"I find in myself a kind of impatience which I don't seem to be able to help.  I think I'm losing my taste for the way I make my living."

"Impatience breeds carelessness.  None of us can afford to be careless. Not in this day in age.  Not in any line of work. There are too many pitfalls. What is true for you and I is true for everyone else, simply less so."

"I feel as if I'm waiting on queue for a dowager hunting change in her coin purse.  I know when I see her begin counting out her coins that she won't get it right the first time. If impatience breeds carelessness, do you suppose experience breeds impatience?"

Lord Anthelm nodded wisely. "In some of us, no doubt. Personally, I equate experience with wisdom, you see."

"I was thinking of a change of scenery. I've been thinking about a holiday."

"What is it you have in mind, Muybridge?"  He took a drink of his coffee.  From  his expression,it was tepid.

He assumed they were still talking money, Muybridge imagined. No doubt he thought Muybridge was bargaining for a perquisite of some kind, perhaps a long voyage on the Queen Elizabeth II, where he might expect to be pampered. No doubt he would begin with the offer of something ridiculously small.  Muybridge watched as Lord Anthelm returned the cup to its saucer.

When he spoke, his tone was mocking."A restorative walking tour in the Lake Country, is it, Muybridge? A chance to clear your cluttered mind by taking in some of England's natural wonders? Would that put your mind to rest?"

Muybridge hated being mocked.He reached across the table and grabbed Lord Anthelm by the wrist. "What would put my mind at rest is to learn who you want killed, and how you want it done."

The Lord's face turned purple with pain. Through gritted teeth, he said, "Release me, you fool.  Think of where you are.  And remember too that you wouldn't know these things had I been less forthcoming.  Another man in my position gives your kind a name and a place, and then hands you a pack of notes as if were slipping a fee beneath the pillow of a whore.  I have been forthcoming, Muybridge, you have to admit that much. Most men in my position would not have dared meet with you this evening at all. The least I have a right to expect from you at this point is civil conduct in public."

Muybridge thought  to himself, Every instinct I have for self-preservation is kicking into high-gear as I sit here. You say you've always been forthcoming with me. Nothing could be more ridiculous.  You send down twigs and random scraps of paper from way on high in your eagle's nest, but nothing of value.  Nothing of importance.  And as a rule, I couldn't care less. I have no illusions about how I make my living. You said earlier the two of us were cut from much the same cloth.  I don't agree. I'm not like you at all.  I don't need some social agenda to be able to face myself in a mirror when I'm shaving. I don't need to be one of those men admired by other men, loved by all women. I don't need to attach lofty intentions to the community I'm part of. I don't need to feel I'm part of some historical moment.  As a rule, I'm quite content to do what I do, take the money, and leave.

The steward who had greeted them as they entered  the dining room upon their arrival appeared at their table.  "Is everything to your satisfaction, Lord Anthelm?" he asked. Lord Anthelm looked at Muybridge. Muybridge released him.

"Very well, thank you. The melon was delicious. Top-hole that melon this evening."

Muybridge ignored the steward.  He kept his eyes fixed on the old man across from him.  He'd held him tighter than he'd intended to.  He'd only meant to make a point, actually.  I won't be mocked. I won't be mocked by you or by anyone else either. I'll do your bidding if you pay me enough, but I'm a man who has his limits.

Lord Anthelm seemed shaken by the way he'd been manhandled.  Poor bastard looked to be on the very apoplexy there for a minute, thought Muybridge, trying to stifle a smile.  He'd have to be more careful next time, Muybridge reminded himself. He'd meant to jar the man a little, not send him to his grave. Lord Anthelm was rubbing his wrist like someone who'd felt their capillaries swell at the onset of a stroke.

"I'm very pleased to hear that, Lord Anthelm," said the steward. He went back to his duties.

Muybridge had raised his voice loud enough to attract the notice of several diners nearby. He expected more rebuke.  Lord Anthelm waited until they went back to their meals before he called for more coffee. He took a sip, stirred it cool.

Well what do you know, Muybridge thought. Was knighthood still in flower? Couldn't resist the gauntlet perhaps?  Cast it at his feet and he felt the need to pick it up? Or was it something else. Was Muybridge beneath his contempt. Yes that was surely it, he was being set up to be sacrificed.

 Another man might have lowered his voice when he made his next point. Lord Anthelm spoke in the same tone he might have employed to ask for the salt. "Just bear in mind that we can do you much more harm than you could possibly do to us, Muybridge. Don't force matters.  I'm warning you. You demanded to see me.  I granted you an audience. Now you've forced an emotional situation this evening when we should have been conducting business.  You haven't played square, and I've allowed that. Don't think you can refuse to play the game entirely now, and walk away with impunity. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"

"I understand when I'm being threatened."

Lord Anthelm said, "I'm simply trying to clarify my position."

"You've made yourself clear enough. I want time to think this over, Lord Anthelm. I want to be  certain of what I'm getting myself into."

"I can't tell you more than I already have without the permission of my superiors. It's really as simple as that."

"Then go to your superiors."

"That's out of the question."

"Then I'm out of the picture.  Get yourself another sacrificial lamb."

