by Will Thomas
“Mr. Zangwill,” the Guv said in a low voice, “has anyone spoken of the arrival of the tsar’s son?”
“They have, yes, in no uncertain terms. One would think the boy had driven their families from Russia all by himself. They hate him, Mr. Barker. They hate him passionately. He represents all they have endured and may yet endure in the future. Oh, the West Enders may fawn over him, but it would be well if he did not travel east of the City.”
It did not surprise me when Israel refused our offer of lunch. He had too much work in front of him, he said. Barker was not especially put out, and we gave our adieus. My friend looked visibly relieved.
CHAPTER THREE
So that was that; for the time being Barker had at least momentarily satisfied his curiosity. However, we were already at the end of another case and we expected our client later that afternoon. He came, we gave him the information he had been searching for unsuccessfully, and he gave us a cheque on the Bank of England. By that time it was late and our own bank, Cox and Co., had closed.
The next morning I deposited the cheque in the bank and typed the notes for our files. The case finished, we went out for a well-deserved lunch.
The Goat Tavern in Kensington is one of the oldest public houses in London, having opened its doors in 1656. It stands across Kensington High Street from the entrance to the palace itself. It’s a beautiful old building, gleaming white, and I could picture it when the public house and the palace stood alone a century before Kensington became popular.
I like The Goat. The furnishings are authentically quaint and they make the best Welsh rarebit in London. Barker ordered the fish-and-chips. I’ve always thought of trying them but just as always decided on the rarebit.
Being professional men, we were acquainted with most of the public houses and restaurants within a mile or two of our offices. The Guv was distracted while we ate. I thought about Jim Hercules. The only way the Guv would take the case was if he found a way to receive an introduction to the tsarevich, and that seemed an unlikely prospect.
When we were finished with lunch, we crossed the High Street into the Palace Gardens. I generally ride my bay mare, Juno, in Battersea Park, but once or twice in the days before Rebecca against all logic agreed to be my wife I rode nearby in Hyde Park and viewed the pretty girls along Rotten Row in their glossy top hats and side saddles.
It was a good day. The cool had lingered past noon. Children passed us with toy boats in their hands, while their nannies pushed prams. Two boys nearby were trying to coax an obstinate kite into the air. A young gentleman trotted by on a shiny black gelding that must have cost a fortune. I was wondering what one had to do to get the kind of life in which one could spend an afternoon riding a thoroughbred in Hyde Park when I heard a pop nearby. A pistol had been discharged.
We’d entered through the gate at Palace Avenue and had just turned into the Dial Walk when we saw a man brandishing a pistol at an open landau. I did not wait for Barker’s permission. My professional instincts took over and I was off like a hare. Something flew over my shoulder and I looked up to see bits of copper gleaming in the noonday sun: Barker’s sharpened coins, which he kept in his pocket as weapons.
“Kill the tsar!” the man bellowed just before he was struck by the coins.
I tackled the fellow about the knees and we both went down. Then two men fell atop us as if it were a rugby scrum. Someone tried to push my face into the dirt, but before he did, I saw a red sleeve lined in gold and a white glove grasping the fellow I’d taken down. What in blazes? I wondered.
“Your Highness!” another man called in a loud voice. “Are you safe?”
“I—I think so!”
“Go, man! Go!” one of the men shouted in my ear as he held the squirming shooter by the tie. There was a crack of a whip, the sound of wheels kicking gravel behind, and the landau rattled off. Meanwhile, I discovered that the two guardsmen in their uniforms and bearskin hats who held me down were not particularly concerned about which of us was the shooter and which the rescuer.
It was suddenly pandemonium all about us. Women were screaming, horses reared, in danger of throwing their riders, and the guard tried to sort out which limbs were mine and which were the assailant’s by tugging on them.
