Fatal Enquiry (10 page)

Here Barker clamped his jaw shut. Sometimes it seems as if he has a daily limit to his conversation and one cannot get another word out of him. I thanked him and went to my cabin, knowing he would call me when he needed me. It did not take long.

An hour later, Barker came into my cabin.

“Are you ready, Thomas? We’ve got an appointment to keep.”

I’d gone back to my berth to digest the story he’d spun. When he entered, he had tied a scarf around his neck which, with the eye patch and stubble, gave him a piratical cast.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Westminster Abbey.”

“That’s awfully close to Scotland Yard.”

“It can’t be helped. Years ago, Terry and I worked out that if he ever had to warn me with the name ‘Waterstone,’ we were to meet the following noon at the Abbey, if at all possible. I hope he can answer the questions I have.”

“That’s good,” I said, crawling out of the berth and donning my jacket. “I’ve got a few of my own.”

CHAPTER TEN

Westminster Abbey is so steeped in history, and so many people visit its vaulted halls to see the famous figures entombed or memorialized therein, that it is easy to forget it is still a functioning church. Services are maintained morning and evening, and there are weddings and christenings daily. Though it is owned by the government and therefore subject to the Church of England, the Abbey itself is ecumenical, perhaps not enough to please a staunch Baptist such as Cyrus Barker, but by Anglican standards, surely.

Every time I enter these hallowed halls and tread upon the lords entombed underfoot, I castigate myself for not visiting more often. It is but half a mile from our chambers and straight as the arrow flies. Many people wish to see this famous shrine all their lives and never shall and here it is at my very door.

I was conscious as we entered of the dust motes suspended in the air by sunlight streaming through leaded windows, and the general feeling of age. True, I have stood in older buildings, but none that had quite this combination of agedness and hallowed ground. Barker is not so sentimental. He may revere a writer such as Bunyan or a leader like Cromwell and never feel the need to see where the man’s dust is laid. Once the spirit has departed, there is nothing left to interest him. It is but clay. He prefers to meet them in the works they left behind.

We came in through the north transept which, according to a Westminster Abbey guidebook, is known as Solomon’s Porch. My first impression, I regret to say, was that the wood paneling and window frames looked worm-eaten and in need of restoration. The deeper we went into the interior, however, the grander was the entire aspect: an ornate altar backed with an immense choir screen; arched ceilings so high and beautiful it made one giddy to stand and look up at them; gold leaf overhead and tributes to prime ministers at our feet.

The Westminster Abbey church, also known as the Church of St. Peter, was built in a cruciform shape with the head of the cross facing east and its foot facing west. To our left lay the ornate tomb of Edward the Confessor, and ahead was the famous Poet’s Corner, which I was particularly interested in seeing. Barker was merely looking for Inspector Poole, with whom we had the appointment, and the task was not an easy one. For a structure first built in 1096, it is immense. Looking for one individual is not an easy task, but then I wasn’t much help to my employer. Putting a classics scholar in front of a tribute to poets is a dangerous thing.

The Georgian wag Addison once claimed in
The
Spectator
that the Abbey had “poets who had no monuments and monuments which had no poets.” I thought that a bit harsh. They had, for example, the crypts of Chaucer and Spencer. But for the most part, the Poet’s Corner is a collection of plaques and busts and the remains of the actual poets lie elsewhere. For all that, it is an impressive display and a proper acknowledgment of what this country has produced in the way of lyrical writing. I was impressed by the newest bust of Barker’s countryman Robert Burns, which had been funded—a pasteboard sign informed us—by shilling subscription from both highborn and low. The Scots were not going to allow their poet laureate to be forgotten.

“Lad,” Barker murmured from a dozen feet away. I joined him behind the altar, where an old chair sat by itself, looking precisely like what it was, an ancient throne. I didn’t understand what I beheld until I saw the heavy piece of granite on a shelf underneath. It was the coronation chair, with the fabled Stone of Scone, which according to legend, Jacob of the Old Testament used as a pillow.

“Now is your chance,” I whispered. “You’d be a national hero if we could just spirit that rock north to Scotland.”

