Welcome to Locke and Keye,
brothers in the art of keeping secrets.
We are ready to keep yours.
Enter.
February 8, 1849
Dearest Prospective Locke and Keye Employee:
I greatly look forward to having you in my employ on a trial basis. Until I choose my permanent employees, you will rotate your work schedule as I require. I know you will be agreeable.
It is typical in most locksmith shops to wear a costume of loose shirt and apron, and for the men at the shop’s counter, a waistcoat. However, I ask that you attend in a full suit no matter the job you perform. You may only remove your jacket and waistcoat while working out of sight to make locks and keys and use equipment, in which case you will wear an apron provided to you by Locke and Keye. The apron is to stay in the shop. Please enter and leave the shop fully dressed; lock makers must remove their apron and appear in front of customers with at least a waistcoat.
I expect to see you no later than seven o’clock in the morning starting Monday.
Sincerely,
Mr. Locke
*
Mr. Locke’s journal
March 8, 1849
Locke and Keye Employee Candidates
Locksmiths, lock builders, key makers
· Matthew Hunniford, age 30: eager to please; good manners; experience as a locksmith and working the front of the store; has no family and isn’t in contact with his parents (topic is sensitive)
· William Burke, age 27: experience with lock picking; independent—DO NOT HIRE
· Edward Penn, age 35: pushy; asks too many questions—DO NOT HIRE
· Luke Forge, age 32: makes a daunting appearance, very well built but doesn’t seem aggressive; focused; eager; experience with customers and key making; made it clear he has no attachments anywhere
· Nicholas Jenson, age 33: has a family—DO NOT HIRE
· Jude Wickes, age 30: strange mannerisms; has no family of his own, did not want to answer questions about his parents; past employers consistently report stalking and obsession; fired from every job he has held; very good lock picker; willing to do menial tasks and visit homes for lock picking and installation
· Owen McPherson, age 39: master locksmith; strong willed—DO NOT HIRE
· George Fallow, age 29: experience in lock building; has a family—DO NOT HIRE
· Thomas Lobb, age 48: formerly had his own locksmithing business; particularly good at picking difficult locks; too close in age to me—DO NOT HIRE
· John Sinnett, age 37: keen; lock builder, key maker, designer; highly skilled and talented; goes along with all creative suggestions; no family
Apprentices
· William Stead, age 16: family lives in town; experienced, father used to be a locksmith—DO NOT HIRE
· Timothy Kiddson, age 14: not very knowledgable in the trade but eager to learn; shy, moldable; orphaned
· Phineas Moore, age 12: still lives with family—DO NOT HIRE
Mr. Locke
March 10, 1849
Mr. Locke stood in front of the store’s counter and faced his final selection of permanent employees, lined up one next to the other in front of him.
“Locke and Keye has been open for one full month now, and I’ve chosen you five men as the ones I will keep,” Mr. Locke said. He looked each person in the eye as he spoke. Judgment had already been passed, and yet Mr. Locke’s inclined head and unwavering frown said it was still being made. “The number of staff will not grow any larger than this. I would like to keep this shop…” he chose his words carefully, “manageably small.” He paused and took something out from behind his back. “I would also like to keep better track of what our customers buy.” Mr. Locke held out a thick ledger. “From now on, when you work on anything new, and whatever is purchased from our store, however small, you will record their names. We must have names.”
He looked each person in the eye one at a time again. The apprentice nodded and looked away under Mr. Locke’s glare. He was obviously intimidated. Just as it should be. The others met his gaze although their eyes shifted. They would do what he said, that much he knew. They would become loyal. One man, only one, stared back with unblinking, unshifting olive green eyes. Yes, he would do nicely.
Mr. Locke’s slow and careful choice of permanent employees had been well worth the effort.
“We can identify each customer’s buying habits, anticipate what to stock, what they do and don’t need. That will ensure our profits are higher and our losses are lower.”
Mr. Locke looked at his gold pocket watch.
“Five minutes until we open our doors,” Mr. Locke said. “And remember. Get their names…no matter what.”
*
Matthew
Matthew couldn’t have secured a better job if he’d created the position himself. Mr. Locke was the kind of shop owner—the kind of person—you only came across once in a lifetime. If you were lucky.
