Old Scores--A Barker & Llewelyn Novel

by Will Thomas

  He raised his stick at a passing cab. We climbed in and were away.

  “Will it work?” I asked. “As easy as that?”

  “If it doesn’t, we must attempt something else.”

  “Sir, if it’s not too much to ask, who killed the ambassador? Was it Kito?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Thomas. All the guards but Ohara were in his grasp. I mentioned thimblerig, a shell game. The general moved them about until one slipped from the room unnoticed.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The morning began as if it had no interest in us or our work. In Whitehall the street was full of cabs and dray carts. People were walking to their shops or places of business. Street merchants were calling to the public to look at their wares. In number 7, we’d had no sleep.

  I was leaning back in my swivel chair with my eyes closed. The rug beneath Barker’s desk looked so comfortable I wanted to lie on it. If I could have an hour, even twenty minutes, I thought, I might get by.

  Jenkins looked miserable, but then he had consumed a good deal of free ale; free to him, anyway. Whenever I crossed the chamber, he held his head at the noise as if he were holding the pieces of his skull together.

  “Mr. L, could you try not to walk so loudly?”

  As far as Barker was concerned, it was an ordinary day and nothing untoward had happened overnight. He looked expectant. If anything, he was full of nervous energy, as if he’d sucked it up from the rest of us.

  “Is something happening?” I asked.

  “Possibly, but not yet.”

  He opened the back door and paced in our back alleyway for half an hour. It occurred to me that we had not broken our fast. That is to say, I’d had no coffee. None. Not one little drop. I could not work under such conditions.

  I put my head out into the yard. “Sir. Breakfast.”

  “Fetch a few buns and some tea.”

  “Right.”

  Out in Whitehall Street, I found a stall serving hot Chelsea buns and tea in tin mugs. If one was honorable, one returned the mugs. I found a regular bun, since Barker did not care for sweets. A cup of coffee was nowhere to be found. I purchased three Chelsea buns. Jenkins and I would fight over the third.

  When I returned, Barker was reading the morning editions. I set my purchases near the edge of his newspaper. A bite was taken out of the bun. Then a sip. Then a bite.

  Jenkins was too debauched to eat, which left two buns for me. After we ate, I totted up the expenses and tried to make a reckoning. I knew when a case was winding down.

  They came when I had begun considering lunch. As before, two bodyguards appeared and searched the room, only they were different guards from the first time. Ohara had fled to Newington and Kito was shot. They brought in Mononobe. He wore an elaborate kimono with padded shoulders in place of a Western suit. He looked very grave as he lowered himself into a chair. It somehow looked wrong, him in his robe and getas, sitting in a wooden chair.

  “Mr. Barker, I wish to terminate your services.”

  The Guv put down his pen and sat back in his chair. “Sir, I have done as you asked. I have found the ambassador’s killer. He sits in front of me.”

  “Then you have succeeded. Please present a bill.”

  I stood and laid it on the table in front of him. He turned and glanced at the new bodyguard. The man came forward and paid the amount from a wallet deep in his pocket. Apparently Barker was not the only one who disdained carrying cash.

  “I believe our business is concluded, General,” my employer said.

  “One last thing, sir. A favor. I would ask a favor.”

  Cyrus Barker’s eyebrow rose over the top of one lens. “I don’t generally do favors for murderers. I would think not turning you over to the authorities would be favor enough.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  Barker silently faced Mononobe for a few seconds.

  “Very well,” he finally answered. “I make no promises. What favor would you ask?”

  “I require a kaishakunin. Would you be willing to perform such a duty?”

  I watched my employer run a finger in tiny circles around a glass on top of the desk.

  “Alas, sir,” he finally said. “I cannot. A long time ago I promised I would never kill you. To go back on my word is unthinkable.”

  “Ah,” Mononobe said. “I would not presume.”

  It was the voice of a forlorn and totally bereft man. In spite of all he had done, of what he could do in Asia, I felt sorry for him.

  “Is there no one else?” the Guv asked.

  “None. The admiral is not an honorable man. Both ministers are modern and have no respect for the past. The bodyguards, they are but children. You are the only man in England capable of such a duty.”

  “I will attend, sir, but I cannot do what you ask. However, there is one man in London capable of performing this service. He is schooled in tradition, highly skilled, and Japanese.”

  “Of whom do you speak?”

  “Ohara.”

  “He is still in London? I thought he would return to Tokyo to inform the Kempeitai.”

  “He has been staying in my house.”

  “Impossible. I have had your house searched.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  “You are resourceful, sir.”

  Barker nodded. “I have needed to be.”

  Our former client sat for a moment with his head down. “Will you at least oversee it all? Ohara is still rather young. You are of a proper age and I trust you know the old ways.”

  “As I said, I will be there. I’ll make certain protocol is observed.”

  Mononobe stood and bowed. It was a much deeper bow than I had seen him do before.

  “I shall ask him right away, if you will guarantee his safety. If he is harmed, I will see that you are captured, clad in irons, and sent back to Japan for punishment.”

  “The result is much the same. Very well, I shall promise that Ohara will come and go unmolested. He may be my final hope.”

