Algie and the Elder Hand

Algie and the Elder Hand


The weather was dank and dismal on the cold Tuesday afternoon on which Algernon Finch arrived at stately Carrington Manor. With characteristic abandon, Algie flung open the carriage door, hopped out without waiting for it to stop, and landed right in a puddle. He winced.

“Algie!” came a voice from the west, and the delighted figure of Ophelia Carrington came running to greet him.

“Ophelia!” In the blink of an eye, Algie’s coat was off his back and into a large patch of water under her feet. She looked down and sighed.

“I wish you hadn’t done that, Algie.”

“Ophelia,” said Algie, “I don’t know how clear I’ve made this but you happen to be the most beautiful girl my eyes have ever had the privilege of seeing -”

“You’ve made it very clear -”

“And if you mean to suggest that after counting the very seconds until we next meet I could stand idly by and let you mar that perfect grace – well then, you wound me. You impugn my love for you and you wound my honor as a gentleman.”

“Yes, but your coat -”

“Piffle! What are coats in this day and age? Rubbish, that’s what. If my coat was the true object of my affection I would marry it.” Ophelia giggled and they embraced.

“I doubt a muddy coat will make much of a first impression,” she murmured ruefully. “Father can be a bit… particular at times.”

“Let him!” said Algie. “I’ve faced worse. I intend to stroll right up to old Pa Carrington and say to him ‘Old Pa Carrington, I intend to marry this girl,’ and, struck by the force of my conviction, he will manage a weak ‘Right ho, then.’ before contacting the local papers and returning to hibernation. No, Ophelia, you leave your father to me. The pride of the Finches demands it.” Ophelia looked up at him reproachfully.

“I have warned you.”

“You have, and I thank you for it. But we Finches are made of stronger stuff than you seem to think.”

“All right,” Ophelia straightened his collar and let go of him. “I’ll go around to the gardens and meet you inside.”

Algie rang the bell and a servant escorted him to the sitting-room, where he sat. He contemplated a tray of biscuits on the table in front of him, but before he could take one, a loud, barking voice subsumed the silence.

“Bowles!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Did I hear you say that the Finch excrescence had arrived?”

“Yes, sir. He is waiting in the sitting room.”

“Do you think Ophelia would mind if I simply picked him up and threw him out?”

“I would advise against it, sir.”

“Bah!”

The single largest walrus moustache Algie had ever seen entered the room, followed close behind by an elderly gentleman only slightly less imposing. Algie dropped the biscuit he had taken. It missed the tray and shattered on the table.

“Mr. Finch!” bellowed Major Carrington.

“Nnnn,” said Algie.

“What’s the matter, Finch?” Carrington’s eyes gleamed unpleasantly. “Swallowed your tongue?”

“Nnnnno. No, no. No.” Algie checked. “Seems to be in order.”

“Good!”

“Er.” Algie’s manners reasserted themselves and he searched for something more to say. “Lovely daughter you’ve got, Major.”

“Indeed!”

“Just the sort of girl a chap might want to, er, well, what I’m trying to say is - ”

“You wish to marry my daughter Ophelia, is that it?” Carrington’s moustache bristled contemptuously.

“Well, yes,” admitted Algie.

“You intend to perfunctorily pluck young Ophelia from the loving busom of her caring family off to God knows what unsightly suburb to be your wife?”

“That - that’s about the long and short of it, yes,” He wiped some spittle off of his forehead.

“Tell me, Mr. Finch,” Major Carrington sat down across from Algie and resumed staring him in the eye. “Just what is it that you do?”

“Ah!” At this a note of pride entered Algie’s voice. “As a matter of fact, I happen to be an adventurer.” He gestured to the holster and sword at his belt. Carrington stared.

“A what?”

“Oh, you know. Scoundrels stymied, lost temples found, artifacts acquired, that sort of thing.”

“And…” Carrington appeared to be choosing his words with all the care and precision of a hangman measuring lengths of rope, “All this flitting about foreign parts taking what you please - you believe this is useful, do you?”

