by Will Thomas
The men left us alone after that but the women came out to look at us. They smiled and winked and made low remarks and offers as we passed by. A hand slipped into my pocket, touched the cold metal of the pistol, and withdrew quickly. A greasy finger slid along my cheek. This must be what hell is like, I thought to myself. For all of us there.
“Chernov!” Barker rumbled at a man, who pointed at a room at the far end of the hall. My partner began to trot, and when he reached the far end he kicked in the door, which slammed against the wall. Barker walked in and stood in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips.
“Empty,” he said
I looked about the narrow flat. There was a chair broken in pieces. Bedclothes were strewn about, and a pillow had left a dull stain on the wall. A pipe was broken in two and a hole was burnt in the blanket beside it. It was a wonder the entire warren hadn’t gone up in flames like a tinderbox.
There was no fire in the grate, and though I felt no heat in the embers, there was a pot of beans hanging by a hook. It had congealed and cockroaches were crawling about it, trying to cling to life like everything else there.
“He didn’t have dinner,” I said. “It’s here, uneaten. It looks like there was some kind of row. There’s no blood, though.”
Cyrus Barker lowered himself onto his haunches and studied the floor. Were there footprints in the dust? I couldn’t tell.
“Look in that wardrobe,” he said. “But be careful.”
I crossed to the old cabinet. It had been new and gleaming once, more than half a century ago. It had been well tended for decades before someone died and abandoned it. Or perhaps fortunes had reversed and it was sold at a tenth of its original price. It was purchased and sold again and sold again and somewhere in this bleak prospect found its way here.
The thought occurred to me that Kazimir Chernov could be hiding in that wardrobe, either waiting for us with a pistol or waiting for his eternal reward. I reached for the knob, inhaled, and threw open the door.
“Empty,” I murmured. “There’s an old carpetbag here, though. He wouldn’t leave permanently without it. Perhaps he just escaped when he heard someone in the corridor.”
“Someone was here, Thomas,” the Guv said. “The chair is broken. Look! That framed print on the wall is crooked. The chair was thrown at it, no doubt.”
“A row with a woman, perhaps?” I asked. “He could have thrown the chair in anger. I’d have considered it if she were cooking this slop for me.”
“Aye, perhaps, but there’s no second pillow. If there was a woman, she didn’t live here.”
“Why should she? She was probably one of the harridans from the hall.”
“Thomas, what self-respecting woman would tolerate a lover with that?”
He pointed to an old dresser. The only piece in the room worth anything was a wooden picture frame inlaid with gold. It contained a yellowed newspaper photograph of a woman’s face. I knew it could only be Sophia Perovskaya. She was a serious-looking girl, but then she would be. The article was in Russian, probably an announcement of her arrest or execution.
I bent down and stared at the image. “Were they lovers, do you think?”
“No,” Barker stated. “As I recall, she had a coconspirator, her husband. Perhaps Chernov was a former classmate or a revolutionary who took a liking to her, which never fully ended. That is, unless it was as Morris hinted, and he was trying to associate himself with her in order to establish his standing among the anarchists with a heroine of the Revolution.”
“That is possible, of course.”
We stood and looked about.
“Is anything else peculiar here?” I asked.
“Just one thing,” the Guv answered. “This black mark here on the floor. It was left by a polished boot. I don’t believe Chernov gets his boots shined these days.”
“You’re right, sir,” I said. “I doubt there is such a thing as a jar of shoeblack in this entire street.”
We circled each other and looked about. I checked under the bed while he inspected the top of the wardrobe.
“A few shirts and trousers,” he said, “and a threadbare suit. A Russian coat, vaguely military looking. I wonder if he was a former…”
He trailed off as he lifted a pistol from underneath the clothes. From where I stood, I didn’t recognize it. It wasn’t English.
“A Smith and Wesson Model Three, made for the Russian army.”
“A pistol, a boot mark, a photograph, a broken chair, and a congealed pot of beans,” I said. “He won’t be back. He was taken. He wouldn’t leave the pistol or the framed photograph behind. Who took him, do you suppose? Scotland Yard? Special Branch? The Okhrana?”
