Fatal Enquiry (3 page)

“Oh, come now, Thomas. You know all incoming vessels are listed in
The Times.
”

“What are you planning to do with the information?”

“I intend to board the
Rangoon,
of course. What odd ideas you get into your head sometimes.”

“But he warned you off, and I have a police record, as you recall.”

“Legally, I am free to enter the vessel so long as I do not molest Nightwine in any way or keep Poole and his men from performing their duties. My defense will be iron-clad if I can find someone aboard ship with whom I am acquainted and will vouch for my attendance there.”

“Hence the passenger list.”

“Ah, light breaketh.”

I sighed. One does that a lot when working for Barker.

“I don’t believe Inspector Poole will split hairs the way you do. He’d be more inclined to tear a clump out of my scalp.”

“We’ll play the cards as they come, I suppose,” he said.

“I thought Baptists didn’t play cards.”

“Touché,” he replied. “I’ll see you back at our chambers within the hour, then.”

“Yes, sir.”

There is nothing more scalding than doing work beyond the time one is being paid, but then I am salaried, so technically all my time was his. It is a mercy that he allows me to sleep at night, but then I could recall on both hands times when I was awakened over some matter involving a case.

The sooner I shinned out to the Public Records Office, the sooner I’d get my freedom under way, so I let Barker take the cab back to Whitehall and took one of my own. The PRO is not the most entertaining place to spend a Saturday afternoon, but the queue moved swiftly and the information was readily accessible. There were close to eighty names on the list, and of course, Sebastian Nightwine was one of them. If I needed any proof that he was really coming, there it was in black-and-white.

Once I was back in the office, I set my notebook in front of Barker. He picked it up and began reading it carefully, name by name, rather than scanning it as I had supposed. What was he looking for? I wondered. Accomplices or past adversaries? He was at the bottom of the second page when he stopped and pointed a thick finger at a name there.

“Sir Alan Garrick,” he said. “He’ll do, I think. I did some work for him a few years ago involving a stolen racehorse. He’s also a Mason. He should get me close enough to Nightwine.”

“Close enough to do what, precisely?”

“To inform him that we are aware he is in town. That shall be enough for now.”

CHAPTER THREE

And so my time had come. Having ascertained that Barker had no real plans beyond working in his garden and ruminating about Nightwine, I was free to do all the things I had planned to do. I went book shopping in Charing Cross, where I found a complete set of the works of George Meredith for one pound ten, and then took a prolonged stroll through Trafalgar Square in the vain hope that beautiful strangers might be in need of directions. Alas, the fox-eyed vision was nowhere to be found, and so I took Juno out for her gallop in Battersea Park, which we both enjoyed very much.

Saturday evenings, I often ended up at the Barbados Coffee House off Cornhill Street, in St. Michael’s Alley, where the bean was first imported to London and Englishmen first tasted the West India Company’s viable alternative to tea. There I was one of a coterie of assorted wags and geniuses who called themselves the Wanderers of Kilburn, although, come to think of it, no one recalls why. The leader of our group was my closest friend, Israel Zangwill. Generally, we spend the evening holding court, drinking Voltairean amounts of coffee, arguing about whatever happened to be in the newspaper, and assuring each other that eventually our abilities would be noted by those in authority and the reins of government (or literature, or philosophy, et cetera) would eventually be placed in our capable hands.

“What is Mr. Barker up to these days?” Israel asked. He is always interested in the doings of my employer, though we have an agreement that he, a reporter for
The
Jewish Chronicle,
will not publish anything I tell him without asking me first.

“He’s been out of sorts all day. An old adversary of his is coming to town. Have I ever mentioned Sebastian Nightwine?”

“No, but I’ve heard the name. You’re sure he’s returning? It isn’t just a rumor?”

“I’ve seen it in print with my own eyes. Why?”

“As I recall, he left London owing a lot of money to the Jewish moneylenders. Does Mr. Barker intend to confront the fellow?”

“He’s been warned off by Scotland Yard, but that’s never stopped him before.”

“Why should Scotland Yard protect a
gonif
like Nightwine? This I would very much like to know.”