“Oh, rather!” said Algie, getting into the spirit of the thing. “As it happens I saved us all from certain catastrophe earlier this month. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of that vile villain, that Maharajah of malice, that scourge of good men everywhere, the nefarious Professor Malachite?”

“What, old ‘Mashy’ Malachite?”

“…eh?”

“Why,” exclaimed the major, his moustache curling up at the edges, “We were at school together! How is old Mashy?”

“He’s, er, been keeping busy.” Perceiving that he had made a tactical error, Algie elected not to mention the sinister affair of the clock tower, the black sapphire, and the second weather machine.

“Capital! Just like old Mashy to keep his hat in the ring!” Carrington’s eyes narrowed. “There are far too many shiftless gadabouts in this country as it is.”

“Is that so?” ventured Algie.

“Honest work, Finch! Good, hard labor. That is the true measure of a man.”

“What, really?”

“Something,” said Carrington, “I’m sure you wouldn’t know anything about.”

“Well, no, you’re absolutely right, but-”

“You’re a weasel, Finch,” he declared. “You’re a weasel, a worm, and a spineless maggot.”

“What, all at once?”

“Had any man in the Regiment said half the things to me I’ve said to you, I’d have popped the blighter right in the whiffer!”

“I’m sorry,” said Algie, “You want me to pop you in the whiffer?” It was at that point that Algie became acutely conscious of having lost the thread of the conversation.

“Of course not!” harrumphed Carrington.

“Ah.”

“The very idea!” Carrington snorted.

“Good to be perfectly clear on that sort of thing,” said Algie. “Wouldn’t want there to be any misunderstandings on the subject, I mean to say.”

“What do you mean to say, precisely?” The moustache quivered with indignation.

“Oh, just that it would be rather awkward asking you for your blessing, wouldn’t it, if I had gone and popped you in the whiffer and it turned out you hadn’t wanted your whiffer popped.” Carrington drew himself up to his full height, towering over Algie.

“Are you… threatening me, Finch?”

It was at that moment that Algie decided he had had enough. The courage of the Finches flowed through his veins. The time had come to lay down the law. Algie also drew himself up to his full height, which turned out to be a disappointing five foot seven.

“Old Pa Carrington,” said Algie, “I intend to marry this girl.”

--

Ophelia came running at the sound of the crash to find Algie the victim of an unexpected collision with a large bookshelf.

“Negotiations,” said Algie, pushing Vol II of Practical Fox-hunting off his chest and picking himself up off the floor, “have failed.”

--

Not a word passed between Algie and Ophelia as they replaced the fallen books, except for a brief interval wherein she reminded him that the shelf had been organized by subject then author, and he said what did it matter, it wasn’t as though finding a specific book would take more than a few minutes’ searching either way, and then she insisted on taking all of the books off the shelf and starting over, because she didn’t trust the help to consistently apply her system. The interruption, however, served only to make the silence seem longer. When they were finished they sat together on the sofa, Ophelia draped across Algie’s lap and Algie glancing nervously at the door.

“I thought you said you had everything under control,” said Ophelia quietly.

"It's that moustache of his, dash it," said Algie. "It sort of wobbles when he talks, as though at any moment it could leap forth from his face and attack. Ophelia, you didn’t tell me your father had a moustache."

“I didn’t think it was important!” snapped Ophelia, less quietly. “It’s not the sort of thing one brings up, is it? It’s hardly a defining character trait.”

“I consider ‘half moustache, half man’ appreciably defining.”

“Algie -” Ophelia bit back harsh words, took a moment to compose herself, and started again. “According to your letters, you’ve faced down pirates. Pirates. Didn’t any of them have moustaches?”

“Beards, mostly.”

“Oh.” She gave this due consideration.

“Ophelia-”

“Are beards different?”

“Ophelia-”

“It’s an honest question, Algie.”

“Ophelia,” said Algie, “I need to reach my pocket.”

