123
“Oh.” Doyle shifted uncomfortably on Kramer’s examina-
tion table, which occupied a corner of the doctor’s boxy office.
When Kramer had finally deigned to appear and asked him to
shuck his uniform coat, he’d done it by halves, shrugging out of
the right arm, worried about his decidedly nonregulation
sgian-
dubh
in its black leather sheath. His shirt was the next hurdle, but
Doyle had gotten by with simply rolling up his sleeve to expose
both a fleshy four-inch rip and Black Dog, who had so captured
Kramer’s interest. He was sweating again, although a chill draft
feathered through a gap in the office door, which sagged on its
hinges. A rank of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining three walls
had gone off-true and made Doyle a little ill if he looked too long.
“I just wanted something”—he floundered for the word he
wanted—“unusual.”
“Well, this qualifies.” Running a magnifying glass over the
tattoo, Kramer angled Doyle’s arm closer to the sputtering flame
of an oil lamp. “You know, he even initialed it and inked in a
date? Here, along the tail.” Kramer squinted. “
F.
I think that’s an
S
or perhaps a
J
. Hard to tell. And an
M
, I believe, or
N
, followed
by a
7
and
4
.”
The initials didn’t ring a bell, but he recognized the year.
“Yes, six years ago. Joined the whaler when I was fourteen.”
“Really?” Battle said. “How many years?”
“On board?” Something in Battle’s tone Doyle couldn’t deci-
pher. “Six.”
“And then you came south, to London?” the inspector asked.
“Yes, sir, I . . .” He stopped at a light knock. A moment later,
the door opened, and the girl, Meme, came in with a small tea
cart.
“By my desk, Meme, if you please.” Clapping a linen over