I need to keep this job. This one has to last longer than the others. If I can just fit in here… What was Mr. Locke looking for that made him choose me? Am I still doing whatever it is that made such a good impression on him? I must keep my nerves under control. Just carry out the job, and if he doesn’t like me, he’ll fire me. Clearly. But still…to have been so careful which of us he chose to hire, he must have been looking for something rather specific to choose me. If only I knew what it was so I could make sure I continue to please him…
At the end of today—Locke and Keye’s first day of keeping the ledger—Mr. Locke said with his stern face, “I’d like to invite all of you for supper tonight. It’s short notice, I know, but I’d like to discuss your first day using the ledger. I don’t want to keep you here late. Please join me for the evening. My home is only a short carriage ride away.”
This was something Matthew had never heard of, outside of a planned party. It was most unusual to invite employees—new employees especially—to such an intimate occasion. Mr. Locke dressed quite richly compared to the rest of the locksmiths, and his manners were more refined. He probably lived in some grand two-story home with a couple of servants. Matthew had a small apartment, and he was sure the other men weren’t much better off. It was too soon to talk to them about their living arrangements, even though they were all in the same working class position. And yet Mr. Locke, miles above them socially, was inviting them to his home for supper. They would probably meet Mrs. Locke, a flock of children, and eat well for this one night that he wanted to discuss something. It was kind all the same.
Matthew didn’t pass it up. None of the others did either.
*
John
One by one, mouths dropped open in the carriage as it approached not a house but a mansion. John had seen beautiful homes, large homes, and many combinations of the two. But this…this was unprecedented. The house was so tall John couldn’t see the top even when he put his head against the window.
Mr. Locke said nothing as they drove up the extraordinarily long driveway. Just how wealthy was this man? John had only ever lived in small, relatively cramped quarters, but even so he couldn’t imagine what he would do with that much space. There had to be so much emptiness.
He glanced at the other men again. All stared out the windows—all except Jude. Jude watched Mr. Locke as if he was the only thing that mattered. Mr. Locke was looking down, seemingly unsure whether to remove his gloves now or once they got inside the mansion. He pulled at his gloved ring finger, pulling the glove off the finger a bit, and then tugged it back into place, securing it on his hand again. He looked up into Jude’s eyes. Jude did not look away. It was the oddest and longest stare John had ever witnessed—eye to eye, neither seeming to feel abashed or awkward, neither blinking. There was an understanding, almost palpable. John knew it, although he didn’t understand what it meant. Neither of the men noticed their onlooker.
After the carriage stopped, Mr. Locke broke the stare when the footman opened the door from the outside. Jude followed Mr. Locke with his eyes. John couldn’t tell if Jude was like a puppy who had finally found his master or a wolf who had found his next target; either way, his stare was so extremely unsettling. John felt a mass lower in his throat, something between apprehension and sadness. The mass stayed there until Jude exited the carriage.
John stepped down from the carriage and looked at the mansion in its full enormity, an architectural achievement all its own just for its five-story height, although it had none of the customary gingerbread work. Then something caught John’s eye. Spikes jutting skyward from every peak of the house, tall and thin and knife-like. He had seen decorative pieces rise upward from houses’ peaks, but nothing as intimidating as this. Each must have been ten feet high and seemed to slice the sky with its sharpness.
“Come along, John,” Matthew said from the stairs of the house. John felt a strong impulse to grab Matthew away from the house and run. But it would do no good. They were both already in its shadow.
*
Luke
As soon as Luke stepped inside the house, a footman was upon him to take his coat, hat, and gloves. There seemed to be a footman for each man. How many footmen could one house have? Mr. Locke’s whole family must live here, including his parents, his wife’s parents, and…was he old enough to have grandchildren? It was hard to tell. His beard hid any lines around his mouth and he didn’t have any gray in his hair.
The entry was an expanse of oil-painted floorcloth that led down halls to the left and right, and a tall staircase ahead with a gradual incline that ascended to the left, out of sight. The ceiling was high and patterned with unusual moldings that were so oversized, they had their own shadows. They were huge, rounded diamond shapes with detailed carved flowers in their centers that protruded so far they almost looked as if they could fall off the ceiling. Each diamond built flower upon flower to create a sort of pyramid that climaxed with a woman’s face.
When Luke looked away from the ceiling, he saw Matthew ahead of him. Matthew turned around to look back to Luke, raising his eyebrows up and down quickly. He appeared just as amazed. He nodded his head toward the hallway to the right. That must have been where Mr. Locke had gone. Interesting that he hadn’t waited for his guests before walking into the next room. Luke followed Matthew under the gaze of each woman in the center of her diamond.
*
Timothy
The table in the dining room was for large dinner parties, twenty people. Their intimate group was six: one place setting at the head of the table, then two on one side and three on the other. That left one place setting with nothing across from it. Mr. Locke made no excuse for this strange arrangement. It was so improper that the men stood a distance from the table, just staring at each other. But Mr. Locke stood at the prepared head of the table, waiting with his hands on the chair in front of him. He gave no instructions. A footman stood quietly behind him, focusing ahead at nothing.