There was a cough nearby and I turned, wondering if we’d been discovered. As far as I was concerned, they could add stealing national treasures to our ever-mounting list of crimes. But it was only Inspector Poole sitting in a pew and peering from behind a woman in a large hat. We did not hurry, but casually strolled down the aisle to the row behind him, taking seats on either side of his broad back. Just then the organ, which had been playing quietly the entire time we’d been inside, gave vent to strong soaring chords.

The mass was about to begin.

“It’s about time,” Poole muttered to us.

“I’ve found that men from the Yard are often in want of some sound hours in church,” my employer said.

“I’ll choose my own services, thank you.”

At this point we were shushed by an old matron who looked at us with ill-concealed disfavor. I was wont to frown back at her, but this was Westminster Abbey after all. The three of us looked suitably ecumenical as we stood and began to sing Martin Luther’s “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” suitably Protestant for anyone save perhaps the Pentecostals.

“You’re in a good deal of trouble,” Poole muttered after we all sat down again. “What were you doing visiting Lord Clayton late on Sunday night?”

“I cannot say,” Barker replied with an air of finality.

“I like that,” the inspector said, glancing my way. “I go far out on a limb on his behalf, endangering my professional reputation, but he cannot say.”

“I made a promise.”

“Well, unmake it!” he snapped. “I’m not the village gossip. I need the information for professional reasons.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Barker said stonily. “I gave my word, which is inviolate.”

Realizing he’d get nothing from my employer, he turned to me. “Where did he go Sunday?” Poole demanded.

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Don’t have the foggiest notion, do you?”

“I’m afraid not, as the old rope said. He never tells me when he goes out. I wasn’t even aware he’d left.”

He turned back to my employer. “Did you meet Clayton’s son? What’s his name? Gerald?”

“Briefly,” Barker admitted.

“Well, you seem to have made an impression on him,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “He claims you tried to blackmail his father.”

“Preposterous,” the Guv barked. “Over what?”

“He was coy about that, but I believe he said you claimed to have compromising letters from a young lady.”

“He obviously doesn’t realize the kind of enquiry agent Barker is,” I said. “He’s confused him with a common detective.”

“Yes, I’d worked that out for myself, thank you,” Poole said acidly. “About what time did you have this meeting, Cyrus?”

“Early evening, before eight o’clock. I back was in my chambers around nine-fifteen, as Mac will attest.”

“Sorry, but loyal retainers do not count as proper witnesses. Lord Clayton was found around ten-thirty. He’d been dead over an hour.”

“Where was he found?”

“Beside a folly at the far edge of his property. It must be very secluded that time of night.”

“Interesting,” the Guv said.

“Glad to be so bloody entertaining.”

“No, interesting that he should have had a private rendezvous so far from the house, when an hour earlier he’d invited a vile blackmailer like myself in the front door and up to his private study. It’s difficult having to come back and kill someone. If I were better organized, I’d have done it on my first visit.”

“He didn’t do it,” I said to Inspector Poole. “But I’m sure you worked that out for yourself, too.”

“That’s enough out of you,” he snapped.

We stood and sang another hymn and waited for a reading from Ecclesiastes before sitting down again.

“A young woman,” the Guv said. “The only reason to see someone on a clandestine rendezvous outside of the house would be to meet an unescorted female.”

“You mean like the one who dropped off the present at O’Muircheartaigh’s door yesterday morning?” Poole asked. “You think everything is related?”

“Isn’t it usually?”

Poole turned to Barker. “You claim then that you were set up?”

“The Irishman is near death, and I’m on the lam. We have been got neatly out of the way.”

“Can you tell me, Cyrus, what you’ve done to incense Commissioner Warren against you?”

Barker shook his head slightly. “Not in the least. I’ve never even met the man.”

“Well, you’ve succeeded in jumping up his nose. He’s baying for your blood. Apparently he hates all private enquiry agents and you in particular. If he had his way he would revoke all private licenses and you’d be having your neck stretched for you in Wormwood Scrubs. He seems to think you a deserter from the army, which puts you one step beyond Satan in his eyes.”