“There’s a clock on the left wall,” murmured Ophelia. “It’s half past three.”

“It’s – it’s something else. Something in which you might have not unconsiderable interest.” Ophelia lazily worked her way through the preceding sentence and then paused to weigh curiosity against comfort.

“Oh, all right.”  She shifted off Algie and into an upright sitting position, leaning slightly in his direction so as to get a better look.

Algie fished in his pockets for a few moments before producing and holding upside down a small cloth pouch, from which fell into his other hand a glistening black jewel the size of an egg.

“Oh, Algie, it’s beautiful.”

“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.” Algie’s cheeks flushed with pride.

“It’s like the jeweler reached up and cut it from the night sky,” Ophelia continued breathlessly, unable to take her eyes off of it.

“He may have,” said Algie. “Can’t say I met the man.”

“Is it from the pirates?”

“I obtained it in foiling one Prof Malachite. Where he got the thing I cannot say. I shall have to ask him next scheme.”

“Is it for me?”

“Well, if that isn’t a dashed silly question then I don’t know what is. You don’t suppose that as the greatest lover in the world I could see such a gem and think only of myself, do you?”

“Oh, are you the greatest lover in the world?” Ophelia took the black sapphire from Algie’s open hand, but her eye was on Algie and a twinkle was in her eye.

“Well,” Algie shrugged theatrically, “If the greatest lover is the chap with the greatest love, then I don’t see how one could reach any other conclusion. There have been pretenders – you know, historical chaps and such – and by no fault of their own do they fall short of the ideal. They just never met you, that’s all.” She laughed, and though the sound was tuneful enough on its own merits, to Algie it was the music of the angels. He wrapped his arms around Ophelia and kissed her, and she reciprocated, and the black sapphire fell from her hands and rolled beneath the sofa, and it was some time before either of them noticed.

Eventually, though, Algie reached underneath, dusted it off, and handed it back somewhat apologetically.

“I was going to give it to you to celebrate, but there doesn’t seem to be any point in waiting, does there?”

“Algie, what are we going to do?” exclaimed Ophelia suddenly, sobering up.

“Come with me…”

“Don’t worry, Ophelia. This is just a temporary setback.”

“T-temporary?”

“To the brain of a Finch, all setbacks are temporary.”

“Worry, Ophelia…”

“Why, I can’t say I’ve ever succeeded at anything on the first attempt,” continued Algie. “Wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I did. All those holes in the old day planner, what?”

“That’s… comforting.”

“Your heart betrays your words, young one…”

“I say, do you quite mind? We happen to be in the middle of something private, and-” Algie stopped, and then spoke very slowly. “Ophelia, in the employ of your family would there happen to be a servant answering to the rough description of ‘six foot seven, composed entirely of inky darkness, and floats through walls’? Because if there is it would explain a great deal.”

“The agency was supposed to send a new maid but that’s not until Wednesd-” Ophelia stared, petrified.

“Ah. I’ll handle this, then.”

“Come to Nevara, Ophelia Carrington, and leave your weakness behind.” The creature spoke again. Algie let go of Ophelia and turned to face the creature directly.

“Terribly sorry to interrupt,” Algie fixed the apparition with a pointed look, “But suppose she says she’d rather not. What happens then, do you give a cheery ‘Right ho, then,’ and exit via the south wall?”

“There will be no decision. The girl is already mine.” As the thing spoke, Ophelia stood up mechanically, her eyes staring blankly forward. “For in the deepest recesses of her soul she lacks the will to resist me.” As Algie watched her outline began to grow indistinct, as though obscured by a great fog. “I am despair, and I am hope. I am the-”

“Wait!” Algie yelled. He suppressed a shudder as the apparition and Ophelia rotated in unison to face him. “If she doesn’t have will enough, I do. I’ve got all the bally will you could want.”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“Well…”Algie’s mind raced. “She might not have a choice in this matter, but I’m assuming you do.”

