Fatal Enquiry (17 page)

“You are starting to sound like your employer.”

“I’ve been cramming. I wanted to get it right.”

“I shall tell you what I’d tell him, then. It’s none of his concern what the government does. Him, least of all, under present circumstances.”

“Now, see,” I said. “That’s what I told him. It would be far more advantageous to go to see W. T. Stead, and lay all our evidence before him.”

“That scandalmonger?” he demanded. I knew I’d succeeded in getting his attention because his pen stopped.

“The
Pall Mall Gazette
is a reputable newspaper, even if they are a trifle socialist. They even print photographs!”

“If you reveal any information regarding this expedition, you may provoke an international incident.”

“I believe you’ve got that backward, sir. If I reveal the information I would stop the international incident you are provoking.”

He got up from his chair and shut the door. On the one hand it showed he was giving me his full attention, but on the other, I was trapped.

“I am not involved with the Shambhala expedition,” he insisted.

“That hardly matters,” I pointed out. “When Mr. Gladstone’s government goes down clawing and scratching into the mud over this, saying you were not involved will hardly absolve you.”

“They might consider the offer too good to refuse. Even Barker could not stop the momentum.”

“The Guv says the prime minister has wanted to add new colonies ever since his opponent, Mr. Disraeli, made us an empire. The problem is there’s a worm at the core of the apple.”

Anderson leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I presume you’re referring to Sebastian Nightwine.”

“Yes. In case you haven’t heard, he and Mr. Barker have been acquainted for twenty-five years, ever since Nightwine killed his brother.”

“Mr. Nightwine has spoken extensively about your employer. It is how I’ve become connected to the matter. I am considered the local authority upon Cyrus Barker. But, as you see, I still have work to do. I presume you have something to ask or tell me. I hope it is the latter.”

“It is. Mr. Barker wishes me to inform you that in his presence, Nightwine told him many years ago about this plan, only with one significant change: Nightwine intended to seize control of Lhasa and have himself declared king. He had no intention of handing it over to the British government.”

Anderson shook his head. “Your powder is wet, I’m afraid. It doesn’t matter what he said many years ago.”

“Fair enough,” I responded. “How about yesterday at 4:25
P.M.
when in my presence he said he’d sell Tibet to the highest bidder? He was gracious enough to allow Britain to make the first offer, but ultimately you would need to have the winning bid.”

Anderson closed his eyes and his shoulders slumped a little. “How can I verify this is true?”

“The Guv said you’d ask that. The three of us were the only ones in the room at the time. He said to give you his word.”

“That’s good enough for me, but not, I fear, for my associates. The negotiations are at an end. The deal is complete. Mr. Nightwine is to turn over his maps to us on Monday.”

“In exchange for money, I assume,” I said. “You’ll never see it again. What’s to keep him from pocketing it and betting at the fan-tan parlors in Shanghai?”

“This is the British government we’re talking about.”

“With thousands of pounds in his hand he could buy whatever he wants in Asia. He could take over Tibet as he said, or he could buy his own island and fortify it with cannons. I don’t think he cares much about the British government one way or the other. He’s doing it for the money. He told me to my face he was taking his retirement.”

“There was talk about giving him an earldom.”

“I’m sure, but the Russians would offer to make him a count, and the Chinese would make a mandarin of him.”

Anderson began to scratch his beard, as if it had begun to itch. “Do not speak with Mr. Stead, for now at least. I need to talk to several people. It is probably too late to stop this, and some men on the committee will be deucedly hard to convince.”

“I will tell Mr. Barker when I see him. Thank you for seeing me without an appointment.”

I was actually in the corridor before he called me back in again.

“Yes, sir?” I asked, having no idea what he was about to say. He was frowning, but not in a way that looked as though he were angry with me, though he did not look me in the eye.

“Look, I just wanted to say if Cyrus should ever retire or you feel the desire to move on, come and see me.”

I stared at him, nonplussed. “Are you offering me employment?”