“Shhh!” The old woman leaned toward him again.

“Beg pardon, ma’am,” Poole said.

Barker’s tone went icy. “Has Nightwine been speaking to Commissioner Warren?”

Poole looked uncomfortable. “They dined together yesterday at the Army Navy Club. Oh, Christ help us!”

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s Abberline, coming this way. Hook it!”

We didn’t need a second invitation, but scissored out of the pew, down the aisle, and behind the choir loft.

“Hurry!” I heard Inspector Abberline cry, though I’m sure the constables were having difficulty running in the Abbey in the middle of a service. I thought it likely the good Lord would forgive us under those particular circumstances, and therefore ran as fast as my legs would carry me.

Ecclesiastes will tell you that there is a time for everything under the sun. Despite the fact that we were in one of the most sacrosanct spots in the whole of England, it was time to put shoe leather to paving slabs and get out of there. To do so, we would be forced to raise a clangor and disturb that fine peace, for there is a terrible echo in the Abbey and it is impossible to run silently. As I glanced back at Barker, I caught something out of the corner of my eye. Poole was not following us. In fact, he was moving toward Abberline, blocking his progress. I wanted to yell back at him, to call him a bloody fool for throwing away a good career, but Barker’s hands came down on my back and propelled me forward and I was forced to save my breath or tumble full length across the tombs. Abberline had not come alone, but had brought along half a dozen constables and any number of officers dressed as ordinary citizens.

The CID had recently created a “plain clothes” squad, as skilled in makeup and costume as any actor. I realize I am Welsh, and as such am not entitled to an opinion, but I cannot help but think it decidedly un-English. Costumed spies are all well and good on the Continent, but we don’t go for that sort of thing in London Town.

It was after one of them had seized my coattail and I was giving him a good, straight kick to the pit of his stomach that it occurred to me that I could do anything I liked to the fellow. In theory, how was I to know this was an officer in disguise? He hadn’t identified himself as such. He wasn’t like the constable on the bridge whose knee I had clouted. The fellow reluctantly let go of my boot and lay in the aisle, holding his stomach. Before the next assailant, a bobby in a regulation helmet and waxed cape had caught me up, I hared away and was soon running toward a large staircase. Truth to say, I had no knowledge of the entrances and exits there, and for once my employer was no wiser than I. Of a sudden, Barker jammed a shoulder into me, knocking me like a billiard ball toward a set of anonymous doors. It took a moment to get myself in stride again, and as I reached them, I shot a glance over my shoulder and saw blue-black oilskins and helmeted figures pouring in from the south entrance. Had we gone that way, we’d have been captured for certain.

I hit the doors hard, conscious of the fact that they had hung there for centuries, and wincing when they banged against the wall. I was in a deserted corridor, heading toward the west entrance with Barker right behind me and the constables just behind him. The Guv stopped abruptly, bringing down the first row of men behind him, then turned in the immediate confusion of officers tumbling over one another like a football scrum and caught me up again.

With the west door almost within reach, Barker thrust me through a doorway into a short hall and out through the far side, crossing a square of lawn. It had begun raining and there was horse traffic just a few yards away on the other side of an iron fence. Barker sprinted past me and I ran as fast as my legs could go. Before we were fully prepared, we had shot into traffic, shying horses and slowing carriages on both sides. It was a wonder we weren’t both crushed under the wheels of a passing vehicle, but before I knew it both of us stood on the other side of the street safe and sound.

I muttered a curse, considering it miraculous to be alive.

“Lad,” Barker warned.

As if escaping from Westminster Abbey were something he did on a regular basis, he raised his hand and hailed an approaching cab. We clattered aboard and I looked at him curiously. The Guv was barely breathing hard.

“Where to, gentlemen?” the bored-sounding cabman asked through the trapdoor over our heads.

“Soho,” Barker replied.

“Why Soho?” I asked when the cab began to move.

“Because it is not Westminster at the moment.”

We bowled off toward the west. Somewhere behind I heard a chorus of police whistles. When we were safely away I dared sit back in my seat and asked the question that was uppermost in my mind.