"You don't mean that. I'd sooner sacrifice my right arm than lose you, Muybridge, and you know it. You're worth much more to me alive than dead."

"I still have my doubts."

"You've had doubts before. That's never stopped you from accepting the money I offer."   

"This, somehow, is different."

"What can I do to improve our relationship? How can I sweeten the offer?"

"At least give me time to think it over. Several days."

"I can't do that.  Events are already underway. Things have to go forward." He finished his coffee. 

"Then let's settle this matter this evening.  Here and now. One way or the other."

Lord Anthelm adopted an avuncular tone, a Dutch uncle offering a lesson. He said, "If we continue this discussion this evening, we will soon be at loggerheads, the worst possible point to reach, can't you see?"

Muybridge began straightening his necktie, preparing to leave.

Lord Anthelm continued, "Don't do anything you'll live to regret. Sleep on it. Wipe the slate clean. Both of us.  We'll be in contact again tomorrow. I can give you a few hours.  A few days? That's out of the question."

Why would you want to set me up to be killed, Muybridge wondered. What could that gain you? Who am I to you after all?

Lord Anthelm continued, "You'll give this more thought then? If we don't speak before, tomorrow night?  Here again? You owe me that. You owe me that much, and more."

"The same drill?" said Muybridge, pushing himself away from the table.

"We can eliminate the taxis if you like. I know that gets on your nerves."

Muybridge had the impression of a life size balloon that had been carelessly pricked by a child with a pin. The skin of the man's face seemed to be wrinkling as they sat there. The skin of an old balloon, an old man, they were one and the same to the eye, Muybridge thought. A few years ago, Lord Anthelm would have never allowed himself to be manipulated into such a hopeless bargaining position. He would have had Muybridge killed and been done with it. He was simply too old for this now, Lord Anthelm. He'd passed the point of effectiveness. A reversal of fortunes. The first sign of a man who suffers a reversal of fortunes is the inability to know when it's time to get out. Muybridge was  not looking forward to the aging process himself. Muybridge was reaching the stage of life where he needed to be taking better care of his body.

Lord Anthelm continued, "Indulge me, my boy.  A man of my years has so few pleasures left. What's a little inconvenience?"             Lord Anthelm rose. Lord Anthelm extended his hand. Muybridge refused it. Lord Anthelm said, "Think about it, that's the least I deserve. I understand the ways of the world.  You'll have to do whatever you think is most in your interests. I shouldn't have let our personal relationship interfere with the business we have to conduct. Whatever you decide, I won't take it to heart. We can speak in the morning by phone.  Here, let me walk you outside.  This way, it's much more expedient."  Taking him by the elbow, Lord Anthelm said, "The port-cochere, old boy.  That's where you're to meet your taxi.  That's where you went wrong the last time, you see."     

He walked him through a passageway where silk tapestries hung from the walls at intervals and one passed a  Regency mirror of carved wood inlaid with plates of pounded silver that had been rubbed to a high, fine finish. His host commented upon the mirror. It had come from some high court. The door at the end of the hall opened onto a service lane.  At the end of the lane, to his left, Muybridge could see a blue canvas port-cochere beyond which his taxi would soon await him.  Lord Anthelm said something to the effect that the rain had finally stopped, thank goodness, dreadful business all these windy storms, which reminded Muybridge that he had forgotten his trenchcoat and rain hat.  "Isn't that always the way," said Lord Anthelm. "I've done the same thing myself here, I don't know how many times. Never you worry, dear boy. You go ahead.  I'll get your things.  It's the least I can do."

Muybridge protested, but without great conviction. He could have actually done without his Donnegal hat, he supposed. His trenchcoat.  It was sure to be wet to the touch, still drenched from the rain. He'd have no need to put it on, since the rain had stopped, and he seriously considered leaving it right where it was. He could always pick it up tomorrow, or have it sent to his place by courier if he decided not to come. Both had more appeal than the thought of carrying it wet. He hated soggy cloth, that feeling of being encumbered in that peculiarly soggy way. Knowing him, he'd toss into the back seat of the taxi then forget all about it when he was finally let off, anyway. 

He was relieved to be outside. Alone. He'd recently given up cigarettes, and he longed for one at the moment.  He thought of dragging the smoke into the lining of his lungs with devastating force. The very thought of it was salivary. Lord Anthelm seemed to deflate before his eyes, he thought, pleading his case in that desperate, teary tone. He was afraid the old fool was about to kiss him on both cheeks. Had he heard correctly? An offer to ring him up in the morning? Lord Anthelm was slipping. It was an amusing image. Palms moist, listening for a call that, of course, wasn't coming. Well let him sit there and tremble in exasperation. A dash of humility might do him some good. Give him a taste of what the rest of us go through. The poor bastard was over the hill, wasn't he.  The rain had ceased. He took a deep breath.   The air was nippy, even bracing, one might say.  The dining room, he now realized, had been unbearably stuffy.  In fact, that's the last thought he had, those very words, unbearably stuffy.

Before he realized what was happening, Lord Anthelm had come upon him from the rear.  He'd slit his throat from ear to ear with a pearlhandled razor, an Edwardian affair said to have belonged to the Duke of Windsor, a gift from the late Wallis Simpson, the American divorcee.