The shooter was perhaps forty-five, with a thick beard and a cloth cap. One of his cheeks had been laid open by Barker’s coins, and another coin was partially embedded in the back of his hand. Meanwhile, the Guv had arrived at a more leisurely pace and was watching the four of us wrestling in the grass.
The man was still struggling in my arms, but he was no match for two burly soldiers and a man trained in bar-jutsu. His pistol was jettisoned onto the lawn and one of the guards succeeded in pinning him to the ground. We soon had him safely in hand, but we were all puffing like racehorses after a steeplechase. He looked crestfallen that his murder attempt had not succeeded. Something told me this poor blighter in his cap and threadbare clothes was not La Sylphide.
“Did he say ‘His Highness’?” I asked Barker.
“Who are you gentlemen?” one of the guards demanded, still pinning the assailant to the ground.
“Cyrus Barker and Thomas Llewelyn of the Barker and Llewelyn Agency,” the Guv answered.
“What sort of agency is it?”
“We are private enquiry agents.”
Together the four of us hauled the suspect to his feet.
“I believe you gentlemen should come with us,” the guard said.
The two guards looked about. Their horses had bolted. One was cropping grass a few hundred yards away and the other was probably down by the Serpentine by then. I think we were all trying to work out how to transport the man and where to take him.
“What’s your name, you?” the second guard asked the shooter, shaking him. “Out with it!”
There was a sudden buzz, a whine in the air. It made me think of a dragonfly zipping over a pond or a fat horsefly as it circled a stable. We didn’t hear a shot, but something happened all the same. One second, the shooter’s head was there, and the next, it wasn’t. A spray of blood, a pink mist, drenched the guards and me. The body in our arms sagged and fell. Then bits of bone and teeth rained upon us like hail.
“Down!” the Guv bellowed, and we all complied. On the ground again, we listened for a second buzz. Blood dripped from my chin. It was in my eyes and hair. My white collar was now stained crimson and the guardsmen’s spotless uniforms were sullied. Barker had been just far enough away to remain unscathed. We waited perhaps two minutes, though it seemed like an hour. Everyone in the park had fled in an instant. There were no children, no kites, no perambulators, no blades looking to impress young ladies. There were no young ladies there to impress.
Barker stood as if daring a second bullet to come. The fact that he was in mortal danger either didn’t occur to him or didn’t concern him.
“An expanding bullet,” he remarked. “It was from an air rifle or we would have heard the report.”
“What do we do now, sir?” a guard asked, as if the Guv were his superior officer.
We all looked about. It was midday in the middle of the West End. We were in a park, near a popular thoroughfare in front of a palace, and three of us were coated in blood. There was a horse nearby with which to summon help, if he could be corralled, but as a rule, horses are skittish around men who smell of fresh blood. We were miles from a hospital or a barracks, and Scotland Yard was farther still.
Barker pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to the first guardsman.
“Wipe your face the best you can and go to the palace, young man. Help can be summoned from there.”
“Yes, sir,” the guard replied, taking the handkerchief before he hurried away. He was tanned and blue-eyed and looked as if he’d been rose on a farm. I hadn’t realized at first how young he was.
“Who did this fellow attempt to shoot?” the Guv demanded of the second guard.
“His Royal Highness, the Duke of York.”<
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“You mean George, the one that’s getting married next week?” I asked.
The guardsman frowned. One did not call an heir to the throne by his Christian name. It was bad form.
“Forgive me,” I said, when I realized my error.
“Thomas, find out who the dead man is.”
“Yes, sir. How, exactly?”
“Go through his pockets, of course.”
It was a punishment, I decided. I had committed a verbal faux pas by not showing respect to an heir to the throne. I told myself I would not look at the man’s destroyed head, so of course I did, and regretted it at once. Poor blighter. At least it had been over quickly, but then, people say that because there is no one left to argue otherwise. I went through his pockets and pulled out the contents.
“No papers, sir. A twist of tobacco, a box of Swan Vestas, a clay pipe broken in the struggle, and two shillings in his pocket.”