  Barker also rose. “I shall speak to him immediately.”

  We saw him to the door, and without saying anything, Barker hailed a cab for the two of us. I climbed aboard and said nothing. Even I have moments of brilliance.

  “General Mononobe was your father-in-law.”

  “Aye,” Barker said.

  “He—he killed his only daughter. He beheaded her. Why?”

  “He sent her to Hokkaido, where she was safe, or so he thought. The island and the castle on it became a stronghold for the rebel army. I suspect he asked to be in charge of the expedition in order to save his daughter, but she had joined the samurai with me. When his army overran our village, he dispatched me very quickly. I was not yet proficient with a sword. He was surrounded by his own army, watching his every move. She was defiant. There was no other choice. He could not show favoritism.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “I buried her, of course, and then I mourned. One day Ho appeared out of nowhere and took me aboard the Osprey. I did my best to try to put what had happened in Japan to rest.”

  I opened my mouth to speak.

  “Enough!” he growled. “I have explained enough for now.”

  We reached Newington and entered the house. Mac and Harm were overjoyed to see him home early. Barker went to the door to the basement and called down. A minute later, I heard the staircase protesting under Ohara’s weight.

  “You are safe,” Barker told him. “It is nearly over. Come out into the garden. I have something to discuss with you.”

  I followed them out into the garden. In the shade there was a cool breeze, which disappeared in the sun. I chose to believe it was a harbinger of fall.

  This was going to be marvelous, I told myself. Finally, I would learn the solution to everything. They sat in the pagodalike gazebo and began to talk in Japanese. I heard that word again, kaishakunin. I could parse almost any Western word. I can read Greek, Latin, French, and most of the so-called Love languages. The
y were of no use to me here.

  Ohara looked troubled. At first he refused, shaking his head. Barker convinced him, however, or so I worked out for myself. It all had to do with favors. Barker traded upon them.

  The big man stood and nodded heavily as if it were half a bow. He crossed the bridge over our brook and went inside.

  “What?” I began, but my employer raised a finger. There was something almost Japanese about the gesture, as if he were drawing his manner out of a well of memories. Painful ones.

  In the hall, Mac was wiping down the telephone set in the alcove by the stairwell. It didn’t need it. No self-respecting bit of dust would dare settle in Jacob Maccabee’s house.

  “What’s going on?” he asked in a low voice.

  “I wish I knew.”

  Considering himself safe once more, Ohara took himself to Ho’s for some proper food. We were able to keep the fact from Etienne that the Japanese thought his food slop. He’d have quit immediately and I would need two months’ worth of pleading to get him back. Two solid months without truffled eggs or pain au chocolat. It was not to be borne.

  We were settling down to dinner when Mac came in from the front door.

  “Sir!” he cried. “You’ll want to see this!”

  We rose and went to the front door. The evening edition of the Pall Mall Gazette was out. My article was on the front page.

  “Stead must have verified the sources and decided to publish,” I said. “I have a published article!”

  “That is satisfactory,” Barker said, and returned to the dining room, as if the point were moot. The laws had not been broken after all, but we had bent a few out of shape.

  We did not return to our offices. That evening, we ate a perfectly fine meal, but Barker was almost completely silent. He would not start a conversation, nor would he participate in one. I almost considered going to the Japanese embassy. I’m sure things were more interesting there. Finally he spoke.

  “Thomas, I want you to set out your morning coat. Mac, press and brush it. I want him more presentable than he has ever been before. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I shall have much more detailed instructions for what I shall wear.”

  “I’m to wear my morning suit, sir? To where, exactly?”

  “Wherever our destination shall be.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  “You’re not going to catch me out so easily, Mr. Llewelyn. I suggest you forgo your usual frivolities and prepare. We shall be up early in the morning.”

  I was tired, naturally, but I didn’t want to go to sleep without having some questions answered.

  “Sir,” I said, “could you inform me what is going to occur, before it happens? I don’t want to look a total git when we arrive, and me in a funeral suit.”

  “Later, Thomas,” he said. I suspected his patience was wearing thin.

  “I’m going to bed, then.”

  “I fear not. Go harness Juno.”

  “What?”

  “Do I have to repeat myself, lad? We’ve got work to do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ll have to catch such sleep as you can tomorrow. Meet us here in half an hour.”

  I looked at the hall clock. It was about to strike ten.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  I patted Harm on the way out the back door, then crossed to the moon gate at the back of the garden. There I took the alleyway to the Old Kent Road. I strode purposefully, but there was no need to hurry. I’d be back in plenty of time.

  I reached the stable and woke up the stable boy. He never complains, knowing he can earn a sovereign or two for a few minutes’ work. Once Juno was in her traces I inspected her for any signs of weakness or injury, finding none. Then I climbed into my perch and bowled out into the Kent Road to the steady clop of her hooves.

  There was a feeling of foreboding I could not shake. Not a sense of danger, mind you. That tends to go with the work, and is something of an old friend by now. Israel Zangwill has an expression that he uses when something is “not kosher,” that is, not according to the rules. Something was going to happen and I could not see what the consequences might be, since I didn’t know what was going on. Barker, a taciturn fellow at the best of times, generally tells me what’s going on, provided it is not illegal or morally questionable. I began to suspect it might be both.

