The Eavesdropper

The Eavesdropper

         Never Stokes had been shiftless, a lay about, little better than a complete good-for-nothing for much of his third decade of life. Those that knew him, and gave a damn, despaired of him ever improving himself to a respectable standing in life. Those that knew him and cared nothing for him freely spoke ill of him whenever he was out of earshot, and sometimes when he was still within it. Whether with sadness or spite, the words most often spoken of him were, “He’ll come to a bad end, that one.” Even so, he turned a corner in life when, on the eve of his twenty-ninth birthday, he made a wholly unexpected discovery.

         His name, of course, was not really Never. His proper Christian name was Neville Roger Stokes, but Never was what everyone called him, on account of the fact that he never did much of anything at all. Nothing of any merit, anyhow.

         He had spent years in taverns, drowning himself in pint after pint. He had whiled away many an hour loitering on street corners. Many were the nights idled away in gambling at cards or at dice. Always, although he seemed to require the companionship of his fellow man, he was a silent sort. He never was one to partake in conversation, whether it was a word of sympathy for the melancholy fellow next to him at the bar, or to discuss the odds of winning such and such a bet as he threw the dice. He was, people said of him, a good listener, if nothing else, although no one was ever quite sure whether this was because he cared enough to lend an ear to one’s troubles, or if he was merely very good at ignoring whatever was said. Most supposed the latter.

         Then it occurred to him one night, by the sheerest of coincidences, as he sat at a battered wooden pub table inside the Hart and Hound, that there was a market of sorts for gossip. Or at least, there was a market for a particular sort of gossip. He was well into his fourth pint of the night but still quite sober, and the handful of men he usually sat with to drink at this particular establishment had since gone home to their wives or lady friends for the evening (Never generally had a different set of companions at each of his various haunts, and he would attend them depending on his mood and his financial ability).

         The man sitting at the table nearest him was speaking in the hushed tones of a fellow who has long since passed his limit of drink, which is to say, tones not nearly hushed enough. The gentleman across the table kept reaching over and patting the drunken man’s shoulder periodically. “Now then, don’t take it so hard, Jim”, he said, patting again. “She ain’t nothin’ but a harlot, she’s not. Not worth getting yourself so worked up over.”

         At this, Jim began to sob, dramatically, uncontrollably, and much louder than was comfortable for anyone within earshot. “She’s the love of my life!” he wailed, banging his pint glass on the table and sloshing most of what was left down his shirtfront. His friend patted his shoulder again, but he went on, uncomforted. “Penelope Quinn is the only woman I’ll ever love!”

         “Now, Jim, you said the same thing about Leticia DuMonde last month, didn’t ye?” This only made Jim weep louder, gulping down choking mouthfuls of beer between sobs.

         “Leticia was just a fling!” declared Jim. “A dalliance. Just a pretty face, nothing else. I’d give my left arm for Penelope Quinn. She’s a real queen among women.”

         “You’ll be fine in the morning,” said Jim’s companion, and gave up patting. “Besides, your Missus Cooper will be missing you if you don’t get home.”

         At this, Never’s ears pricked up like a dog’s at the sound of a scrap of meat hitting the floor. He had heard this sort of story before, having spent such vast quantities of time in such establishments. This time, though, he was running particularly low on personal funding, and had been kicking around ideas for turning a quick profit. The two situations clicked in his brain, his financial straits and poor, dear Missus Cooper, and he began to mull them both over.

         “My Anne is nothing but a dullard,” said Jim. It don’t matter if I come home at ten or three, if I stink of liquor or perfume, if I have rouge on my collar. I could come home with two women on my arm, and she’d believe I was merely being escorted to my residence by a pair of good Samaritans.”

         “You take advantage of a good soul, Jim. It’s not my place to have words with you on her account, but…” Jim’s companion trailed off and stood from the table. The sound of his chair legs scraping the floorboards served to snap Never’s nose back into his own glass before he could be observed paying such close attention to a conversation not his own.

         “I just call myself lucky,” replied Jim, wiping his reddened nose on his sleeve. “I’ve got a simple wife at home to keep my clothes washed and a hot meal on the table, and a pretty friend or two to keep me…entertained. And if I don’t feel like putting in the effort of making the very friendly acquaintance of a new and lovely young blossom, well, Anne is usually good for a throw when I come ‘round.” At this, Jim smiled and chuckled into his glass, apparently restored to his former cheery self. His companion touched his hat brim and excused himself. Never simply swallowed the last of his pint and slipped quietly out.

         When Never arrived home that night, he did not retire directly to bed. He moved down the three stone steps to his front door, a half-basement level apartment off an alleyway. His key clicked in the lock and he let himself in, quiet as a shadow melting into the deeper darkness of the interior. In all probability, he could have had a fine career as a cat burglar, if he ever would have had the ambition to learn how to pick locks. Happily for the residents and constabulary of the city Never called home, this was not the case.

         Never, who had eyes almost as good as a cat for seeing in the dark, went about lighting the gas burner on the stove and putting on the kettle. He was in no mood for sleeping, and a nice cup of tea was just what he fancied to accompany him in his further ponderings. By the dim flicker of flame, he shifted through various tins and jars in his cupboard and drew out a canister from the back. “Lapsang souchong,” he said to himself, as though the words themselves tasted nicely, and smiled a very small smile.

         It would have surprised nearly everyone who had ever made Never’s acquaintance to know that he had become something of a connoisseur of tea over the years. This interest had begun well back in his later teenage years, before he had fallen victim to the idleness and boredom and drink that would consume over a decade of his life.

         Never had been brought up by two wealthy, if rather disinterested, parents. It became their habit to give Never’s nanny ample money to take him out and entertain him around town on a near daily basis. Later, when Never was old enough to mind himself, they would give him the money directly, and plenty of it. At first he spent the money on fine clothes, finer food, and visits to the theater. He indulged almost his every whim, spending vast sums on tailored suits, imported shoes, and whatever accoutrement he fancied at the moment. Soon after, he began entertaining his many female acquaintances in upscale restaurants, and buying them jewelry and other finery as tokens of his fleeting affections.

He soon tired of these pastimes to the point of finding them little better than base drudgery, however. It was then that he discovered the excitement of travel, and particularly, that of foreign travel. He had first discovered the joys of Lapsang souchong while traveling by bicycle through the Wuyi region of Fujian, and it had opened his eyes for the first time to the sensory delights of tea. He had gone on to appreciate many other teas over the years, but Lapsang souchong would always be his favorite.

         Once he had poured himself a cup and taken a deep inhalation of the rich, smoky steam, he reclined into his battered leather armchair and stretched his long legs out on the overstuffed Turkish ottoman. Thus settled, he set to work thinking of how he could turn his discovery of Jim Cooper’s indiscretions into profit.