Timothy looked at the others. He was only an apprentice, half the age of all the other men. He hadn’t the right to choose where he sat. His head hung down with insecurity, watching for the others’ reactions. They all looked one to the next. Finally Matthew walked to the seat in the middle of three—the odd-chaired side—and began to pull his chair out when he stopped abruptly. He moved to his right, the seat directly on Mr. Locke’s left, and a footman appeared to stop him from pulling out his own chair. The footman stood behind Matthew in a way that would have seemed awkward had the servant not stood so tall and confidently.
Name cards. There must be name cards. Still, Timothy waited. Matthew seemed like the kind of man who would know what to do all the time—Timothy had noticed this in the short time they’d made each other’s working acquaintance. And Timothy wasn’t Matthew. Timothy was only an apprentice.
Jude stood behind the chair on Mr. Locke’s right side directly next to him, the most important place any of them could sit. A footman stood behind him, and when Luke walked around the table to sit next to Matthew, a footman stood behind him, too. John went next to Jude, the footman close behind. Timothy was the odd number. Of course he was. He walked to the only place setting left—the one next to John. And there was no footman for him.
When the footmen backed out the chairs from the table, Timothy backed out his at the same pace so as not to make any extra noise. When he glanced at Mr. Locke, Mr. Locke’s eyes were firmly on Timothy. A slight nod of approval. At least he knew he was doing the right thing now. It was like learning a new dance. A dance on which his future depended.
When the rest of the men sat down, Timothy did as well, and when the footmen pushed their chairs under at exactly the same time, Timothy pulled in his own perfectly with them.
The tablecloth was a deep green under delicate white lace that he was afraid to touch as if it could unravel under his indelicate fingers. The porcelain plate and bowl looked as if they were being guarded by the massive amounts of silverware surrounding them, guarding them against Timothy’s inexperienced, rough touch.
The footmen took the napkins and spread them across the men’s laps, so Timothy did the same for himself. And then he watched carefully, like a good apprentice should. Perhaps someday he would sit at Mr. Locke’s right. From the look of Jude, though, with his starving, aggressive wolf eyes, nobody would ever have the chance to take his place. What put him there in the first place, Timothy didn’t understand. Jude only worked on installations and repairs; he didn’t make the locks or the keys, and he didn’t stand in the front, interacting with customers. He was the second lowest form to Timothy. But he was on Mr. Locke’s right. Timothy’s low brow sank lower. There’s a reason. There’s always a reason.
*
Jude
Nothing in life was ever simple—including the silverware at the table. Jude stared down in disbelief. How many forks could a man use for one meal? He’d never seen so much silver in one place in all his life. Jude tried to relax the frown he felt creasing his brows. He wanted to show the others that he deserved to be at Mr. Locke’s right hand, but…who could use so many utensils? His eyes wandered across the table to Matthew, who sat with his hands in his lap. Jude lowered his own hands into his lap, lowering his head with them. His eyes raised to Mr. Locke’s face. Thick, well-trimmed beard, years in the corners of his eyes, the same hard expression always.
What does it take to mean something to you? Do you have any sons? Are the lines on your face from smiling or crying?
Jude startled. The footman was pouring soup into his bowl. He had to try to control these episodes, these trances. He needed a new start. He didn’t understand how he’d gotten this job, but he felt an immediate bond with Mr. Locke, like a tendon connecting them. Perhaps even an artery. He didn’t want to lose this one.
Picking up the spoon that lay above his plate as if he’d never handled such a utensil before, his eyes watched the way Matthew held it. Jude adjusted his grip to match and took half a spoonful of soup in such an awkward way, he didn’t know how he would get it into his mouth. But he did. And he didn’t slurp. He could be worthy of Mr. Locke’s approval yet. He could be more than worthy. Yes, he could. And he would.
*
John
None of Mr. Locke’s family members came to dine with the men. Perhaps it was because John and Timothy and the rest were all workers, and this family was clearly very wealthy.
“Tell me how the ledger worked,” Mr. Locke said, finally breaking the silence. Everyone had seemed too astounded at the grandness of the house and the uncertainty of the situation to start any conversation themselves.
“It went very well,” Matthew said. “Not many people questioned telling us their names and addresses.” He glanced at Luke next to him.
“Who gave you a problem,” Mr. Locke said rather than asked.
