The Hellfire Conspiracy (6 page)

“Is there a water closet in the building?”

“There is. We have had it installed.” She led us to the small room and we looked in. There was a window here as well, but it was high on the wall, too high for a child to reach.

“So, it would appear that the only way Miss DeVere could have left was through the front door. Did anyone see her near it?”

“I sit at the first desk,” Miss Levy explained. “And I made certain Gwendolyn did not get by. She’s gone out before, you see.”

“You make it sound as if she escaped, Mr. Barker,” Hypatia DeVere objected.

“It seems far more likely that she walked out of here than that a group of white slavers entered and somehow spirited her away under your very noses.”

“One minute she was there and the next she was not,” Miss Levy said.

“It sounds like a stage magician’s trick,” I said.

Mrs. Carrick entered then and looked at the group of us. “Has anything happened?” she asked.

“We’re trying to discover how Gwendolyn got out,” Miss Levy explained.

“Do you know of anyplace she might have gone?” Barker pursued. “Anyone she might have known, perhaps someone her own age?”

“None with whom she cared to associate,” Miss Levy said, then realized she had criticized a daughter in front of her mother. “I mean, she preferred to read or talk with us rather than to play with the children who came in here.”

Mrs. DeVere’s hackles were up immediately and I thought an altercation was about to occur between the overwrought mother and the caustic volunteer, but Barker brought them back to the matter at hand.

He turned to Miss Hill. “Where is the doctor today?”

“Dr. Fitzhugh volunteers from ten until two, normally. He has recently qualified and hopes to open a surgery of his own in London, so he is very busy.”

“What would he have to gain by volunteering here?”

“You would have to ask him that question, but as we coordinate among a number of organizations, he would have the opportunity to meet some of London’s civic leaders. I feel, however, that the doctor has a genuine heart for the poor.”

“Tell me, Miss Hill, are you a socialist? I hope I do not offend you with the word.”

“Not at all, Mr. Barker, but there are socialists and then there are socialists. I am a Christian socialist. I believe it is our duty when the churches have been unable to help and some people have fallen through the cracks to step in and save them. It is the only alternative to the workhouse.”

“How real do you think the slave trade is in the area?”

“That is the question we have been asking ourselves since yesterday, Mr. Barker. One hears so many rumors, but it isn’t always best to give credence to everything that is said. I could name half a dozen fallen women that claim their degradation began through the deviltry of the white slavers, but I believe them all to be embellishing the sordid truth of their own wanton behavior. However, I must admit that children and young women in the area have vanished without a trace. Some, I thought were the victims of their stepfather’s wrath or lusts, others desperate or resourceful enough to run away, but now and again I’ve seen children vanish from good families. And they all have one thing in common, sir. They never return.”

“Have you ever spoken to an avowed white slaver, Miss Hill?”

“No, I must admit I have not.”

“Nor I, madam. It may be that reports of their activities have been exaggerated, but I believe it is best to play it safe. I have sent a telegram to a gentleman I know in Sussex. He is having the ports watched. Meanwhile, Thomas and I shall be searching the area again, asking questions. We have held up your work. Good afternoon, ladies.”

Outside, we headed down Green Street again. I ruminated upon the fact that my feet were still sore from yesterday’s walk.

“I still find it hard to believe that there are men, possibly even in this street, whose living is made from snatching young girls.”

“Believe it, lad.”

“I thought this was a Christian country,” I said bitterly.

Barker shook his head. “Then you are misinformed. We live on a mean, sinful planet, Thomas, and it shall only get worse if the Lord should tarry.”

Jenkins, our clerk, had awoken during our absence. He had finished his cigarette, the
Police Gazette,
and tea and was dusting the bookshelves. He had also placed a note on the salver on the corner of my employer’s desk.

Barker looked at it soberly as it lay in the silver tray. It was a grubby-looking envelope, with the office address written in pencil.

“When did it arrive?” he asked.

“Just after three o’clock, sir.”

He lifted it from the salver, weighed it in his hand, then took up his Italian dagger from his desk and slit the envelope open along the flap. He shook the contents onto the desk rather than put his fingers inside the envelope. It was a grayish piece of foolscap. He picked it up, opened it carefully, and began to read.