“Possibly,” Barker said. “Let us go. We’ve seen all there is to see here.”
We were jeered at by a long line of tenants as we left the room. Finally, we descended the broken steps and stood in Woodseer Street.
“I need a cup of tea,” Barker said.
“I need a bath.”
We found an ABC in Commercial Road, the great artery of the East End. The closer the streets came to it, the more respectable they were. Once inside, Barker ordered some Assam tea, since they did not have his beloved green gunpowder. I ordered coffee and when it came I regretted it. Tea shops serve bad coffee in order to show how delicious their teas are. This one tasted like burnt toast soaked in hot water, and this within a quarter mile of St. Michael’s Alley and my favorite coffeehouse, The Barbados.
“Thomas, do you think it likely that the Okhrana has taken Chernov?”
“Yes, I do,” I replied.
“As do I,” the Guv answered. “We need to know where to look.”
“I’ll speak to Israel right away, then. He can put his ear to the ground and let us know if he finds anything.”
“We should check the morgues,” Barker said grimly. “The Okhrana have a penchant for torture, and I don’t think they’d care that it is illegal in England.”
“Do you think he’s still in the East End?”
“I do,” he said. “They will have caught him nearby, and could not have taken a struggling anarchist far.”
I drank the flavorless coffee and studied my partner.
“Let us go back to the beginning,” I said. “The delegation arrived from Russia a few days ago. Then Jim Hercules arrived in our offices and claimed that the tsarevich’s life was in danger from an assassin. You refused the case, which I agree was a good decision. Then we took a stroll in Hyde Park and all hell broke loose.”
Barker poured more tea. “If you’re going to use strong language we must leave this tearoom.”
“I did not curse,” I protested. “I merely named a location. Anyway, why didn’t you warn me that you released Bayles and sent him to threaten someone with a fake pistol?”
“I would think that obvious. You are not a member of the Knights Templar and therefore not privy to the information.”
“Yes, but to all intents and purposes you are the Knights Templar. And I am your partner. Going about with no idea what may come next is not helpful.”
“True, lad, but going about with no idea what may come is also part of being an enquiry agent.”
I could not argue with his logic.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
When Mac learned we would have a guest within twenty-four hours expecting lobster and mussels, his heart nearly gave out. He is a never-say-die sort of fellow, however, and set out for the fish market, vowing not to come back empty-handed. As usual, he returned triumphant with a bucket of live lobsters and steamed three dozen oysters from a fish market in Brook Street. Before he left that morning Etienne Dummolard provided our oversize icebox with a cold salad, mixed vegetables, cheese biscuits, and a summer pudding with tayberry sauce. Rebecca pored over Mrs. Beaton’s cookbook while Jacob wrestled a large pot from under the cabinet onto the stove. Rebecca would flee long before the murders began. It is a sad matter of Fate that lobsters should be so delicious with hot butter.
Corporal Alan Dinsdale arrived in mufti. I don’t know why I assumed he’d be in his scarlet coat and busby. We were hardly Kensington Palace, after all. Still, he looked a trifle diminished in his flat cap and ulster coat. Mac sailed out of the kitchen like a pilot boat in time to answer the door and then sailed back in again, having hung the coat and hat neatly on the hall stand.
The corporal was not expecting so fine a home and he was tongue-tied at first, but I consider myself a dab hand at jollying up a guest and making him feel at home. I began by getting a few bottles of ale from the cellar. Mac bottles them himself; a true Renaissance man is our Mac. Kensington Palace required dozens of staff, but we only need the one fellow. That’s the last compliment I’ll pay him, except to point out that it’s not his fault that he is a prig.
Rebecca was quiet at dinner. It wasn’t that she was sulking over some matter, no. She is intuitive, and she immediately understood that Corporal Alan Dinsdale was not present for an evening of male bonhomie. This was work. And anyway, she does not eat shellfish. They aren’t kosher. She contented herself with the salad and dessert.
