by Will Thomas
He turned and regarded me. “What about you, young fellow? I understand you are recently married. You’ll need something in the bank. Women want things: houses, jewelry, a private coach. You could keep her happy.”
“I do keep her happy,” I said. “And I don’t need your money. You make a generous offer, I’m sure, but no thank you.”
“Very well.”
“I don’t know how you came to the knowledge of my private affairs, but I assure you it does not sit well with me. You have overstepped your bounds.”
Grayle uncrossed his legs and crossed them again in the opposite direction.
“I apologize, Mr. Llewelyn. Yes, I do overstep in my haste to acquire something I have decided I must own.”
“How often are you successful, sir?” Barker rumbled from within the grasp of his chair. It magnifies his voice, I suspect.
“More often than not,” His Lordship answered. “I have many friends, some of whom are in important positions. And my pockets are deep.”
He reached into one and retrieved a folded paper that he placed on the Guv’s desk. My employer reluctantly took it from the edge of his desk, opened it, and read it. Then he tossed it on down again.
“Lad, remind me what a million is again. Is it a hundred times a thousand?”
“A hundred times ten thousand, sir,” I replied.
One can scarcely credit that there was a time when a million was a new concept. People were intrigued that there was a number that was very nearly too high to count. It was a term used in government circles in terms of spending. One would never run across such a thing as a million anythings, unless one were on the shingle at Brighton Beach.
“A million pounds?” I asked. “For a few strips of leather?”
After a moment, I realized what Grayle had done. He had tricked me into admitting I’d seen the manuscript. Barker looked down and placed the flat of his palm against his forehead. Meanwhile, Lord Grayle’s face creased into a grin.
“You may be assured I am serious, gentlemen. I must have that manuscript. You must give it to me.”
“It is not mine to give, sir. Besides, it is gone and out of our hands, is it not, Thomas?”
“It is,” I said, chastened.
“There, you see. I fear we cannot help you.”
The Guv flicked the bank check back across the desk to the edge, where our visitor tore it in quarters. A million pounds. Not a princely sum, but a kingly one. I never knew how much money Barker had; he had several accounts, and a list of charities he supported, mostly in the East End. I could not conceive of having a tenth of that money. It would require moving to the Côte d’Azur and learning to play baccarat. Rebecca would be weighed down with diamonds.
Too much money is a curse. Its possessors are rarely happy. Like Grayle, they flit from one desire to another. They know the cost of something, but have no idea of its value. The manuscript would satisfy His Lordship until the next thing he valued began to tantalize him. Tell a millionaire he cannot have something and see what he will offer you.
Grayle stuffed the pieces of the check into his trouser pocket. Then he searched for another paper inside his morning-coat pockets, which seemed to function as a mobile desk. He set it on Barker’s glass desktop and slid it toward him. The Guv smiled. This was better than courier work.
He read the letter slowly. From what I could see, it was a full-sized document of some sort. My employer held it up and read it fully, his head tilted back. When he was finished I came to the desk and took it from his hand. Once in my seat again, I lifted it as he had and began to read.
In legal terms, it was a bill of sale. Count Arnstein of Styria relinquished full legal rights to the Ancient Scroll for the sum of seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds. There were red seals on it, coats of arms stamped with what I assumed were rings. I didn’t like it. The more legal terms and Latin that were thrown about, the more solicitors were trying to bury something ripe.
“As I recall,” Barker said, “Arnstein had given up the right to the manuscript. He was already paid for it by the German government. Now he would be paid twice.”
Lord Grayle shrugged his rounded shoulders. “I don’t care about that. It is his concern. I only want clear title to the manuscript.”
“Then you should get it from Germany,” Barker replied.
“It is no longer theirs to give.”
“Try convincing the Kaiser of that,” I said.
“There would be a legal trial of some sort,” the Guv pointed out.
“That’s fine. I am in the midst of three already. What concern is another?”
“You must want the manuscript very badly.”
“It shall be the pinnacle of my collection.”
“A pity then that I do not possess it,” my employer said. “A million pounds would keep one warm through the winter.”
“I want the scroll!”
“You are a mere showman, not a scholar,” I said. “The late Mr. Wessel was twice the man you are.”
Lord Grayle sat back in his chair and raised both hands, imploring calm.
“I do not wish to cause a scene between us, Mr. Llewelyn. I’m just a humble collector. I want the scroll. Should you choose, I will buy it from you. Many people want it, I am certain, but they will not offer so high and round a sum. This is a business transaction, nothing more. Let us allow cooler heads to prevail. Consider my offer and tell me your answer tomorrow.”
Now it was Barker’s turn to be calm. He sat back in his chair and laced his fingers across his waistcoat. We watched him take in a bushelful of air and blow it out again.
“Your Lordship, this item you see, it may be a fake. It may be what the Council of Nicene deemed apocryphal. It may be the oldest gospel known to man. However, the one thing it will never be is yours.”
Grayle jumped from his chair. “They said you were a stubborn man but I was willing to believe the best of you! I came in here offering a fair price and you became hostile. I have money, but I also have many friends. Powerful friends. Important ones. Get in my way and I shall crush you under my boot, and all you possess. You are not the Home Office. You are not the government. It was a mistake for Salisbury to choose one man!”
