by Will Thomas
Barker nodded. “I do.”
“A very nice house.”
“It is.”
“How does a detective own such a property?”
The Guv cleared his throat. “I prefer the term ‘private enquiry agent,’ and my fortune was made as a sea captain in China.”
The man nodded, then made a notation in his notebook.
“The various branches of government are undecided about you,” he said.
“I prefer it that way, Colonel,” the Guv replied. “On one hand, I wish to be helpful, but on the other, I don’t wish to make them complacent. I prefer to remain private. It gives me freedom to do as I like.”
“No doubt,” said Waverly. “Pray forgive my numerous questions, Mr. Barker. I shall be asked about you at both Buckingham and Kensington Palace. I wish to be ready to answer any question they might ask. For example, is it true you have a boxing and wrestling school in Glasshouse Street?”
“It is.”
“And an Asian garden that was shown to the Japanese delegation two years hence.”
“I am proud of that garden, if anything,” Barker answered.
“And you … You keep … That is, you are acquainted with Mrs. Philippa Ashleigh.”
Barker tilted his head to one side and I heard a click in his neck. He only did that before a fight, if I recall.
“Sir, I would prefer that her name not become a part of this conversation.”
Waverly stared into the notebook a final time. “That seems to be all the questions that I shall pose, Mr. Barker. Thank you, gentlemen, for your patience.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
My partner and I did not go to the office the following morning. The Russian ambassador had sent a message and was coming to speak with Barker. Baron Egor de Staal would be given a tour of the Guv’s garden, a sight to behold this time of year, and be ushered into the library to have a discussion about the tsarevich. Afterward, in the dining room, we would be served a light lunch catered by Etienne Dummolard from his restaurant, Le Toison d’Or.
“Let us consider Miss Kschessinska,” the Guv rumbled from the chair in his private chamber. “We must question her before she meets with the tsarevich.”
“We don’t know where she is staying,” I pointed out. “I assumed Nicholas would tell us how to find her when he gives us a message for her.”
“We must speak to her first,” the Guv said. “Perhaps we can persuade her to leave London and to go back to Russia or Paris, wherever she is going next.”
“How shall we find her?” I asked.
“Go get Miss Fletcher,” the Guv replied. “I think she could be useful in finding Miss Kschessinska.”
“Yes, sir,” I answered.
I went out to find a cab and instructed the driver to head for our offices in Whitehall. While the cab bowled along, I thought about Nicholas’s mistress, Mathilde Kschessinska. I was eager to get a look at her myself. What sort of beauty would turn the head of a future tsar to the point of flouting the rules of society? I also wondered what she would say when confronted by Cyrus Barker, a man who intimidates powerful men, not to mention delicate young women. Just now Russia balanced on the head of a Polish ballerina.
When we arrived in Whitehall, I jumped from the cab and paid the driver, walking past the door of our chambers. Miss Fletcher’s office was across the alley from ours and deeper into the court. She had rented a room on the first floor over the offices of J. M. Hewitt, a detective who handled some of the enquiries we were too busy to undertake. There was a sign over the door in black letters:
S. Fletcher, Enquiry and Typing Services
Female clients only
The sign notwithstanding, she occasionally worked for Cyrus Barker when he had some matter involving women, such as finding a Russian ballerina in London. I had never visited her office before. It was small and narrow. There were rugs on the floor, one in particular taking up a good amount of space around her desk, but otherwise the room was Spartan. She was not the sort of woman who studied decorating or read ladies’ magazines. I suspected she’d never heard of such things.
“Come in, Mr. Llewelyn,” she said, looking up from her typing machine.
“Good afternoon,” I said, removing my hat.
I suppose Miss Fletcher was attractive to some men, but she dressed plainly, fixed her hair plainly, and most definitely spoke plainly. I had yet to detect a sense of humor from her, and there was a constitutional difference between us. The reason I enjoy my work is because of the places I go and the things I do. Seeing the hidden places of London. Standing in a makeshift mortuary one minute and buying a dozen roses in Covent Garden to send to the missus the next. The changeability, the danger, the spark. The bullet that missed. The one that didn’t. Above all, the thought that there was a poor blighter somewhere in London who wished he could trade places with me. That was the life I wanted. Something told me Sarah Fletcher was in the business for a different reason entirely. For her, it was a crusade.