  We cantered into Lion Street and I saw someone standing by the front door. It was Mac, and he had a number of items with him: a bucket and mop, some cleaning rags, a rolled-up straw mat, some sheets, a low table, and several smaller items in a catch-all bag. I drew up to the curb.

  “Has Mr. Barker explained what all this is for?” I asked.

  “Ours is not to reason why,” he answered.

  “Ours but to do or die.”

  “Let us hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “Is that all of it?” I asked.

  “Yes, except for what the Guv is bringing.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He borrowed my whetstone and oil. Didn’t say what for.”

  The door opened and Barker came outside. It was a cloudy night with the moon playing peekaboo.

  “Let’s get these things loaded into the cab,” he ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” the two of us replied.

  Mops and pails are not ideal items to stow in a moving hansom cab, nor are rolled tatami mats that are eight feet long. By the time we were loaded, both Mac and Barker would be holding everything in place while I drove.

  “Which bridge?” I called out after slapping the reins.

  “Westminster!” he called out.

  Westminster. That could mean anything. We could be going to our offices or any one of a thousand buildings nearby. But most of them were occupied and kept clean. Where would we go where Jacob Maccabee’s expertise came into play?

  Soon we came to the familiar old bridge and crossed over the Thames, our way lit by a necklace of gaslights. When we reached the far shore, my employer indicated we were to turn south, rather than north to our offices. We were on Abingdon Street, on the east side of Westminster Abbey. Surely we were not going there, I thought. We passed it and found ourselves in a maze of old buildings. We were in the center of London, but there wasn’t a soul to be seen.

  “Here, lad,” Barker rumbled.

  We pulled up in front of a tall, thin, derelict-looking building. By the architecture it was several centuries old. I tugged on the level and the doors opened. My two passengers got out and stretched. It had been difficult holding everything together as we drove.

  Barker approached the building’s front doors, which I noted were padlocked with heavy chain. He pulled out a ring of keys from his pocket and began trying them in the lock.

  “What is this place?” I asked.

  “It is the old Jewel Tower,” he answered.

  There are few relics of the former fourteenth-century Palace of Westminster, the pride of Edward III. This was perhaps the last survivor, the storehouse of his accumulated treasure. It had been used for various purposes since then, for storing records and even housing the offices of Her Majesty’s Weights and Measures. Now it stood vacant. Our employer found the right key and took off the padlock and chains. With a squeal, the doors opened.

  We stopped a moment while Barker lit a dark lantern. Then we stepped inside. In the gloom, I saw a vaulted and ribbed ceiling overhead, and an old and dusty parquet floor underfoot. He led us through the room to the next, which I assumed was the actual jewel chamber itself.

  “This will be satisfactory. I want this room mopped thoroughly. Wipe away all the dust with wet cloths. This room must be spotless.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mac said.

  “Thomas, do whatever Mac needs you to do.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  There was a lot of dust and suddenly our tools seemed woefully inadequate. We set to, mopping and wiping with our jackets off and our sleeves rolled. We were soon sooty faced
and coated in dust. When Mac sets to something, he is a tartar. Nothing else matters until the job is done. He lit a larger oil lamp so that we could see what we were doing. I hoped the light would not penetrate to the outside. We had broken in here and, if spotted, we could be arrested.

  When we were done, Barker helped roll out the mat. Then we spread a few layers of white linen bedsheets over them. Mac had brought along a small contraption, an oil lamp which heated a small iron when lit. He spent close to half an hour ironing those sheets and tucking them just so around the matting. Barker was relentless, pointing to the slightest wrinkle on the sheet, or a speck of dust for me to wipe away. He’s wound up like a clock, I told myself.

  From Mac’s bag Barker removed a couple of Oriental trays, and set them both carefully on the mat. Then he removed a small handleless cup and a stoppered bottle. Lastly, he removed a single sheet of paper. It was not pure white, but resembled vellum. He set it on the other tray, then he walked around several times, glaring at everything, seeing if it met his standards. He moved the cup closer to the bottle. He moved it away again. Even when we were making dynamite for a case I had not seen him so particular or precise. Afterward, we wiped our faces and clothes.

  Finally, we met his standards. He asked Mac to mop a final time, removing even any trace of his foot marks when he had circled outside of the pristine mat. When I thought we were almost ready to go, Barker took a box from his pocket. It was only a few inches across, but almost a foot long. He opened it and revealed a small Japanese writing set. There was a block of ink, a brush for writing, folded sheets of paper, and a small tray. Barker went down on his knees on the bare floor and began mixing what water we had left with the ink he ground in the tray. His hands, in fact, his whole body, seemed too large for such a delicate task. Mac looked ready to jump in and take over, but Barker would only do this himself, as the official second. He would not spare himself any pain or labor. He set the writing set on the small table between the two trays.

  Then he stood up. It was actually our moment of truth. Barker inspected his trousers, where he had been kneeling. There was no dust on them. He nodded his approval. We exhaled.

  “Our work here is done,” he pronounced. “Until the morning.”