“Is it a ransom note?” I asked.

He held up a finger and read through the letter again. Then he tossed it down dismissively into the salver and went to his smoking cabinet for a pipe and tobacco. I pounced on the letter. As it turned out, it wasn’t a letter at all. It was a poem.

“He’s watching us,” was my first comment. “He saw you with your pipe and he knows about your garden.”

“Yes,” Barker said, getting another of his pipes going, this one carved in the likeness of the late General Gordon. “We are starting at a disadvantage in that our quarry knows our identity but we do not know his. He’s been watching us. Quite possibly, he’s been following us about all day.”

I got a creeping feeling in the small of my back that such a loathsome person should know our business and who we were. Barker did not seem as concerned, more curious, but then he is over six foot, weighs fifteen stone, and has faced things I’ll never see.

“Miacca,” he said. “It sounds Jewish or possibly Italian.”

“I believe it is English, sir,” I told him. “I think it’s a fairy tale character.” Suddenly it all fell into place. “Good Lord,” I muttered.

“What?” Barker insisted. “What is it, lad?”

“I remember. Mr. Miacca was a cannibal, sir. He ate children.”

“C
AN YOU INFER ANYTHING FROM THE NOTE?”
Barker asked.

“The envelope is grubby and of rather poor quality, like the notepaper itself, but the writing is legible enough and it follows the general form of a poem. It reminds me somewhat of Edward Lear.”

“Lear? I am not familiar with him.”

“He writes nonsense rhymes, limericks and such, mostly for children.”

Barker sank back into his swiveling chair and blew smoke toward the ceiling. There was a pause while he made up his mind. “I want you to go to the British Museum,” he said. “Track down this Miacca legend for me and Lear as well.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll pay a visit to Scotland Yard and see if I can talk Swanson into letting me look at those files in his possession.”

I seized my bowler and stick and stepped out the door into Craig’s Court just as Big Ben boomed four times. Research was my favorite part of the investigative process, the hunting of pertinent facts culled from thousands of others in libraries or public record offices. As I raised my stick to hail a cab, however, I thought about how the killer had possibly been watching us today as we walked about Bethnal Green. It made me stop and survey the street and the dozens of anonymous windows that faced me. It is unnerving to know that someone might be scrutinizing you and meaning you harm.

The study area of the Reading Room in the British Museum is formed roughly in the shape of a wheel. The hub is a warren of desks and cabinets for the use of members of staff, and shooting off from it are spokes made up of adjoining desks and chairs for patrons, all in blue-green leather, one of which I had come to think of as my own, P16. I had been coming here since I was sponsored for membership by the patron of my youth, Lord Glendenning, before the unfounded charge of theft leveled upon me by my university nemesis, Palmister Clay. After my personal disgrace and imprisonment, his lordship had seen fit to sever all ties with me but had neglected to withdraw his sponsorship. That written recommendation had been an anchor to me since then. It was here, for example, that I had first come across Barker’s advertisement in the Situations Vacant column of
The Times.
I still came here on half days to read and think. Now I had come here to track down the tale of the vile Mr. Miacca.

I made my way to the section on folklore and soon found what I was looking for in a book containing legends and stories of London called
Tales of the Old Town,
published in 1849. I took it back to my desk and flipped through the contents until I found the tale of Mr. Miacca, and turned to the appropriate pages. My memory had been correct. Miacca had been a nasty fellow, but reading the story over, I saw that he was more. There was something of the supernatural in him. After copying the passage into my notebook, I closed the book and set it down on the desk.

Next came the Edward Lear. I didn’t suppose Barker considered Mr. Lear a serious suspect, but the author of the little poem in our office was certainly aping his style. I couldn’t find his books in the poetry section and had to ask one of the librarians if the British Museum stocked his works. It did, as it turned out, but they had been relegated to the children’s section, which I considered shabby treatment. True, children could read and understand his poems and limericks, but they had been intended for adults. I wondered what Barker, a serious if self-taught scholar, would make of “The Owl and the Pussycat,” or “The Courtship of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.” I chose a copy of his book and sat down again, indulging myself in a poem or two. Mr. Lear is a silly fellow, and, as far as I am concerned, there are not enough like him in the world. After a few pages, I found myself chuckling. Much of his work is repetitious, but occasionally he skewers the foibles of man with his sharp wit. I wasn’t about to copy all of Lear’s nonsense into my notebook, so I contented myself with a few poems.