Barker and I knew our man and I searched throughout the house for metal nutcrackers, returning with three of them. Rebecca winced as we cracked the boiled claws. I think lobster goes best with champagne, but porter was probably more in Dinsdale’s line. It would have been in mine as well if I hadn’t wandered into the path of Cyrus Barker, Esquire. Not that he drinks champagne. Such French decadence would never pass his lips.
“Is the lobster to your liking, sir?” the Guv asked after sucking down a large oyster.
The corporal’s mouth was too full to reply other than to nod. Dessert would follow eventually if Mac hadn’t fainted in the kitchen.
When all was finished, we left poor Mac and Rebecca to clean every pot, pan, and dish in the house to Etienne’s standard of cleanliness while Barker and I led Dinsdale up two flights to the Guv’s chamber, a garret stretching the length of the house. There the Guv offered him one chair and me the other. Then he placed a wooden chair in front of us, turned it around, and sat on it backward. He did not have a fire in the grate, and he opened some windows to let the night air pass through the garret, knowing the food and the heat would put the young man to sleep in a trice.
“Now, Corporal Dinsdale,” said Barker said. “You must sing for your supper. I am going to ask you questions. Many questions. I shall often repeat myself, as will you. That is fine. It is part of the process. You were there by the palace, were you not, when Prince George’s carriage was fired upon?”
“In it, too, sir,” Dinsdale supplied. “The palace, I mean.”
“Were you?” the Guv said. “Excellent. You seem an observant fellow. Now, Thomas here beat you to the punch, tackling the assassin, but only by a few seconds and because he was closer. I watched you leap from your horse and charge into the fray. You’re a rugger, aren’t you? What position?”
Our guest smiled modestly. “An openside flanker, sir.”
“Good speed, fast off the mark, and keen. No manager could ask for more. Tell me, is there a duty roster for the day at the palace? A schedule of sorts, I mean?”
“Two, actually. One for the royal family and one for the guards.”
“So if one schedule changes the other shall as well. Correct?”
“Exactly, Mr. Barker.”
“Was Prince George’s departure on the schedule?”
“It was.”
“And was the schedule posted for all to see?” Barker asked.
“Not in the hall for visitors to see, but yes.”
“Does the schedule list where a royal is going? Could any guard reading it know his destination?”
“Yes, sir. There’s a lot to consider. Capes if it rains, which horses to take if the distance is long, that sort of thing.”
“Very efficient,” the Guv said. “Was His Highness intended to go alone?”
“He was, sir, but we were waiting, you see. The Russian had planned to tag along, but he’s what my mum would call a sluggard.”
“Corporal, you don’t sound as if you approve of ‘the Russian.’”
“My old man fought in Afghanistan, sir, and Granddad was in the Crimea. We’re a military family and we have long memories. The royals may invite him, the newspapers may get all in a lather about his coming, but as Grandad always said, ‘Smile, but keep your powder dry.’”
“That’s good advice, Corporal,” my partner said, nodding. “Your grandfather is very wise. Had the tsarevich changed his mind, or was he simply late?”
“I don’t know, sir,” he answered. “We were waiting for him and His Highness was none too happy. Princess Mary was waiting and he wanted to be there on time. He was already acting like a married man, I told my friend Alf. That’s Alfred Winslow, the other guard who tackled the assassin. We needed to shove off as well. There’d be more places to go when we got back.”
“There were a crowd of people standing about, as I recall. At least ten, wouldn’t you say, Thomas?”
“Yes, sir, but bless me, that isn’t a crowd,” Dinsdale said. “When a royal leaves the palace, fifty people will come out of nowhere.”
“Is the front gate leading into Kensington ever locked?”
“Only at midnight, when Hyde Park is officially closed. And early in the morning.”
“Is the gate guarded or are the visitors restricted in any way?”
“Couldn’t do it, Mr. Barker,” he answered. “See, people are also coming and going from Hyde Park, so there isn’t any way to restrict them if they can just come in from the other end.”
“What about beggars, or protesters, or people who seem disturbed?”