“Perhaps, if we can reach an agreement,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

“I’d never leave Barker’s employ, sir,” I told him. “The man’s done too much for me.”

“I’m not asking you to. Situations change, however, and if you should ever find yourself at loose ends someday, remember us. You’ve had experience with the Irish and know a primer from a fuse cap. We’re always looking for capable young men.”

That’s because the Irish keep killing them,
I wanted to say, but didn’t. “I’ll consider your offer, sir,” I answered diplomatically.

“Do that.” He took up his pen and began to write once more. After a moment, he looked up at me dismissively. “Good day, Mr. Llewelyn.”

I came out of Anderson’s office and down the stairs, my head preoccupied with the offer he had just made and wondering why it had made me angry. Why should anyone assume that Cyrus Barker’s career was over? As long as he drew breath, to cross him off as a has-been, or worse, a never-was, well, it was an insult. Barker’s career was a great social experiment. He was trying to legitimize a profession that still had one foot in the shadows.

Were my employer there, he would have pointed out that I had taken my eye off the quarry. I was so busy preparing a mental defense of my employer that I hadn’t bothered to notice the subtle changes which had occurred in the lobby during my absence. Barker would never have allowed it to happen. I was nearly out the door when I felt cold steel on my wrist, and turning around, found myself staring into the intent eyes of Inspector Frederick Abberline. I found I much preferred them at a distance.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

When they put you in a temporary cell in “A” Division, they cook you until you are done. That is, they give you hours to think over your misdeeds in the hope that you’ll confess and possibly turn on your accomplices. It requires no effort on their part and there is no law against it, as long as it takes no more than a day. Often the delay is legitimate. Inspectors fight for space in the few interrogation rooms as barristers do in the courts. It isn’t personal, but it certainly can feel that way when it is you who are locked in a cell with nothing to do but contemplate the walls and ceiling. Then one feels particularly set aside for punishment.

In the scheme of things, breaking one constable’s kneecap and cuffing him to a rail is not a capital offense. We were wrestling for the truncheon and it could just as easily have been my kneecap that was broken, or so my solicitor would maintain. They could not connect me to the greater charge leveled against Cyrus Barker of murdering Lord Clayton. However, I was worried for both of us. I wondered if Gerald Clayton had followed Barker’s advice and proposed marriage to his cousin. If not, could one witness be enough to convict Barker in court when the time came? I rather feared it might. I hate it when you know something is only meant to scare you, but it succeeds anyway. I may be a criminal, but I will never be a hardened one, I’m sure. Criminals such as the infamous Charley Peace could have done my few hours standing on his head.

The Guv warned there would be days like this. In fact, all things being equal, I am surprised I wasn’t more upset about my predicament. Were I a stockbroker or a clerk in the Admiralty, being arrested might have been the greatest tragedy of my life. As for me, it was, well, just another day at the office.

Eventually, I was taken to the interrogation room. Abberline was there ahead of me and was perusing my file.

“This makes for interesting reading,” he said. “What makes a man go from Oxford University to Oxford Prison in one fell swoop?”

“Try a sixteen-year-old wife dying of consumption and malnutrition. I don’t suppose that’s in the report, is it? Widower at eighteen?”

He was not impressed. An inspector hears everything in his position, most of it barefaced lies. If I were expecting him to break down in tears over my loss, I’d be disappointed.

“Where is Cyrus Barker?” he asked.

“I forget. It was right on the tip of my tongue and now I’ve lost it.”

“That was a neat little joint lock you got me in. I’d heard your employer was clever that way.”

“You would have known that move and the counter to it if he’d been allowed to continue the classes he taught for free in the CID building.”

Abberline nodded absently and then went on reading the file. “It says here you are arrogant.”

“Arrogant? What would I have to be arrogant about? Eight months of a university education? I have practically no possessions and am employed in a situation I am too ashamed to tell my parents about.”

“Perhaps you would make them proud again if you delivered Mr. Barker into our hands.”