“Two men,” I said. “Get out of our office.”
“You will regret this,” he said.
He took his glossy top hat and his kidskin gloves and his wandlike stick and marched out. Belatedly, he returned and pulled his coat off the rack.
The Guv still sat, while I came round to the bow window and watched His Lordship leave.
“Very good, Thomas, but I believe we have just made a powerful enemy.”
I looked out at the traffic and the snow.
“He’ll have to get in line with the rest of them.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Barker sat and smoked. He carved wood. I sat. Jenkins sat. I watched the Guv suck and blow smoke for a while, then I stood to get something. He immediately put up a hand. I was interrupting the flow of his thoughts. I returned to my desk. Running out of things to do, I oiled my Webley revolvers. The possibility occurred to me that someone could burst into our chambers, and there I was with my weapon in pieces, but that didn’t happen. My pistol was fully functional before someone burst in.
My mind had barely registered the entry when our visitor stood in the doorway by my desk. He wore a close-fitting coat to his knees, a priest’s collar, and a gold cross on a chain. Snow was dusting his shoulders and his dark hair, which curled back over his ears to his collar. The lower part of his face was covered in a mustache and short beard. His nose was thin and pronounced, his eyes vulpine. A stage Mephistopheles, I said to myself. Or perhaps Cardinal Richelieu.
“Mr. Barker,” he said. “I am Monsignor Bello.”
“Won’t you have a seat?” the Guv offered. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“Let us not be coy. It is unbecoming. I want you to retrieve the manuscript, and give it to me.”
Barker nodded his hea
d thoughtfully, as if the suggestion had not occurred to him.
“Why would I wish to do so? We each have our part in this little drama. I deliver the manuscript to Calais, and you take it to Rome. This was worked out by the archbishop himself. Why would you have the impertinence to order me to give you what I was hired—nay, ordered—to deliver by Her Majesty’s government.”
Bello entered and looked about our chamber as if it were a hovel. All was shiny and new, with the best of craftsmanship and furnishings. Barker’s desk and chair were built for him alone. The Persian carpets were of the highest quality. Our rooms were the envy of every detective in London, and not a few barristers.
“This is all you have to protect so priceless an object?”
“True, Monsignor,” Barker said. “There is little gilt work here, but what there is has not been wrung from the sweat of generations of peasants.”
Bello looked stricken at the remark. He gritted his teeth and his black brows pressed down upon his Roman nose. Then just as quickly, his features smoothed again. Barker gave him a cold smile.
“Droll, signore. Very well, forgive me. I did not intend to insult your offices.”
The Guv nodded. He was being magnanimous.
“When do you intend to deliver the manuscript? Today? This evening?”
“Sometime this week, Monsignor. I have matters to attend to.”
“This week?” Bello asked. “This week! But my men are waiting in France!”
“That is your concern, not mine.”
“Do you not realize how important this manuscript might be?”
“Of course I do, though I doubt it shall ever see the light of day.”
Bello shook his head. “I knew it was a mistake to hire you. I warned the Church not to hire you!”
“Sit, Monsignor, please. We need not be adversarial. In fact, we are supposed to work together. What caused you to find the arrangement unsatisfactory to the point of coming here today? You strike me as a very serious and competent administrator. No doubt you have arranged the journey from Calais to the Vatican meticulously. Is there a particular reason why you felt the need to come to London?”
“I know every kilometer between Calais and Rome. I do not know you.”
“Then ask me questions, sir. I shall attempt to answer them competently. You cannot trust me if you do not know me.”
Monsignor Bello looked at Barker as though he were attempting a ploy. Surely it could not be this simple.
“Has the archbishop told you what the satchel contains?”
Barker shrugged. “Some sort of manuscript. It doesn’t particularly matter what it is. My duty is to deliver it. To you, in fact.”
The monsignor smiled. “I am here now. Give it to me.”
“Alas, I cannot. I’m sure your associates saw me place it securely in Cox and Co. Bank.”
“They did. Take it out again.”
Barker leaned deeper into his chair and tented his fingers together. “I could, but I won’t. It is my duty to help Her Majesty’s government whenever I can, and they have hired me. We have made a contract. Also, I like to get paid.”
“No, I think not. The Society of Jesus has compiled a file on you just this morning. You are privately wealthy, though so far we haven’t been able to learn how you obtained your wealth.”
“I am, sir, but that doesn’t mean I won’t charge a fee. I cannot do so if I give the case over to you.”
I raised a brow, knowing that Barker had already told the Prime Minister that he wouldn’t take remuneration for this assignment.
Bello gritted his teeth in frustration.
“Have you attempted to open it?” he asked.
“I studied it before putting it in the vault. The lock mechanism has been filled with either lead or silver. It cannot be opened with a key. The lock would have to be cut off, then replaced and filled again in order to see whatever was inside without alarming the interested parties. Are you an interested party, Monsignor Bello?”
“Only insofar as maintaining its safety.”
“We are agreed then.”