“Mr. Barker would like to see you,” I stated.
She looked up from the document she was typing at her desk. The Guv paid well and I knew she was interested.
“I am finishing a case that took me to Wapping,” she said, covering the paper she was typing as if it were a state secret. “Can it wait until tomorrow?”
“He would very much like to speak to you as soon as possible,” I answered, tucking the hat under my arm.
She frowned and looked at me as if she suspected I had no idea what was entailed in the running of a detective agency. “That does not surprise me in the least. Tell him I shall be along directly.”
“Mr. Barker is at his residence today, taking meetings,” I told her. “I have a cab waiting outside if you’re agreeable.”
“Together?” she asked.
“I suppose we can take two if you are concerned about propriety.”
“No, that’s fine,” she answered primly. “Let me get my hat.”
She donned a tan mackintosh and a boater hat and I led her out into Whitehall and hailed another cab. I was uncomfortable and wondered what to say to her in the confined space all the way to the Elephant and Castle, but I need not have worried. She turned her face away from me and did not speak during the journey. We reached Newington without incident and when I opened our door, Mac was there as usual, attached to the inside handle. He looked surprised when he saw my visitor.
“Miss Fletcher, this is Jacob Maccabee, our factotum,” I said. “Mac, this is Miss Fletcher. She is here to see Mr. Barker.”
“A pleasure,” Mac said, bowing.
She gave a small curtsey. We climbed the stair, where we were met by Rebecca. I introduced Miss Fletcher to my wife. Sarah bobbed again, but Rebecca was having none of it. She stepped forward and took her hand.
“Miss Fletcher,” she said. “It’s so nice to meet you. Have you been to Mr. Barker’s residence before?”
“No, ma’am.”
“My mother is ‘ma’am.’ You may call me Rebecca.”
“Sarah,” she replied.
We continued upstairs to Barker’s loft. Miss Fletcher looked dazed when she beheld it. It is a sight, to be sure: sloping red walls from the apex, covered in weapons from his travels, low bookcases lining the room, sturdy tables with chairs that were old and stained and purchased from a library somewhere, books and souvenirs from his travels, two large brown leather chairs, much worn, in front of a fireplace, and the grandest sight of all, Mr. Barker himself. He wore a crisp wing-tipped collar and maroon tie under his jacket.
“Ah, Miss Fletcher,” he said, rising and bowing to our guest. “It is good of you to come on such short notice.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, curtseying again. Everyone had received a curtsey except me, but then I had no desire for one.
“I have an assignment for you, if you choose to take it,” the Guv continued, offering her a chair. “There is a young ballerina in town intent upon encountering the Russian tsarevich, but we don’t
know where she is staying. Her name is Mathilde Kschessinska. His Highness said he thought her hotel is called the Imperial, but he wasn’t certain.”
“There is not a hotel in London named the Imperial, sir,” she replied, clutching her reticule tightly.
“Precisely,” Barker answered, nodding his head. “After you find her, I want you to follow two men. Both of them work in Kensington Palace, but I need to know where each of them goes. I want you to follow them, but under no circumstances speak to them. Here are their names and descriptions.”
He scribbled on a bit of paper at his elbow for a couple of minutes. Miss Fletcher and I waited without a word until he handed it to her.
“Three assignments, then, sir?” she asked, trying to make heads or tails of the paper in her hand. His handwriting is practically illegible. “I don’t generally get hired to follow dangerous men about.”
“Do you find three assignments beyond your abilities, Miss Fletcher?” Barker was suddenly at his most imperious.
“Oh, no, sir,” she replied, looking uncomfortable. “I like to keep myself occupied with work.”
“A noble sentiment,” he said, which was a swipe at me, of course. “That’s all I have for you, then. Thank you, Miss Fletcher. Give her a tenner, lad.”