One of Luke’s eyebrows escaped his control and pulled up, falling quickly back into place. Jude simply watched Mr. Locke.
“Well,” Matthew started, looking around the table in case anyone else was willing to tell the story. No one was.
“There isn’t anything that should make you worry,” Mr. Locke said calmly. He took his last spoonful of soup. The bowl was immediately removed by a footman. “The customer is the wrongdoer, not you.”
Matthew looked down. “It was a strange incident,” was all he said.
Mr. Locke’s patience appeared to be wearing thin; his lips were gathered into a tight pucker between his beard and mustache. “And what was strange about it?” His voice remained calm, but it was masking what might have been annoyance. Perhaps he angered easily, but he also seemed clever enough to know that irritation wouldn’t encourage, it would hinder. John felt uneasy in the presence of a man who assessed situations so carefully. He liked people to be forthright. John turned to look at Timothy, who stared down at his empty soup bowl, clearly also uncomfortable.
“It was a man—” Matthew started.
“Of course,” Mr. Locke interrupted, his eyes on the arm of his chair as he repositioned himself in his seat. He quickly looked up at Matthew. “Women are the gentle sex. It would be unusual for a woman to put you in a difficult situation, especially with something so innocent as asking for their information.” He held out his hand. “Continue.”
John was tense. The whole room seemed to be; even the wooden walls seemed more like solid, impenetrable metal. The tablecloth suddenly looked almost black more than green. Perhaps it was the candles dying. But they didn’t even flicker. He wished Matthew hadn’t said anything at all. It was an incident that surely wouldn’t repeat.
“One man refused to give Matthew his name,” Luke said. Matthew looked at him and they held their gaze while Luke continued, “He wouldn’t give any information. He was very…frustrated that we wouldn’t sell him a lock without his information.” Luke broke the stare and looked at Mr. Locke. “He dropped his payment on the floor deliberately and tried to leave with the lock.”
John was surprised to find an arm extending in front of him to place and arrange spinach on his plate. He hadn’t realized his soup bowl was gone. In a careful and coordinated way, all of the footmen then placed a tall stack of sliced meat atop each man’s dish of spinach, followed by a quick ladle of gravy. John frowned at it. What was it? There was no dinner knife he could use, and yet there was so much meat.
John’s footman moved to fill Timothy’s plate. He was the last to be served, but at least he hadn’t been forced to serve himself. When the footman backed away and faded into the wallpaper, John looked at Timothy, who was already watching him from the corner of his eye.
“I don’t know how to eat this any more than you do,” John said quietly, careful not to move his mouth much. Timothy smiled faintly at that. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
John picked up his fork and so did Timothy. Across the table, Luke was absorbed in his and Matthew’s retelling of the ledger incident, as was Mr. Locke. Mr. Locke was using his fork to cut down through the meat as if it offered no resistance. John copied him, bringing his fork down through the pile of meat, and it traveled straight through to the plate. Timothy did the same. John tasted it. Veal was the strongest element, but there were two other, almost equally strong flavors: ham and bacon. John couldn’t afford this much meat at one time. He had no idea the flavors would mix so perfectly together. Timothy was already on his second bite. He’d probably never had anything so rich either. What this dinner must have cost… But clearly Mr. Locke didn’t think about money. No, that must have been his last concern. This dinner represented the host himself. John was sure no one else could see it. They could only taste the fortune being shared with them.
*
Matthew
After the first tastes of the main course, the air felt as if it pressed in on Matthew, urging him to tell the rest of the story.
“You did say to get their names no matter what,” Matthew said.
Mr. Locke chewed his meat and motioned with his fork for Matthew to continue. He didn’t seem worried.
“Luke tried to stop the man from leaving the store,” Matthew said.
“I blocked him,” Luke said, “and I explained—but very politely, of course—what a good system the ledger was. How it would help us meet his needs better by recording his purchases.”
“And then?” Mr. Locke asked.
“And then he got angry,” Matthew said.
Jude’s head snapped up to look at Matthew. “What’d he do?” Jude asked, seeming to have already condemned the man to an unimaginable crime.
“He threw the padlock to the floor,” Luke said. “His face was so red, I thought it best to let him by. He left without even collecting his money.”
“And he slammed the door,” Matthew added.
“You did the right thing,” Mr. Locke said. “There was something else the matter with him and with his purchase. A lock is a simple, harmless thing, even more so because it was standard instead of custom. Why would someone be averse to giving their name in exchange for a lock? There is clearly much more here.” Mr. Locke paused to take a sip of wine. “Most likely we will never know why, but if he comes into the shop in the future, tell me immediately. I want to see who he is.”