“You and me both,” I responded. Since knowing Israel, my English has been permanently riddled with Jewish phrases.

“Should I tell them?”

“Hold off, if you would, until I speak to Barker.”

Zangwill shrugged his bony shoulders. “They have waited this long. Another day or two shouldn’t matter. I would like to tell them myself, if possible. It never hurts to have bankers looking favorably upon you.”

A few hours later, I went home and climbed the stairs to my employer’s aerie at the top of the house. He was in his silk Asian dressing gown, reading a biography of Bunyan. Beside his chair was a small table containing an earthenware teapot with a bamboo handle and some small matching cups. Only in Barker could such disparate subjects as Chinese pottery and the author of
The Pilgrim’s Progress,
the solidly English Baptist John Bunyan, find their nexus.

“Was your time profitable?” he asked, laying the book in his lap.

“It was. I have some news. Possibly even a suggestion.”

He indicated the chair on the other side of the teapot. “Enlighten me.”

I told him about the moneylenders to whom Nightwine was indebted. It proved a good move on my part. I so rarely earn one of his smiles that I basked in this one for the rest of the evening. However, I left his rooms not knowing whether he would take the suggestion or not.

The next day began as most Sabbaths do in the Barker household, with attendance at the Baptist tabernacle just down the street. Charles Haddon Spurgeon was in good form, his voice clanging like a bell as he expounded from the podium. Afterward, we returned to Barker’s residence for our Sunday joint. It was beef that week, my personal favorite, rather than Barker’s, which is mutton. Mashed potatoes swimming in butter, carrots, peas, and Brussels sprouts, rolls, salty gravy made from the drippings, and cherry tarts, washed down with tea or strong coffee, and all for just two men. It is a wonder we were not as round as billiard balls.

After such a meal it is only natural to attempt to read a good book and fall asleep over it. Our butler, Mac, woke me in plenty of time to dress in my Sunday best for the arrival of our good friend, whom I’d never met, Sir Alan Garrick. In the hall, Cyrus Barker impressed me by passing over his customary bowler for the top hat on the hall stand. It wasn’t silk, but made of good, proper beaver skin. Mac took it from his hand and applied a brush to it vigorously, swirling the crown to an immaculate circle before setting it upon our master’s head at precisely the proper angle. I don’t know whether there are schools for butlers, or if men are simply born to the trade. Nature or nurture, our old friend Sir Francis Galton would say. Barker took an ebony stick with a silver tip from the stand, while I chose a humbler one made of maple and brass, thinking to myself that I might feel the need to clout a head that afternoon. Then out we proceeded to keep our appointment with Colonel Sebastian Nightwine.

Despite the fact that steam engines built by no less than James Watt himself kept the water of St. Katharine Docks artificially higher than the nearby tidal river, the twin basins of the docks were not deep enough to accommodate the largest steam vessels. In an age which equates size with innovation, the arrival of the major steamships brought attention from the press. The wealthy traveler always looked for the latest in ostentation and scale, while schoolboys argued crossing records and knots per hour. Under such conditions the St. Katharine Docks rarely got attention in the newspapers, and may even have been considered a liability as far as international commerce was concerned. Hence, these docks were the perfect ones in which to bring someone like Colonel Sebastian Nightwine into London, under cover of darkness, so to speak, though in fact it was afternoon on a conspicuously sunny day, a rare enough thing in London. Nature herself seemed to be welcoming Nightwine with open arms.

The SS
Rangoon
steamed in, its funnels belching, and as it came to a slow stop I could not help scanning the crowd below and visually picking out those individuals with distinctly Semitic features. At the Guv’s request, I had sent a message to Israel that he might warn a certain number of creditors of the pending arrival of someone they’d wanted very much to speak to for some time. I also noted Inspector Terence Poole, with a squad of constables in tow. Unfortunately, he had noticed us first and was headed in our direction with thunder in his eyes.

“What shall I do with you?” he demanded. “Do you mind telling me that? I should arrest you right now.”

“For what?” Barker countered, not in the least agitated. “I have come to welcome an old friend who is on this ship.”

