Fatal Enquiry (4 page)

“Come along then, lad,” he said, settling the hat back on his head and turning to Garrick beside him. “I have a cab waiting, Sir Alan. May we take you anywhere?”

CHAPTER FOUR

After we dropped Sir Alan in Fleet Street, Cyrus Barker reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and consulted his battered pocket watch.

“I’m sure you must have plans for the rest of the afternoon.”

“I do,” I admitted. “But I’ll share a cab with you back to Whitehall.”

The Guv grunted his assent, but something in his statement suggested to me that he was trying to rid himself of my company. He had needed my presence for Nightwine’s arrival, and now suddenly my services were no longer required. Meaning is as much in how we say a thing as in what we say. Even his grunt held a tone of disappointment.

We shared a hansom cab back to our offices and once inside my employer seated himself as if intending to stay there for some time. It was the Sabbath Day. I don’t wish to imply that he never worked on Sunday, since our profession is an elastic one which takes no heed of days and times. However, Barker does not work then unless he has a particular reason to do so.

Nightwine’s arrival in town certainly warranted a bending of this rule, but there was no reason for him to return to the office afterward; no reason of which I could conceive, anyway. I thought his behavior highly suspicious.

He looked pointedly at the clock on the mantelpiece and I regarded it as well. It was seven minutes to three. The Guv had an appointment. He was expecting a visitor and he didn’t want me there.

“I thought you were in a hurry to be away,” he said.

“As you often tell me, I must cultivate patience.”

The Guv pursed his lips and rose from his chair. He looked out the bow window into Whitehall Street while a minute ticked by.

“Would you prefer I go?” I asked. “I mean, if you’ve got something on…”

“Not a thing,” he assured me. Going to the smoking cabinet in his bookcases, he removed a pipe carved like the head of a lion and began thumbing tobacco into it. “Stay all afternoon if you wish.”

I stretched, a prolonged, catlike movement, which would have been censured by Barker as unprofessional during the week, but was perfectly allowable on a Sunday, the day of rest, when one wasn’t supposed to be working. All the same, it got under Cyrus Barker’s thick hide, which was what it was intended to do. Another minute ticked by.

While Barker smoked, I looked through the various cubbyholes in my rolltop desk.

“Are you looking for something?”

“Am I bothering you, sir?”

“Not in the least.”

“Just looking for a fresh pencil. Here’s one.”

“Good.”

It was four minutes to three. Barker’s head was encircled by smoke like a diaphanous halo. I decided I’d strained his patience long enough.

“Best be on my way, then. Tell Mac I shan’t be home for dinner. Cheerio!”

“Enjoy your day, lad,” he replied, visibly relaxing.

I stepped out into Craig’s Court and turned the corner into Whitehall Street. As it happened, I was standing in the exact spot where a day earlier I had encountered the girl named Sofia. Traffic in the street was a third of what it would be on Monday and foot traffic was minimal. It was not difficult to deduce that the man walking toward me was intended for number 7. One of the reasons Barker hired me, or so he has told me, is my ability to be unnoticeable. Just then I leaned against the wall with my hands in my pockets and one foot against the brick, my head down. The passing fellow paid me no heed at all. When he was gone, I took out my pad and pencil and began to scribble in Pitman shorthand. It’s how I think best. If it isn’t recorded, it didn’t happen.

Five feet ten, medium build, late fifties. Well dressed, morning coat (hasn’t changed since church?), graying hair, clean shaven, walking stick, homburg hat, no overcoat. Purposeful stride. Appearance of wealth. Does not look lost.

The man turned into Craig’s Court. I wasn’t about to put my head around the corner and have Barker see me, but I had to wonder, who was this fellow and what business did he have with Barker on a Sunday?

Casual acquaintances have joked with me about enjoying mysteries, as if when an enquiry agent’s assistant has time off he prefers to spend it reading Wilkie Collins. The truth is: I despise mysteries. They really get under my fingernails. I already have enough elements of my life that have no answers; I don’t require any more, thank you. True, I derive some satisfaction when we capture a criminal and prove without doubt that he has stepped outside of the law and deprived someone of their property and often their lives. That does not mean I would go looking for imaginary cases in my free time. Do barristers while away their evenings poring over legal briefs or do engineers read boiler manuals by candlelight, a cup of tea at their elbow? I rather think not.