“Yes, sir,” I answered. I took out the wallet I carried for my partner and handed her a ten-pound note. She stared at it and then put it carefully into her reticule.
“That will be all,” Barker intoned.
We stood and I walked Miss Fletcher to the staircase. She looked stunned as we went down.
She wasn’t prepared to meet Cyrus Barker, Esquire, in his lair. My wife was waiting for us at the landing.
“You look as if you could use a cup of tea, Sarah,” she said. “Come down to the kitchen with me.”
I thought Miss Fletcher looked reluctant, but my wife would brook no refusal. She ushered her along and I bobbed behind in their wake.
The meal for the ambassador was in a state of preparation; those dishes that did not arrive fully cooked from Etienne’s restaurant, that is. As Rebecca, Sarah, and I entered the kitchen, I saw that Mac had doffed his jacket and put on a starched apron. He had rolled up his sleeves in order to aid the chef who had been sent to prepare lunch, but froze and stared at the three of us when we entered the room.
“Would you care for tea?” he asked.
Without waiting for an answer, he filled a kettle with water and set it to heat. He was caught between performing a duty and being a good servant.
“I’m so glad you came,” Rebecca said to Sarah. “I’ve heard your name mentioned once or twice and was curious who you were. It is so nice to put the name to a face.”
Sarah Fletcher attempted a smile. It did not look natural on her, I thought.
“Are you the only female detective in London?” Rebecca asked.
“To the best of my knowledge, yes, ma’am,” Sarah said, nodding.
“Please call me Rebecca, remember?”
I was hanging about when suddenly the chef thrust an apron into my hand and ordered me to chop carrots. Then Rebecca and the chef began a conversation in rapid French. She had worked for a while in Etienne’s restaurant after we were first married, in order to improve her cooking skills. Soon all of us, even Sarah Fletcher, were put into service. Rebecca didn’t stop asking questions of our guest, however.
“Do you have relatives in the area, Sarah?” she asked.
She had thrown dough onto a flour-strewn surface and began kneading. Meanwhile, Sarah was stirring a mixture of sugar, cream, and strawberries in a bowl.
“I am an orphan,” Miss Fletcher replied. “When I was dismissed from school at seventeen, I went into service for a few years, first as a char and later as a lady’s maid.”
“Did you always want to be a detective?” Rebecca enquired.
Sarah Fletcher looked reluctant to answer, but my wife is very good at winkling secrets out of people.
“It wasn’t my original plan, no, but the downstairs maid collected journals and I read a story once about a female detective and I thought it sounded intriguing.”
“Non, non!” the chef suddenly scolded me. “They are too large. You must chop carrots much finer than that.”
“Very well,” I replied.
Mac was stirring mashed potatoes in a pot under his arm, watching the conversation between Rebecca and Sarah with endless fascination. I wondered what was going on in his head.
“Have you worked at another agency?” Rebecca persisted.
“No,” Sarah answered. “I applied for one once, but the position was taken.”
“Ah.”
“Too small! Too small!” the chef insisted, pointing at the vegetables in front of me.
“I have a knife in my hand,” I told him. “Step away.”
Rebecca turned her attention back to Sarah. “And what do you do for entertainment, if I may ask?”
“Entertainment?”
“Yes, dear, in your off time.”
“Oh,” Sarah said, coloring slightly. “I have a typing machine in my flat. I always have work to do.”
My wife turned to me as if I were responsible, as if I cast her out to type until her fingers bled. At that point in the preparation of the meal, the chef no longer trusted us, so he shooed us out the door. We heard the kettle whistle as we left the kitchen.
“We never had tea,” I observed.
I walked Miss Fletcher to the cab stand near the Metropolitan Tabernacle in Newington Causeway, a few streets from Barker’s home. The day was blustery and we both pinched the brims of our hats. She looked troubled for a moment and finally broke her silence.
“Have I done something wrong?” she asked, glancing at me. “Mr. Barker seemed angry with me.”