“And I choose the girl.” It was difficult to tell, but Algie thought he could detect some small irritation in the creature’s voice, such as it was. Relief flooded through his system. If it could be annoyed, it could be dealt with.

“Perfectly understandable. Were I in your shoes I might do the very same. Are you wearing shoes? I confess a certain difficulty in -” Ophelia became hazier. “But I digress!” shouted Algie. “What if – wait until you hear it – what if I could make you a better offer?”

“What do you propose?”

“A challenge!” exclaimed Algie. “If you win, you take us both. If I win, you take neither. What say you?”

“I could take you both this instant.”

“Undoubtedly. But wouldn’t you rather win? If you think you can, that is.”

“I have no need of your childish games.”

“It sounds to me,” said Algie, “as though you’ve already decided to lose.” He could tell that it was thinking.

“I accept your terms,” said the creature finally. “If only to show you the -”

“Yes, yes. We shall play Piquet. A gentleman’s game. You do know how to play, don’t you?”

“I know all things. I know the source of all hate and the color of time. I know what evil lurks in the heart of man. I know the smallest lies and I hear the quietest screams.”

“Wonderful! Then you know Piquet.” Algie clapped his hands and then gestured towards Ophelia. “Would you mind…” Ophelia came back into focus and fell to her knees, sputtering.

“Algie! What-”

“Fetch the card table, Ophelia,” said Algie. “I shall explain once everyone is seated and we have taken a deck of cards, removed every two, three, four, five, six, and Joker, dealt twelve cards to each participant, and placed the talon face down in the center.”

--

All the preparations had been made. Ophelia stood nervously to one side as Algie and the Apparition stared one another down.

“I can sense your fear.”

“Really?” said Algie. “What a coincidence, so can I. Now then, I’ve just dealt the cards, so that would make you Elder.”

“I am always Elder.”

“Not by the rules of Piquet, you aren’t, but we can let that slide this hand.”

“I am older than time itself. ”

“Y-you can’t be older than time,” interjected Ophelia. They both looked at her. “B-because you wouldn’t be able to grow old without it.” The apparition appeared to glare at her. “Well, it’s true,” she mumbled defensively.

“Well said, Ophelia, but if you wouldn’t mind…”

“If I wouldn’t mind what?”

“I think your uninvited guest may need some help holding his cards,” Algie pointed out. “He seems to be bisecting the sofa.” Ophelia seated herself in the apparition’s space with visible trepidation and picked up the cards. “Capital! Let’s begin.”

Everyone sat and stared at one another for a minute or so.

“Well?” said Algie.

“Well what?” said the apparition.

“Aren’t you going to exchange cards?”

“I have no need of cards. ”

“Aren’t you going to look at the cards you could have taken?”

“I have no need -”

“Of course, of course.”

The strain proved too much for Ophelia. “Algie, he’s got -”

“Ophelia!” Algie silenced her. “Let’s be sporting about this. Especially considering that our uninvited guest appears unfamiliar with basic strategy. If he won’t touch the talon, then I’ll discard eight and take the whole thing.” He did so and fixed her with a reproving look. “It’s just a game, Ophelia.”

“A game on which your very future rests,” noted the apparition. “Point of three.</i>”

“No good,” answered Algie. “Point of six. A game all the same.”

“Sequence of three,” said the apparition. “Games can be dangerous.”

“Not when I’ve got a quint, they can’t. No good. Any sets?”

“A quatorze and two trios.”

“Quatorze of what?”

“Does it matter?”

“I suppose not.” Algie did not have a quatorze, although he had somehow managed to end up with four sevens.

“Twenty points for combinations.”

“Twenty-one,” said Algie cheerfully.

“Twenty-one for leading,” replied the apparition, bidding Ophelia to play the ace of clubs.

Algie played the seven.

“Twenty-two.” Algie winced.

--

“And another forty points for capot,” concluded the apparition as Ophelia played the last card.

“An admirable conclusion to our battle of wits! Simply superb. Top-notch competition. I’ve got a hundred and twenty,” said Algie. “What was your total? I can’t quite recall.”

