Have you spoken to my sister yet? (part two)

In the heart of London, on a bleak winter evening, shadows danced along the rain-slick cobblestones under the pale glow of gaslight. A damp chill hung in the air; fog curled around the lampposts like restless spirits and muffled the distant clip clop of horse drawn carriages. Ren L. Black, a delphic figure in a long dark coat, drew the collar closer against the drizzle as he stepped through the narrow doorway of Robert's tailor shop.

Inside, the warmth of a crackling hearth greeted him alongside the rich scent of polished oak and fine leather. The dim light of a single oil lamp cast trembling halos across the walls, illuminating bolts of cloth and half finished suits draped on forms. Robert, the tailor, looked up from his counter with a knowing smile. His spectacled eyes gleamed behind the shadows, for he knew his visitor well.

"Good evening," Robert ventured softly, inclining his head. "I am so glad you dropped by. Off to San Antonio, are we?"

"Yes," Ren L. Black replied in a low murmur, glancing about the shop as if measuring each shadow. He removed his damp bowler hat, revealing sharp features etched by the flickering light. "I depart tonight." His tone was calm but somber, each word weighed down by unspoken troubles.

Robert stepped forward, brushing a speck of lint from a beautifully tailored overcoat that hung nearby. "And what garments will you take on your voyage?" he inquired, voice polite yet tinged with curiosity. The old floorboards creaked under his weight, punctuating the quiet. Outside, a gust of wind rattled the windowpane, causing the flame in the lamp to quiver.

"Only those that draw the least attention," the man answered, a hint of wryness coloring his otherwise flat tone. He ran a gloved finger along the edge of the counter where a tape measure lay coiled, as if the act of packing light carried a double meaning. In the silence that followed, the steady tick of a grandfather clock in the corner filled the room.

Robert nodded thoughtfully. "One letter from abroad, and away you go with nary a second thought," he sighed. It was not a question so much as an astute observation. He knew the nature of Ren L. Black's work enigmatic errands, errands that summoned him on the thinnest of clues. His visitor only inclined his head in agreement. "Indeed." As Robert made a careful note in his ledger, he asked quietly, "Have you spoken to my sister yet?" His tone was casual, but the question lingered in the air like a challenge.

Ren L. Black’s grey eyes narrowed beneath the brim of his hat, which he now held in both hands. "I have not," he replied curtly. "Nor do I have any desire to." He turned slightly away, gazing toward the shop’s foggy front window. Beyond the glass, night had settled deeply; the city was a haze of shadows and lamp-glow.

Robert chuckled under his breath, unfazed by the curt reply. "Perhaps you should. Margaret knows certain... secrets about Texas." At the mention of Texas, the man paused. A glint of interest flashed in his eyes.

"Texas," he whispered, as if tasting the word, his breath fogging in the chill air of the shop. The single word carried a note of intrigue that hadn’t been there before. "You believe she might have knowledge of San Antonio?" he asked, turning back to Robert. A faint light of curiosity had pierced his brooding demeanor.

Robert's smile broadened ever so slightly. "More than you think," he answered, straightening a roll of dark tweed on the table. "Ask her about San Antonio. You might find her information... enlightening."

Ren L. Black considered this, his jaw tight as he weighed the suggestion. Finally, he gave a curt nod. "Our business here is concluded, I presume?" His voice was clipped, determined. "If so, I shall take your advice and call upon Margaret." He set his hat firmly back atop his head, preparing to depart into the waiting darkness.

Robert moved to the door to see his guest out. "Safe travels then," he said, pulling the door open. A bell above it chimed softly. "And do give my regards to my dear sister." The tailor’s eyes gleamed with a mixture of concern and merriment as he held the door. But as the mysterious gentleman stepped over the threshold, Robert suddenly let out a small, excited gasp.

"Ah, but wait just one moment, sir!" he burst out, almost startling Ren L. Black. In a flash, the tailor darted back into the shop, crouching beside a low shelf lined with finely crafted footwear. He returned holding up a handsome pair of leather monk strap shoes, their brass buckles glinting in the lamplight.

"Have you seen these new monk straps? Absolutely superb workmanship," he said in a rush, the usual composure of his voice momentarily overtaken by enthusiasm. Without waiting for a reply, Robert produced another pair: rich mahogany Derbys look at the toe! English made, with the finest Italian leather. "Surely a journey as significant as yours deserves footwear to match." His words tumbled out in a passionate sales pitch, the gothic gloom momentarily lifted by his genuine ardor for fine shoes. "I’ve even a set of suede double-strap monks arriving from Italy next week. They would suit you wonderfully, I think," he added, eyes shining at the thought.

The tall visitor could not suppress a faint smirk at Robert’s irrepressible fervor. He raised a gloved hand gently. "Thank you, my friend," he replied, voice dry yet not unkind, "but I assure you, my current Pembrokes will serve." He glanced down at his own well-worn Crockett & Jones Pembrokes, which bore the scuffs of many journeys. "I travel light, remember."

Stepping fully out into the night, he paused and turned back, fixing Robert with a final look. The wind outside caught the edge of his coat, making it billow like a dark cloak around him. "One more thing," he said slowly. "If you do happen to speak with Margaret... kindly refrain from mentioning the incident with the orange."

Robert’s grin returned, this time tempered by a solemn nod. Placing a hand over his heart theatrically, he vowed, "Not a word of it shall pass my lips, I swear." His voice echoed in the quiet street beyond the shop, where the fog had thickened into a soupy mist. With a final tip of his hat, Ren L. Black melted into the night.