“Miss Fletcher, I believe you have an inflated view of my partner,” I replied. “He is wise, he is the best enquiry agent in London, and he can be very generous and kind. However, he can often be brusque. I am a full partner now and married, but he is still ‘sir’ to me while he calls me by my Christian name. I believe he is a great man, but that doesn’t mean he is always easy to work with. He is complicated.”
“I did not realize,” Sarah Fletcher murmured. “Thank you, Mr. Llewelyn.”
“Not at all, Miss Fletcher. You’ve done nothing wrong, by the way. The Guv has a great deal on his mind. The case that you’re helping us with is both complex and delicate. He’ll be speaking to an ambassador within the hour.”
“I see.”
A hansom arrived and I waited until she was settled. She looked away, deep in thought, as the cab pulled away from the curb.
When I returned, I heard a murmur of voices in the library, Mac’s included. The door opened and Rebecca came into the hall. She took my arm and we went upstairs to our room, where she sat down on a sofa beside me.
“She’s such a darling,” Rebecca said.
I shall never, ever, under any circumstances, understand the mysteries of the female mind.
“Perhaps Miss Fletcher is more charming to women than to men,” I replied.
“Jacob Maccabee doesn’t share your view,” she said.
There was no mistaking the sparkle in her eye.
CHAPTER NINE
When the ambassador arrived I waited as Mac stepped out of the house, followed by Barker. The carriage came to the curb, its side door displaying the two-headed imperial eagle, and a driver in livery climbed down and opened the door. A short man in a large hat stepped out of it. I was reminded of Tenniel’s sketches of the Mad Hatter. He had small features, thick, dark brows, and pendulous side whiskers. He looked like a child next to Barker; however, he carried the weight of almost an entire continent on his shoulders.
De Staal bowed solemnly and the Guv bowed back.
“Thank you for coming, Baron,” Barker said. “Welcome to my home, such as it is.”
“I hear great things about your garden, sir. I took this opportunity to see it. Then we have international
matters to discuss.”
“Indeed,” Barker said. “Won’t you step this way.”
The tour of the garden went well. As it happened, de Staal was an amateur gardener. They discussed seedlings and seasons, costs and compost as I wandered about the garden, letting them finish this part of the visit, trying not to show that I was beyond bored. I don’t like tea, and I don’t like gardens. I’d have made a poor Englishman.
The two finally finished their tour and we went inside to talk. Mac had lit a fire in the grate. Baron de Staal sat and turned away offers of drinks, coffee, or cigars.
“You must understand,” he said. “I have come to the match late. Let me see if the facts I have are correct. The two of you gentlemen were walking by the palace after lunch yesterday in time to see a man shoot at Prince George, the Duke of York. You, Mr. Llewelyn, tackled the assailant almost immediately, an anarchist named Bayles. Then Bayles was shot by persons unknown. Is that correct so far?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered.
He didn’t know about Jim Hercules or about the coincidence of our arrival in front of the palace, but neither Barker nor I was about to reveal it to him.
“The commotion attracted the attention of the tsarevich, who, not knowing of the danger, stepped out to see the commotion. You, then, Mr. Barker, escorted him back to the palace. Is that not so?”
“It is,” the Guv replied.
“Later, you had a meeting with the tsarevich at his request. What did he ask you and Mr. Llewelyn to do?”
Barker rose a brow. “I am not at liberty to say. It was a private conversation between the tsarevich and me.”
Of course, Hercules hired us, but the baron didn’t know about it. Where did he get the notion Nicholas had? Had he inferred it, or had someone told him?
A thought occurred to me then, a thought so strong that I lost the gist of their conversation for a moment. What if Nicholas had sent Jim to hire us in order to protect himself? Hercules would do anything for his boss. Would an employee, an Abyssinian Guard, hire agents to stop an assassination attempt?
“In effect, gentlemen,” de Staal continued, “you may be under the assumption that you are now working for the Russian government, but unfortunately, you are not. The tsarevich had no business hiring you, if that is what he has done, either to protect him or to investigate possible suspects in his name. It was rash of him to speak to you without discussing it with his government, which is to say me.”