“Thomas, do you think you could create a likeness of his face as you saw it? Perhaps these gentlemen can help.”
“I can try.”
The three of us sat on a nearby bench and I began to sketch a likeness from memory in my notebook, while the afternoon sun baked the blood onto our faces.
“We just saved a royal’s life,” the second guard remarked. “That should mean a commendation!”
“I need a bath,” I muttered as I sketched. “Two baths.”
People began to pass by again as if nothing had happened, but gave us a wide berth. People looked away, looked back to make sure what they saw was real, then looked away again. The trees overhead shaded us, and there was still a hint of a breeze. It was like pieces from two different puzzles. A beautiful sunny day, a headless corpse.
There was movement from the palace and manservants began to trail out like a line of ants from an anthill. The servant in front carried a bowl and ewer, with towels neatly hanging from his forearms. The second carried blankets. The third brought brandy and glasses. I didn’t notice what came after. I finished the sketch, ripped it from the notebook, and passed it to Barker. My thumb mark had stained the edge red.
We washed our faces and hands in the bowl, outside by the trees. There were bits of bone in the bottom when we were done. Blankets were wrapped about our shoulders, and another laid upon the body of the assailant.
“What’s going on here?” a young man asked, stepping among us and looking about. He wore an ornate military jacket and a short beard. He looked familiar. Just as his face registered the sight before him I heard an intake of breath from Barker’s lips. Then I recognized him. It was Nicholas, the tsarevich of Russia, come to see what the fuss was all about.
“Your Highness,” my partner said coolly. “Your life is in grave danger this very instant. Pray, keep your head lowered as much as possible. Everyone! Circle around him! We must walk His Imperial Highness back to the palace without drawing attention. Don’t panic. Don’t run. Keep together. His life depends on it.”
The tsarevich’s eyes widened, but he did as the Guv instructed. We huddled close to him and Barker spread out his arms and leaned over him. If there was a second attempt, it would be his head that was lost. We approached the glass doors of the palace, past the statue of William of Orange. As we arrived, the doors flew open and three men jumped out, armed with pistols. I reached around for the revolver I kept in the back of my trousers but my employer’s hand came down to stop me. The men began shouting in Russian and turned their pistols away from us and toward any possible threat. They must have been bodyguards.
It had been a tense few minutes for all of us. Once inside, people began to disperse, but not before I took command of the tray with the glasses and bottle of brandy. I poured a glass and nearly gulped it before I thought. Then I moved through the crowd and offered it to the tsarevich.
“Thank you,” he said, before downing it eagerly. Someone had just explained how close he had come to losing his life. His face looked ashen.
“What is your name, sir?” Nicholas asked the Guv.
“Cyrus Barker, Your Highness, of the Barker and Llewelyn Agency.”
“Barker. Are you the fellow Jim Hercules mentioned yesterday?”
“He did visit our offices yesterday morning.”
“Detektif,” one of the Russian guards muttered into the tsarevich’s ear.
“I know, Olgev. Someone get me a chair.”
One was brought immediately. He sat, or, rather, fell into it. He put his hands on his knees and began to breathe rapidly.
“A fine way to start a state visit,” Nicholas remarked.
“The man who died believed it was you in the carriage,” Barker said.
“No doubt. George and I, we look alike,” the tsarevich answered. “And while I am here I am forced to wear English Army colors. Protocol, you see. How did he … Who killed him?”
“A second shooter, I would presume,” the Guv said. “One who was not pleased that someone was poaching on his territory.”
“Did he have identification?”
“No, sir. My partner made a sketch from memory, but it will be difficult to identify him now.”
“The English don’t like me,” the tsarevich said, looking forlorn.
“Russia has been England’s enemy since the Crimean War,” said the Guv. “Feelings still run deep, sir.”
“The Russians don’t like me, either, but what can one do?” Nicholas answered. “Olgev, help me up. We’ve got things to do.”