I was walking away with the intent to avoid my employer on the off chance that he himself might step out of the office to see what mischief I was getting into, when up ahead I saw a familiar sight. It was a white lace parasol just disappearing ahead of me into Northumberland Street. On any given day, of course, London teems with white parasols, and the chances of finding a particular girl under any one of them are far less than finding a pea under one of three walnut shells manipulated by a confidence trickster. However, I was twenty-two and sound of limb, and would have crossed London for the opportunity to flirt with a pretty girl. And so I gave chase, as any sane young man would.

By the time I reached the corner and turned into Northumberland Street my quarry was well down the road. She was remarkably fleet of foot. Was it Sofia? The odds were almost astronomically against it. I was not so vain as to think she would hang about the area hoping for another chance to speak to me; almost vain enough, perhaps, but not quite. From where I trotted a hundred yards behind, the woman under the parasol could or could not be her. She was about the girl’s height, and was wearing a different dress, but then she would be wearing something different. This dress was almost fawn colored, and when she lifted her heels, her boots were white leather. The parasol was like a thousand others. Behind, I willed her to turn around and give me the slightest glimpse of her face, but then I’d never gotten a woman to do anything even by speaking. How did I expect it by willing it? She passed a small courtyard in front of the Northumberland Arms, and about twenty seconds later, I did so, as well.

“Mr. Lancelyn, is it not?”

I skidded to a halt and nearly fell on the cobblestones. My heart began beating faster, I could feel it in my breast. At one of the tables Sebastian Nightwine was just rising.

Ahead of me, the girl turned the corner and disappeared.

“It is Llewelyn, as I’m sure you are aware.”

“Lancelyn, Llewelyn, no matter. I’ve never been good with names. Perhaps we should all be Welsh and call ourselves Jones.”

“An excellent suggestion,” I replied. “You should pass it on to your friends in the government.”

“That was an interesting reception at the docks. Mr. Barker’s idea, I take it.”

“No, actually I’m the one with the Jewish friends these days.”

“Ah. You’re not as callow as you were two years ago. Come have a seat. I’ll buy you a drink, or a cup of tea, if you prefer.”

“Nothing for me, thank you. It might be poisoned.”

Nightwine sighed. “I believe I can get through an entire conversation without killing someone, although you do try my patience. I suppose, like your employer, you feel you cannot break bread with the Bad, Bad Man.”

“Something like that.”

“Just sit down, then. We need to talk.”

With a good deal of reluctance, I sat. Normally I prefer bars or glass between myself and a viper. On the other hand, there was a kind of exhilaration at being this close to a man Barker considered his nemesis.

“Well? You want to talk? Let’s talk.”

“I’m making a fresh start,” he said. “I’m tired of my old ways and trying to rehabilitate myself. I’ve got several friends willing to overlook my past and to help me put my best foot forward. I could convince a lot of people to give me a second chance, but not your employer. Never him. There’s been too much water over that bridge.”

“Why the change of heart?”

“I’m not getting any younger, and I don’t intend to lead a hand-to-mouth existence for the rest of my life. I’ve got plans.”

“Plans involving diplomatic status.”

“As usual, I see Cyrus is well informed. Yes, plans that would go a good deal more smoothly if he were not trailing me about trying to stop them. He gets excitable, you see. Once he gets an idea in his head, there’s no letting up on his part.”

“You mean ideas such as you’re a professional criminal?”

Nightwine was not angered by my words, but he waved a finger in my face.

“Now, now, Mr. Llewelyn. Be careful. You’re awfully close to slander and I have an excellent solicitor. All you have is hearsay and much of it based upon the word of a man who is permanently prejudiced against me.”

“And why shouldn’t he be?” I demanded.

“I know you highly regard your employer, but the truth is he has carried the insane notion in his head for twenty years that I killed his brother.”