“What’d he look like?” Jude asked. He had eaten his dinner at twice the speed of the other men. Jude had a way of staring straight into other people’s eyes without blinking, something that unnerved Matthew.
Matthew averted his eyes from Jude’s, looking up in thought. “He was very tall and broad. That’s what I remember most.”
Luke nodded. “He was intimidating, yes,” he said. “I think he had dark hair…but I can’t be sure. I just remember his height because he rivaled me in more ways than one, and that’s unusual.”
Jude leaned back in his seat and stared off as if he was picturing this very vague description, creating a man in his mind. He was gone from the conversation, off in his own world. Matthew noticed that Mr. Locke was watching Jude with interest. Mr. Locke’s jaw moved to the left and to the right without opening his mouth. He then turned his attention to Luke.
“Intimidating, hmm?” Mr. Locke said.
Luke nodded, in the middle of chewing.
“I should like to see this man quite a lot,” Mr. Locke said. He squared his shoulders to the table, looking taller than before. He glanced at Jude again. Jude suddenly jolted and looked at Mr. Locke. “Shouldn’t you like to see who this man is, Jude?” he asked.
Jude raised his face and stared at Mr. Locke with eyes that were a mix of predator and child. Such strange eyes that man had. And an unusual shade of solid olive green that attracted attention to them, too. It was an odd thing Matthew had noticed throughout his life—how the most threatening men always seemed to have the most unusual eyes. Perhaps it was an optical illusion. Perhaps not.
*
Jude
Jude lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, sleepless. Mr. Locke had been trying to tell him something at dinner tonight. “Shouldn’t you like to see who this man is, Jude?” he had said. And what had he said before that? It was something…something about the man being intimidating. Yes, that was it. Luke had mentioned that the man was intimidating, bigger than Luke’s own strapping frame, and that was the only thing he remembered about the stranger with absolute certainty. And then Mr. Locke had seemed interested in that word: intimidating. Why? Why was that interesting to Mr. Locke? Jude’s heart beat faster. If I don’t understand what he was trying to tell me, I won’t mean anything to him. I’ll be useless. Just a repairman, nothing more. He wants me to do something. What is it? WHAT IS IT?
There was a loud knock at the door. Jude jumped, startled. He blinked and his eyes burned, dry. Another trance. He blinked rapidly to stop the burning. Another knock, even harder this time. Jude got out of bed and walked across the room to the door. He peeped through the lock. The watch chain he saw was silver with some black spots. The landlord. Jude opened the door just enough to see through the crack.
“I already told you,” the landlord said forcefully without hesitation, “you’ve got to be more quiet. I can’t have everyone complaining every night about you.”
“Sorry,” Jude said. “I didn’t realize—”
“That’s what you said last time and the time before,” the landlord said. “Not one more time or you’re out.” He pushed the door hard, throwing Jude off balance for a moment. Jude slammed the door in his face and locked it. He waited for more complaints of his rudeness, but nothing came. Just footsteps of the landlord leaving his nightly grievance post in front of Jude’s door.
I have to get my fidgeting under control. And my trances. I can’t hear anything when my mind goes like that.
He looked at his knuckles. They were red from banging against the wall. He hadn’t even heard himself doing that, hadn’t even felt it. And yet his knuckles were red.
He realized he was biting his lip. Stop, don’t do that.
He realized he was wringing his hands. Stop it, no more of that.
He realized he was tapping his foot. This has to STOP.
Jude forced his fingers into his thick hair and pulled forward hard. It needs to hurt. If he could cause himself enough pain, perhaps he could stop fidgeting. But it was all so frustrating, and frustrations made him fidget. If he could just figure out what Mr. Locke wanted him to do, he could calm down for just a little while—until he found another reason to be frustrated with himself.
Intimidation.“Shouldn’t you like to see who this man is, Jude?” See who this man is… THAT’S IT!
Jude slammed his hand against the wall, his teeth bared in a conquerer’s smile. Mr. Locke wanted him to find that man, come back with a description, know more about him. THAT WAS IT!
BAM BAM BAM! “Get out!” yelled the landlord from outside the door.
Jude took a large step toward his suit jacket, took out his knife, and opened the door wide. He roughly grabbed the landlord by the collar and put the knife to his jaw.
“One more time and you won’t be around to shut me up anymore,” Jude said. He made a small, precise stroke with the knife and hair from the landlord’s beard drifted to the floor. A patch of bare skin remained. Jude only let go when the landlord’s eyes became wide, yielding pools of watery fear.
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