I looked over the top of the book to check the time on the wall clock over the door, and out of the corner of my eye caught a sudden movement. Looking about, all seemed as it should be, but I had the unsettling feeling that I was being watched. Was it Mr. Miacca, right there in the Reading Room with me, or was I letting my nerves get the best of me? I dipped back behind the book to collect myself. Why had I not thought to bring the pistol from my desk drawer? I steadied my nerves and attuned my senses before taking action. Barker wasn’t there to help me. I had only my training to fall back on.

I looked up suddenly and having done so, my ear caught a sound, the flapping of a newspaper. I looked about casually. Beside me there was a heavyset fellow intent on some work of translation. The rest of the people along my row were all reading with their heads down, as was the row of patrons behind us. I looked at the knot of employees. One held a book in front of his face, but I was certain I’d heard the rustle of newsprint. I continued glancing about the room until eventually I saw it, a newspaper facing me directly, in one of the rows on the other side.

I focused on the hands, which were small. I was being watched by a woman. It had been a while since a woman had stared at me in a library. I was not so naive as to think it was my grace or appearance that had attracted her notice. It must have something to do with the case, I reasoned. The newspaper began to settle slowly. I caught a glimpse of blondish curls before turning back quickly to my studies.

What shall I do now?
I asked myself. I couldn’t exactly walk over and say, “Pardon, but I couldn’t help notice you were watching me just now.” On the other hand, any interest I had in fairy tales had evaporated with the attentions of a young lady at hand. I stood, stretched decorously, shooting my cuffs, avoiding the natural desire to glance in the woman’s direction. I then turned and made my way to the exit.

Of course, I had no idea whether she might follow. More probably, she would turn her attentions to some other young gentlemen studying at one of the tables. Once outside, I resisted the attentions of a cabman there and turned right, headed along Gower Street, and walked to Regent’s Park.

It was warm and sunny, a rare and glorious afternoon. I walked along the path between grassy expanses in the dappled shade of oaks that must have grown there since the park was first designed. I dared not look behind. It was rather like fishing; I didn’t want to spook my prey. In all probability, there was no prey to spook, and I was making a fool of myself. I was about to give it up, but as I passed the brass plaque that announced I had reached the Zoological Gardens, I saw in that highly polished metal surface that I was still being shadowed, and by a female in a bowler hat and a trim-fitting black outfit. I rather doubted this was the infamous Mr. Miacca. The glorious day suddenly got that much brighter.

Now that the fish, if I might be so crass as to equate the young lady in question with a fish, had risen to the bait, how was I to set the hook? She could still break off the line were I to change course in midstream. Not really having an idea of what to do, I walked past the lions and seals; finally reaching the wolf cages, which somehow seemed appropriate, I sat down at a bench and, with as much
savoir faire
as I could muster, I raised my hat.

“Good afternoon, miss,” I said as she approached. I recognized her as the friend of Miss Levy.

She stopped and actually gaped at me. “Was I that obvious?” she asked.

“No,” I replied, “but I am an experienced enquiry agent and it is difficult to pull the wool over my eyes.”

She sat down beside me. “My word,” she said, “you are good.”

“I am Thomas Llewelyn.”

“Beatrice Potter.”

She was attractive, with light-colored hair swept away from frank blue eyes and delicate features. Her clothes were of the best quality and in the height of fashion. She came from money, obviously. Not landed money, perhaps, but money all the same. When we were children, I wouldn’t have been allowed to speak to her, being a mere miner’s son, and now she was following me.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I followed you from the museum, or do you know that as well?”

“I assume that you happened to see me in the Reading Room. You didn’t follow me there. Are you Jewish?”

“Jewish?” She frowned. “Why do you ask that?”