My jaw must have dropped. Certainly I had no rejoinder at hand for that remark. Barker had not even intimated in the two years I had known him that he had a brother.

“I can see he hasn’t told you,” Nightwine went on. “He’s always been tight-lipped. I suppose he hasn’t mentioned we were in the army together, either, or that we were the closest of friends. Oh, dear, he has been holding out on you, hasn’t he? He really doesn’t trust anyone, your boss.”

“You’re lying,” I told him, but even as I said it, I realized I was on shaky ground.

After all, I’d just caught the Guv hiding something from me. What kind of a working relationship can one have with a man who carries so many secrets?

“Am I? Ask him how we met, then. The one thing I can say in Cyrus’s favor is that he never lies.”

At this point a waiter interrupted us. Nightwine drank only water and I nothing so far, and they needed the table for paying customers. I ordered coffee. If Nightwine poisoned it, perhaps I wouldn’t have to go back and confront my employer.

“No bread?” Nightwine asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Not at present, thank you. Do you have a message you want me to give him when I return, or is the fact that I’ve been waylaid here these few minutes talking with you enough of a threat?”

“Bravo. You really are coming along. I must admit I wasn’t impressed at our first meeting.”

“I’d known Mr. Barker all of about forty-eight hours then. The message?”

“Tell him we should meet. Let bygones be bygones, shake hands, and settle our differences and all that. He can name the place. I’m staying at the Army Navy Club. You see? I’m all aboveboard. Unlike him, I have no secrets.”

“I’m not the one you have to convince.”

The coffee arrived. I pulled it away from his reach and drained it in one pull, though it scalded my tongue. Bravado, I believe the Italians call it. I threw some coins onto the table.

“I must get back,” I said, standing.

“He’s got you working on the Sabbath? You know, you really need to put your foot down or he’ll take all your time.”

“When I want advice, I’ll ask my father.”

“Fair enough, then. I’ll be waiting for his decision. What’s it to be, do you think? Olive branches or arrows?”

“I’d say, keep the quiver handy.”

I walked away then, leaving him alone at the table, proceeding calmly and sedately until I reached Whitehall, where I made a mad dash to Craig’s Court and threw open the door. Barker’s chamber was full of pipe smoke but no visitor.

“Nightwine,” I cried, out of breath, pointing behind me. He came around the desk and we both ran to the Northumberland Arms. Of course, the table was empty. Without a word, Barker turned and surveyed the streets in every direction, searching for his adversary but not finding him.

“Tell me everything,” he ordered.

You first,
I said to myself.

CHAPTER FIVE

I recounted every word Nightwine had said; every nuance and inflection, as we made our way back to our chambers. My employer walked with his hands clasped behind his back and his head sunken on his breast. I was determined to get it all out before he spoke.

“Obviously, he was trying to drive a wedge between us.”

“And has he succeeded?” he asked. That’s Barker for you. No need for a hundred words when four will do.

I raised my hands. “I understand how you work. If you wish to remain silent about your private life, that is your own affair. I suppose if I believe a piece of information you hold is required, I shall ask for it.”

We entered the office, the door of which had been thrown open in our haste to leave, and took our chairs again.

“Do you think my past with Nightwine is such a piece of information?” he asked.

“You would be better placed to answer that question than I would, sir.”

“You do realize,” he said, “that sometimes information can just as easily get you killed as save your life.”

“I understand that, yes.”

He exhaled half a barrel full of air and then sat back in his green chair. I sat up. He was finally going to tell me something of his past.

“I suppose the first thing you should know is that I did have an elder brother. Caleb was two years older than I, and while my parents were missionaries in Foochow, dressing in Chinese clothing to make the Western religion more palatable for the natives, Caleb was sent to a proper English boarding school in Shanghai.

“You must understand there is a major tragedy in China every couple of years: a flood, an invasion, an earthquake. In this case, it happened to be cholera. It swept through Foochow and my parents set up a makeshift hospital to care for the sick and dying. Before I knew it, both my parents had contracted the disease, leaving me, at twelve years old, to fend for myself in a strange country.