“We can order them to move along. They can’t protest within the grounds. Only in the street on the other side of the fence. They can speak at the Speakers’ Corner, of course, but there is to be no placards or trouble. If they make a disturbance, they’ll have to deal with us.”
“Did you notice Mr. Bayles among the crowd?” Barker asked. He’d risen from the chair and was standing with his elbow resting on the corner of the mantel.
“Not ’til he ups and waves his pistol,” Dinsdale said. “They say he was a nutter, but he was pretty quiet. Old coat and dirty bowler. We get that kind day in, day out. Nothing noticeable.”
“What were you doing the exact second you heard the pop of the prop pistol?”
“You’re right, sir,” Dinsdale said, turning to grin at me. “You do ask a lot of questions.”
Barker smiled. “We’re just getting started, laddie.”
Mac appeared then with cups of strong tea. Very strong tea, to counteract the meal and the ale. We wanted this fellow awake and sensible.
I happened to notice Mac. He looked all in. Of course, he tried to hide it, but I knew him. I caught Barker’s attention and nodded in our factotum’s direction with the side of my head.
“Mac, you may retire for the evening,” the Guv said.
“That’s not really necessary, sir.”
“Go to bed. We are perfectly capable of opening and closing the front door and bolting it after.”
“Yes, sir,” Maccabee said, too tired to argue. I heard him go down the stair. Normally he glides about silently, as if on skates. Now it sounded like someone was dropping shoes.
“Where were we?” the Guv asked. He had left the chair and begun to pace.
“The ‘pop,’ sir,” I said.
“Thank you, Thomas. Corporal, you heard the pop.”
“I’d just settled into my saddle and was inspecting Nell’s bridle. She’ll take her head if it ain’t tight, you see. Anyway, I heard the pop and when I turned my head, I saw the look of fear on the prince’s face. Bayles was shouting and there was a cloud of white smoke between them. I’ve seen my share of music halls and what a stage pistol looks and sounds like, but I wasn’t thinking about it then. Brought my boot over Nell’s side, landed on my toes, and run right toward him, I did.”
�
��And then you saw Mr. Llewelyn.”
Dinsdale took a gulp of the tea. We don’t have dainty cups at the Barker household, or weak tea, either.
“Little fellow, but scrappy. Beg your pardon, Mr. Llewelyn. He took Bayles down at the knees. I wrested the pistol from his hand, still not aware it was a prop.”
“How did he look to you, this would-be assassin?”
“A raving madman, sir, spitting in anger, eyes starting from his head. And then,” the corporal said, “it was like one of them butchers in Leadenhall Market threw a bucket of blood all over us. Mr. Llewelyn, Alf, and me. I looked over and saw blood dripping from Mr. Llewelyn’s hair and face. Then I looked at the assassin himself, with his head all blown apart. Made me green, the sight of him. I fought in the Sudan but I never saw anything like that.”
“Did you hear anything before Mr. Bayles was killed?”
“I did, I think. It was like the sound a grasshopper makes when he’s jumping. A kind of rattling sound.”
“No audible shot from a gun, then.”
“No, sir.”
Barker finished his tea and so did we. The cups and saucers were stacked on the tray.
“Could you tell in any way from which direction the bullet came?” Barker asked.
“No, sir, I don’t think so.”
I strained to remember and likewise had no idea.
“The bullet did not fly from an obvious direction,” the Guv continued. “You weren’t sprayed with blood more or less than Mr. Llewelyn?”
“No, sir, and I know about ballistics.”
“Have you arrived at any conclusions about the gun used to kill Mr. Bayles?” my partner asked.
“It wasn’t a Martini-Enfield, sir. Too quiet. Same for an elephant gun or any other kind of hunting rifle. I reckon it’s some sort of air gun, but they’re just for plinking targets. Short-range. That means either the shooter was closer than we thought, or…”
“Or?” Barker pressed.
“Or it was some kind of new experimental rifle. That’s all I can think of. Most rifles you can hear from far off. They are unmistakable.”