He took two steps, then turned back. “I had intended to leave earlier, but I was delayed, and Georgie left for a fitting. He wants to look impressive on his wedding day. He took my carriage. I was waiting for a second. How did that fellow know my plans so closely?”
“The shooter? I assume he was milling about outside,” the Guv said.
“No; the second man who shot the first. That could have been my brains dashed out on the lawn. I mean, it was intended to be.”
He stood and walked off without a word. He looked as if his knee-high military boots were the only thing holding him up. Then he was surrounded by his entourage. One of them was Jim Hercules, who gave me a nod and a knowing look as if to say “I told you so.” Then they all passed through a door and were gone.
“Interesting,” Barker said.
“Brusque,” I replied. “Perhaps even rude.”
“Lad, you’ll never hear a tsar thank his servants. And to his way of thinking, we are all his servants.”
A fire-pumper came, though there was no fire. An ambulance vehicle arrived, though the patient was beyond help. Scotland Yard followed, but they had no real jurisdiction on the grounds of Kensington Palace. Not that they didn’t try.
The inspector from the Metropolitan Police was named Langton. I didn’t much care for him, but then I don’t believe he would be crushed if I told him so. He was stocky with a paunch so heavy he had to spread his feet when he sat. He led us outside again to question us about our involvement in the shootings.
“So, Mr. Barker, you stopped an attempt on the life of Prince George, the Duke of York, and then a few minutes later you saved the son of the tsar. You have been a busy boy.”
“So it would appear, Inspector,” Barker said.
“How did you happen to be in front of the palace at just that time?” he asked.
“Mr. Llewelyn and I had just eaten at the Goat Tavern.”
“Oh, out for a stroll after lunch, were you?”
“We were,” the Guv replied, handing him our card. “The day is pleasant.”
“Not for the poor blighter in the drive. Lost his head, didn’t he?” He chuckled.
Barker did not respond. Nor did I, although I would dearly have liked to.
“What is a private enquiry agent?” Inspector Langton asked, studying the card. “Some kind of detective for toffs?”
“Something like that.”
“And what is this?” he demanded, tossing a coin in the air and catching it.
“A penny,” Barker replied.
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“Oh, is that what it is? Sharp edges. Ground them down, did you?”
“As you see.”
Langton squinted at him. “What for?”
Barker growled. “Self-protection.”
“That’s the only form of protection you got? Don’t you carry a knife?”
Barker nodded. “I do.”
“And a pistol?”
“And a pistol.”
The inspector frowned. “So you were in the presence of the tsar, armed with a knife and pistol?”
“He is the tsarevich,” Barker corrected. “Yes, I was, and yet I did him no harm.”
“Admit it, Inspector,” I said. “You have nothing with which to charge him.”
A man had come down the path toward us while we were talking. He was tall and lank, and extremely elegant. I recognized him at once. His name was Hesketh Pierce and he came from the Home Office.
“What’s this?” Langton asked. “Pierce, what are you doing here?”
“The case is ours,” Pierce told him. “National matters. Be off.”
The inspector said—well, never mind what the inspector said. He blustered and said his fill, then he retrieved four constables he had brought with him, and left.
“Inspector Plankton,” Pierce said. “Always good for a laugh. Hello, gentlemen. You do have a knack for being in the thick of it. Mr. Llewelyn, tell me what happened here. I know if I asked your governor it would be boiled down to ten words or less.”
I told him, while the ambulance drivers carried the tarp-covered body to a litter and wheeled it away. A gardener came out carrying two large buckets of water, and soaked the blood into the ground.
“Assassins.” Pierce scoffed when I had finished explaining the situation to him. “They are a myth.”
“Yes, well, that myth just blew off a man’s head,” I replied.
“Did you hear the shot?” Pierce asked.
“No bang,” I said. “A sort of whizz, as if you could hear the bullet coming.”