“You say one word to Sebastian Nightwine and I’ll throw you in irons!”

“I’m not referring to the colonel. I’ve come to welcome Sir Alan Garrick. He and I have had business dealings in the past.”

Poole wagged a finger in his face. He was one of five people I knew brave enough to get away with it. I was not one of those people.

“You’re up to something.”

“Of course I’m up to something. I’m a private enquiry agent. We live by our wits. However, you quite clearly stated what I can and cannot do, and since you were kind enough to do so, I intend to abide by that statement. That much and no more.”

“You will not attempt to attack him?”

“I will not.”

“You will not speak to him?”

“No.”

Poole tapped his mustache in thought. “You will not bar him from leaving the ship or dock?”

“Never.”

“And the lad here?”

“He will be a shining example of restraint. Won’t you, Thomas?”

Poole looked at me dubiously.

“A shining example,” I assured him.

“You’d clown at your own funeral,” he said.

“Not mine. Yours, perhaps.”

He took a step toward me but I moved behind Barker where it was safe.

“There he is,” my employer said, raising his stick. The two of us made our way to the foot of the gangplank where passengers were starting to disembark. I’d had no description of Garrick, but Barker seemed intent upon a man of about five and fifty years with iron-gray hair and nearly white side whiskers.

“Sir Alan, welcome to London again,” Barker boomed, and let me assure you, he can boom when he wants to. It arrested our quarry in his tracks midway down the gangplank.

“Er … Mr. Barker?” he asked, dredging the name from his memory.

“I hope the journey from Calcutta was uneventful.”

Either pressured from the people behind, anxious to set foot on terra firma again, or curious as to why he was being addressed, Garrick resumed his descent and soon the two grasped hands. As they did so, Poole came up beside us and frowned at me. I looked up in time to see a head of very thick, very blond hair among the crowd still on deck. Only one man I knew had hair like that, an almost strawlike yellow that is quite easy to spot even at a distance.

Looking down, I noticed that Barker was pumping Sir Alan’s hand in an unusual way. His index and middle fingers were almost hooked over the top of his hand, while the ring and little finger curled around the bottom.
Freemasons,
I told myself. Barker was giving him a secret Masonic greeting.

Poole stepped around Barker and stood almost between the two men, who immediately put down their hands.

“Sir Alan Garrick, I take it?”

“Yes,” the peer answered.

“I am Inspector Poole of Scotland Yard. Are you acquainted with this person?”

“Of course. He is Cyrus Barker, an associate of mine.”

“Did you two gentlemen plan to meet here today?”

Garrick and Barker looked each other in the eye, or rather, Garrick looked at his reflection in Barker’s spectacles.

“We did not, but I’m glad he came to welcome me. We have business to discuss.”

Poole cursed under his breath, but not specifically at us. The blond head was about halfway down the plank, near the spot where Sir Alan had stopped when first addressed by Barker.

“Would you gentlemen please step over behind the swagged chain there? You are impeding the progress of others.”

Obediently, we moved to stand behind a chain which separated passengers from those coming to greet them. Turning back, I saw Poole and his constables begin to cluster around Nightwine, hindering him from coming forward, right after Poole had warned us about doing that very thing. I had not gotten a good look at him yet. Everyone seemed to be working in concert to keep me from viewing his face.

At some point, Nightwine’s shoes must have touched the actual dock itself and his long journey was ended. There was a sudden movement among the crowd and I heard one of the constables say, “Oy! You there!” A man brushed past me in a long coat and homburg hat, raising an umbrella as if leading a charge. From the sidelines we watched as half a dozen or more middle-aged men tried to break through the cordon of officers, while Poole cried warnings for everyone to step back. Finally Barker and Garrick stepped apart and I got a good look at Sebastian Nightwine. No sooner had I laid eyes on him than someone grasped the lapel of his suit and began shouting. His face flushed darkly as he remonstrated with the determined group of moneylenders that Israel Zangwill had let loose on him, before catching sight of Barker and me at the foot of the gangway. At just the proper moment, my employer raised his beaver-skin top hat in greeting and then turned away.