“Miss Levy, your friend, is Jewish. And you were reading the
Jewish Chronicle
in the museum.”

“So I was. I fancy that one of my grandparents was Jewish, but so far I have found little proof. Certainly the other three quarters of me are English enough, and my family is doing its best to deny the other. I find Jews fascinating and have been studying their history and politics. And you?”

“I’m as Welsh as rarebit, but most of my closest friends are from the Jewish quarter and my employer has worked for the Board of Deputies. So, if you happened to recognize me in the Reading Room, why did you follow me?”

“I’ll tell you if you’ll answer one question first. Why were you reading Lear?”

“It is pertinent to the case. Beyond that I can reveal nothing. Now you tell me why you followed me.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Oh, I like that even better,” I said. “So come, come. Tell me. I can believe anything, provided it is fanciful enough.”

“I am an investigator.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Pull the other one. Are you private, or are you in fact working for Scotland Yard?”

“Neither. I am a social investigator.”

“I see,” I said, though to be frank, I didn’t. “I don’t suppose that pays very well.”

“Nothing at all, actually, but it’s very important. That’s why I am working in the East End. I wish to know why the greatest empire in history cannot feed, clothe, or shelter many of its people. I wonder why the mistakes and attitudes of one generation are doomed to be repeated in the next and why the arrival of a people with a rich and ancient culture such as the Jews inspires fear and loathing among an otherwise sensible people. And right now I’m wondering what caused a university man to take up what is obviously a dangerous profession.”

“What makes you think I was at university?” I asked.

“I may be a woman, but I do have a functioning brain, Mr. Llewelyn. The Reading Room is for scholars. You have a membership. I will even speculate that in spite of your education, you are of humble beginnings. So, was it Oxford or Cambridge?”

“It was Oxford. And you are right about my beginnings. How have I given myself away?”

“If anything, your accent is too perfect. You speak better English than most of the young men in my set.”

“Ah,” I said. There was an awkward pause, during which I thought about the phrase, “my set.” I was right about her class origins. But she was speaking. “I beg your pardon?”

“You haven’t answered my question. What caused a university man to take up such a profession?”

“Eight months in Oxford Prison severely limited my choice of occupations, Miss Potter.”

“My word,” she replied. “That was blunt.”

“My apologies,” I said. “I misspoke.”

“No, no, I admire it, Mr. Llewelyn. You use information like a weapon. That is good. You are in the business of giving and receiving information, as am I. There are people out there attempting to stifle knowledge and mask truth. Sometimes it is private individuals, sometimes it is the government itself.”

“Miss Potter, are you one of those crusaders who want to redistribute the wealth and give the vote to women?”

“Do you consider either of those bad things, sir?”

“To tell you the truth, I have no idea. I’ve never investigated the question before.”

“Then you are more intelligent than most of the male population. At least you haven’t made up your mind without having researched the issues. There is hope for you, yet.”

“Well, good, then,” I said, trying not to laugh. “At least there is hope.”

“So that man with whom you came into the charity was your employer?”

“Yes. His name is Cyrus Barker.”

“He seemed a brusque sort.”

He was indeed a brusque sort, but I didn’t want Miss Potter to get the wrong impression. “He’s a gentleman and a fine employer. And of course, a first-rate enquiry agent.”

“I’ve heard you detectives are very loyal to one another,” she noted.

“Sometimes in an inquiry, your employer is the only person you can trust. He’s saved my life on more than one occasion. Do you volunteer at the C.O.S.?”

“I did for a while, but now I work at a tenement called the Katherine Building. I interview prospective tenants, collect rents, and see that the building is well maintained. As an investigator, I keep a file on each tenant, their history, occupation, family, and beliefs. When they are gone—and, of course, being poor, they rarely stay long—their social history will be of greater use as a record of conditions during this time.”

“So it is a salaried position, then. I am surprised that you work.”

She laughed, displaying a set of perfect teeth. No one in need of money had teeth like that.

“I don’t need to, of course. My father owns a railway. I’m sure he could buy the Katherine Building twice over.”

“It seems an unusual pastime for a young woman, running a slum tenement. Most young ladies would simply marry.”