“But it is preposterous! You are but one man! Granted, our file says you are a former soldier and a detective well-known to Scotland Yard. But really, Mr. Barker. Giving the manuscript to you alone while the whole of the Home Office appears to be delivering it themselves. It is highly dangerous. It is a mistake on your Prime Minister’s part.”
“It was a decision made between both archbishops and the Prime Minister. You may argue the matter with them. I am but a humble courier.”
“But one man!”
“Two,” I said, wondering if I needed to pull the Webley from my desk again.
Bello snorted. “One man and a clerk.”
“My name is over the door, sir.”
“Mr. Llewelyn,” my associate said. “I believe Monsignor Bello is unimpressed with you. Prove to him otherwise.”
“How would you prefer I do so, Mr. Barker?”
“I don’t know. Rummage around in your desk and show him what weapons you have.”
“Just my desk?” I asked.
“Well, anything within arm’s reach.”
“Very well.”
I leaned forward and pulled the two Webley revolvers from cubbies in my rolltop desk. These I laid carefully on the carpet behind me because they were loaded and ready.
Then I reached into a pen cup and retrieved a Sicilian dagger I keep there for opening letters. I purchased it because it closely resembled one Barker had. I laid it beside the pistols.
Beside my chair stood the hat stand, with my walking stick in the rack. I retrieved it, gave it a small thump in my palm, then twisted it and revealed seventeen inches of good Sheffield steel. These two pieces I laid on the rug as well.
I opened what I considered my miscellaneous drawer. It contained seven or eight knives of various sorts and countries of origin, a pair of brass knuckle-dusters, a weighted money knot, three throwing blades I bought from a circus performer once, a pair of iron caltrops one would not want to step on, and a whetstone that could easily brain a fellow. I pulled out the drawer and spilled the contents of the pen cup over that, since I could use any nib or pencil inside to stab an eye or a jugular vein. Lastly, I reached under my desk and set my Hammond typewriting machine on top of the pile. Granted, bringing it down on someone’s head would damage the keys, but that would be of little consequence to the chap whose head I stove in.
“Bravo, signore,” Bello said. “A nice little collection you have here. You are obviously a bloodthirsty young fellow. You will forgive me, I hope, for having insulted you.”
With a look at Barker, I nodded. “Are you in any way mollified, Monsignor?”
“Would that I were, sir. I mean you no disrespect. I could send a telegram and have fifty men here in this office by vespers.”
“Priests,” Barker said dismissively. He was a trifle rude, but they were having a war with words, and one uses such weapons as one has on hand.
“Not merely priests. Many are former soldiers. No doubt you know that the Jesuits are the military side of the church. That is simplistic, of course, and we hope not to spill blood, but if necessary we are willing to die for the greater good. That includes safeguarding an important manuscript.”
“Which you will do,” Barker assured him. “From Calais.”
“As I said, I can have fifty men here.”
“In Calais, perhaps. Surely you have not brought an army with you.”
“Bah!” Bello said, rising to his feet. “You’ll find how quickly they can come!”
“Pray have a seat, Monsignor,” the Guv said, trying to sound patient.
“I don’t know why I am wasting my time. I came hoping to talk some sense into you, but you are obviously a Scotsman and cannot be reasoned with!”
My employer picked up a pen that lay on his glass-topped desk, the only object thereon, and began to tap it quietly on the glass. It was a harmless gesture, but it had meaning for those abl
e to see it. His temper was rising, too.
“There is no need for insults about my heritage, Monsignor. I have been polite so far. I would offer you wine if we kept any. I could send our clerk over to the Silver Cross nearby and have him bring a worthy vintage, I suppose. I would not know about such matters.”
“You are trying my patience, Mr. Barker. I have stated I have men who will take what you will not give.”
“I wish you luck, sir. It is at Cox and Co., the only bank in London responsible for the payroll of Her Majesty’s army and navy. The Admiralty is across the street. The Horse Guards, as well. They might have decided opinions about foreign priests trying to break into their vault.”
Bello sat and raised his hands in a spirit of calm. “Let me make an offer to you that might be more agreeable.”
Tap, tap, tap went the pen on the glass top of the desk.
Two arguments with strangers within an hour. One could see how one’s nerves would fray.
“I’m an agreeable man,” Barker said, his speech clipped.
“Very well. We will accompany you. That would satisfy your contract, would it not? We would be your bodyguards. We would keep you safe to live another day, to take the next case. I would be assured the manuscript is safe in order to complete my own mission. What say you?”
The tapping stopped.
“An equitable arrangement, don’t you think, Mr. Llewelyn?”
“Some would say,” I muttered.
“There is but one problem with it.”
Bello looked about ready to jump to his feet again.
“What? What is the problem?” he demanded.
“Monsignor, I cannot allow a foreign army in this country.”
“You? You can’t?”
“I can’t. You are not in Jesuit territory. You are in England. This is Templar territory.”
Monsignor Bello blinked.
The Guv raised his left hand. There was a ring on his little finger, a plain, flat band of dull gold. There was a simple design on the ring, a cross in a crown with a legend that read “in hoc signo vinces.” In this sign thou shalt conquer.
“Is this a joke?” Bello asked. “I am a serious person.”