“It is not Barker who is the criminal here, Inspector. It is Sebastian Nightwine. Everyone seems to have forgotten that. The world has gone topsy-turvy when a total blackguard is given a police escort and a good man driven from his offices.”

“But your employer did disturb the peace. I was there, as you recall.”

“Where? At Westminster Abbey? You weren’t exactly kneeling in reverent prayer yourself. In fact, as I recall you broke up the service with your squad of blues. You didn’t have to invade the sanctity of such a place.”

“You know it is only a matter of time until we catch Cyrus Barker. We caught you and we found your little garret in Lambeth.”

“I’m interested in learning how you knew I was at the Foreign Office,” I confessed.

“We had an anonymous tip from a good citizen.”

“Did he tell you about the garret, as well?”

“He did.”

“Anonymous. Was it a telephone call, by chance?”

“It was, if that makes a difference. What’s so funny?” Abberline suddenly asked.

“Oh, nothing. You’d have to know Barker. He’s tricked us both, I’m afraid. You see, we ran out of funds a couple of days ago. He sent me to the Foreign Office and then made a telephone call to your offices with the anonymous tip.”

“Why would he do that?”

“To see to my welfare. Either you’ll charge and release me, after which I’ll be a free man, or you’ll keep me here, where I’ll be clothed and fed. I work for him, you see, and he always sees to the needs of his subordinates over his own.”

“What about his own? He’s got no money and, if what you say is true, no roof over his head. Why would a man do that to himself?”

“Because he is tough and resourceful. If he needs anything, he’ll know how to get it. He won’t show his head until he’s quite good and ready to do so. Until then, you don’t stand a chance of finding him.”

“It appears to me that Inspector Poole has allowed your employer too much latitude in many cases. He had no business revealing official CID information to an outsider. That is what got him suspended.”

“To be sure,” I agreed. “The fact that Barker generally solved most of these cases and allowed you chaps to take the credit for what you couldn’t come up with yourselves is really immaterial.”

“Your employer is a man of limited education, no background, and no experience as a police officer. He has a reputation for fighting rather than thinking his way out of a situation. His advertisements in
The Times
suggest a crass commercialism, and his leaching information from the department proves him to be opportunistic at best.”

I sat up in my chair, wondering how much trouble I would get into if I punched another officer.

“You could not be more wrong about him, Inspector. Cyrus Barker is a close friend of the Reverend Charles Haddon Spurgeon, who will vouch for his character. He speaks six languages that I know of, and though he is self-taught, knows a great deal on a variety of subjects. He is the best fighter in all Europe; I would stake a fortune on it. Nevertheless, he uses his physical skills as a last resort. He places advertisements in newspapers as a way to help people who are in need and occasionally receives no recompense for his services. He is wealthy enough to purchase this entire group of buildings and turn Great Scotland Yard into a garden he can overlook from his office window, but instead he gives to dozens of charities. He is highly respected by the inspectors in this building who are
not
Johnny-come-latelies, because he is generally willing to share information due to the fact that he gives a damn what happens in this city that he has chosen out of anywhere on the globe as his home. He is kindhearted enough to give felons like me a second chance, and if you make one more slandering remark against him, I’ll teach you a half-dozen methods he’s taught me for scientifically rendering a man unconscious.”

Abberline was not to be swayed so easily. He was a tough egg to crack. “That was quite a speech,” he commented.

“No, Inspector. It was a promise. Barker’s big enough to fend for himself, but when lesser men criticize him, it makes my blood boil. If you weren’t so pigheaded, you could learn a lot from him.”

“Terence Poole did, and look what happened to him. He’ll be lucky if he’s not sacked by the end of the month.”

“Fine if he is,” I insisted. “He can work with us. We’ll get him a new desk and double his pay.”

I was bluffing, of course. Poole would prefer to be reinstated with the police, I was sure, but Abberline was not to know that.

The inspector made no comment beyond briefly raising his eyebrows. There was a lull in conversation, while he regarded me steadily. I felt as if I were a safe and he was trying to break into me with a brace-and-bit. He turned to my file again.