“Three hundred and six,” said the apparition triumphantly. Ophelia sobbed.

“And much credit it does you,” said Algie. “Now, being the gentleman you are I trust you’ll give us time to go put our affairs in order - ”

The apparition did not. Algie’s vision unfocused, swam, and dissolved to black.

--

On regaining consciousness, Ophelia found herself lying on a different sofa in a cavernous main hall. Double doors adorned every wall, and there seemed to be a balcony above her.

“Algie?” she called out tentatively.

“Coming, Ophelia!” Algie lowered himself from the balcony by means of an odd rope-based apparatus she recognized from his stories as the Grapplomatic Mark III. He enfolded her in his arms and lifted her to her feet.

“I can walk, you know,” said Ophelia.

“My apologies,” said Algie, and he walked back to where the Grapplomatic was hanging and started fiddling with it, trying to unhook the hook attachment so it could safely retract.

“I didn’t say you had to let go,” said Ophelia, and Algie was across the room again without a thought for the Grapplomatic, which immediately shot up to the banister. “Where are we?” she asked.

“Based on context,” said Algie, “I would assume that this is the land of Nevara.”

“Nevara?” The memories came flooding back to her. “Nevara! You – you lost, Algie!”

“I know,” he said, sounding pleased with himself.

“You… sound pleased with yourself.”

“I am. In fact, I can’t imagine a better outcome.”

“What about one where we haven’t both been abducted?”

“Well,” said Algie, “In hindsight I wish I had thought to convince the thing to take your father instead-”

“Algie!” Ophelia wriggled free of his grip.

“Sorry, sorry – but apart from that I find the current state of affairs quite satisfactory indeed. You read a lot of books, Ophelia, I wonder if you’re familiar with the science of psychology?”

“What does the science of psychology have to do with anything?”

“Everything!” said Algie. “If you tell a man to climb a mountain as punishment he will do anything in his power to wriggle out of it. Tell him he has earned the privilege of climbing and he’ll be startling goats by teatime.”

“Neither part of that analogy seems plausible,” said Ophelia.

“Well, they can’t all be winners,” said Algie philosophically. “What I’m trying to get across is that I sincerely doubt that thing would have honored the terms of the agreement had it lost. Its pride would be wounded. Its ego shaken. Within seconds of the final trick I would be sitting alone at the card table, wondering where it all went wrong.”

“So you were playing to lose?”

“Exactly. It was the only way to ensure full compliance with my conditions. I appealed to the creature’s pride, and my appeal was rewarded in full.”

“Was it?” asked Ophelia dubiously. Privately, she couldn’t help but wonder who had tricked who. “Now we’re both stuck here.”

“Exactly!” exclaimed Algie excitedly. “We’re in Nevara together, and together we can search for a way out. This sort of thing is my bread and butter. Well, not exactly this sort of thing and not exactly bread and butter, but -”

“Algie, that thing brought us here without so much as raising an eyebrow. What makes you think it’s going to sit back and let us leave?”

“You’re familiar with the game of Piquet, Ophelia?”

“I wish I wasn’t,” said Ophelia sourly.

“Then you know that it’s an asymmetrical game. The Elder hand will always hold the advantage. The job of the Younger hand is to keep the damage to a minimum, and the minimum, as we have seen, is rarely very low. But the hands change, Ophelia. And Younger knows that as soon as the last trick is played, he’ll be the one on the attack.”

“Algie, be serious! You’re talking rot.”

“Ophelia,” said Algie, staring her directly in the eye, “Within the last hour, I have sacrificed a coat, seen the largest moustache known to man, suffered a vicious upbraiding at the bristles of said moustache, been violently denied the right to marry the love of my life, attempted to make sense of your library system, played cards with a shadow, and been unceremoniously kidnapped from your stately manner to a slightly different stately manor."

"But-"

"If I tried to take any of this seriously I’d go mad.”