by Will Thomas
Outside, my employer led me to the curb and stood for a moment, his walking stick on the pavement. I assumed he was awaiting a cab, but when one jingled up, he stepped back and offered it to a woman and her daughter leaving the hotel. He then led me down Brook Street a block or two. As we were passing a quiet tea shop, his strong fingers gripped my elbow in that way of his, and we entered. Without a pause on our way to the farthest booth in the room, he called for a pot of tea and three cups. Three cups? I wondered. It wasn’t until we arrived at the booth, and he sat on the same side as I, that the light dawned. We had a second assignation.
I took a sip of the tea, and as I set the cup down, a man slid silently into the booth across from us. He was a thin fellow, whose long coat and pants were so tight he appeared even thinner. His head was bulbous, the scanty black hair plastered across it, and his thin mustache was waxed into points.
“Barker,” he said, bowing his head respectfully, then took a delicate sip from his cup.
“Henri, may I present my assistant, Thomas Llewelyn? Thomas, Mr. Henri Le Caron. He was spying on us earlier from the second-floor rooms across the street from Claridge’s with the aid of a telescope.”
“Was I that obvious?”
“Not at all, but, then, I was looking. I suppose you could just as easily have been the Special Irish Branch.”
“They were in the attic above me, watching Parnell until last night, but they shut down their operation this morning. I do not believe they consider Parnell a suspect.”
“Do you?”
Le Caron took another sip of his tea to sum up his thoughts. “Probably not, as far as the bombings are concerned, but I’m throwing my net a bit wider. Anderson wants to know how capable he is, and whether he has any weaknesses that can be exploited, if necessary. I believe Parnell quite capable of persuading Gladstone to sponsor a bill for Home Rule, but he is not without flaws. He’s living above his means and has an English mistress, a married one, at that. If the Irish intend to throw all their eggs in his basket, I believe they shall find them dashed to the floor.”
“Have you spoken to Mr. Anderson since last night?”
“Yes, by telephone. He’s apprised me of the situation. I must say, I don’t envy you or the Special Irish Branch your deadline. It has taken me years to earn the trust of the Irish Brotherhood, and that is merely in a general way. The factions themselves are very close-knit.”
“How many groups would you estimate are functioning at the moment in Ireland and England?”
“I’d say two dozen or more, but some are merely Irish youths looking for a reputation. Less than half that are true terrorists, radical enough to bomb and kill, or to die in the attempt.”
“Parnell has given me a few names of possible candidates for leadership of the faction who planted last night’s bombs. One of them is a dangerous Frenchman named Le Caron.”
Le Caron laughed, revealing a space between his teeth. He seemed the total opposite of a successful spy, but then, I suppose, a ruddy-cheeked, solid fellow looking like an Eton and Cambridge graduate would have raised the Irish hackles in a heartbeat.
“Yes,” Le Caron said. “Watch out for the Frenchman. He’s a dangerous fellow. Who were the others?”
“Davitt, Cusack, Dunleavy, and Rossa. Oh, and O’Muircheartaigh.”
Le Caron emptied his cup and set it down. “For a politician, Parnell has more acumen than I would credit. Unless the faction leader is a new fellow we haven’t heard of, it will be one of the five. I’ve worked with the rest before, but I only know of O’Muircheartaigh by hearsay. He contributes heavily to the Irish cause, but his organization is mostly composed of Irish criminals. His base is here in London.”
“I’m familiar with Seamus,” Barker stated. I noticed Le Caron gave him a shrewd glance, flicked a second one my way briefly, and went on.
“That leaves Davitt, Dunleavy, Rossa, and Cusack,” Le Caron continued. “All of them are green with envy over Parnell’s hopes, though between you and me I don’t think the Crown will ever countenance state visits from a former prisoner.”
“Rossa has schemes of his own. He’s being funded by groups such as the Ancient Order of Hibernians, but he’s got them so confounded, they don’t even realize they are funding a terrorist. Davitt’s more a politician, a great orator, but not the sort for this kind of mission. As for Cusack, he’s attempting single-handedly to bring back the Irish language and sports. I think his plate is full already, and he rarely leaves Dublin.
“Dunleavy’s an old Irish-American warhorse, who fought as a colonel on the secessionist side during the American War Between the States. He saw action at Antietam and Vicksburg. I was on the opposing side, but after the war, we worked together on an Irish raid into Canada, in an attempt to trade Toronto for Irish freedom. Of course, I sent word ahead and the attack was scuttled. I think Dunleavy still seethes over the losses of the Southern states but having a role in the new Irish government would more than make up for it. He’s ruthless and wily enough for a campaign like last night, when he’s not on the bottle. He’s got his share of the Irish melancholy and occasionally goes on bouts of drinking.”
“Thank you for the information,” Barker said. “You don’t think Parnell capable of subterfuge?”
“It is possible,” Le Caron acknowledged, “but I’d sooner suspect one of the others. Parnell is already in a good position politically, not that we couldn’t bring him down, if we needed to. The mistress alone is enough to discredit him. For one thing, she’s married to an English officer.”
I got a glimpse then of the kind of politics that went on in the rarefied circles the Home Office worked in. I had to say, I didn’t care for it and hoped that working for the government was not something my employer would do often. I felt as if we, as pawns, could be too easily sacrificed.
“I must get back, as boring as it is to watch him read newspapers and wring his hands,” Le Caron said, preparing to leave. “I wish you both bonne chance in your search for the faction. I hope you get to them before Munro and his boys do. The Home Office has no love for the Special Irish Branch and their tactics. They may be new, but they have already stolen several of our informants and scared off or worried others. Strong-arm bullyboys is what they are. Is this little fellow going with you? Is he being trained in faction fighting?”
“I am having Vigny give him lessons this week.”
“Close enough. Good day, and good hunting.” Le Caron rapped his knuckles on the table and was off.
Outside, Barker whistled again for a cab, while I pondered the last exchange. Who was Vigny, and what was faction fighting?
“Why do I feel as if you’re not telling me everything?” I asked.
Barker gave that short cough that passes for his chuckle. “Lad, you don’t know the half of it.”
5
We returned to our offices and helped Jenkins with the cleaning for an hour or two, and then went to lunch at Ho’s, an Oriental restaurant and Barker’s base of operations in the East End. I speculated he was part owner of the place, as he was of Dummolard’s Le Toison d’Or. The cab let us out in front of what I’ve come to call Ho’s alley. It is one of the most desolate spots in London. Old stone arches, like the bare ribs of an antediluvian dinosaur, vaulted overhead. Bills, placards, and advertisements had been plastered to the walls and tattered by wind and rain. We stepped over rubble that was good for nothing-that could not be sold or burnt for fuel-until we arrived at the nondescript door at the far end. There is no sign over Ho’s entrance. He caters to a specific clientele. If one did not know where it was, one was not welcome.
We plunged through the door and down the steps. Ho’s restaurant is reached by means of a walkway under the Thames. Beside the entrance there are lamps to light your way, but regulars go through to the restaurant at the far end blind. So far, I had not broken my neck, but it only needs to happen once. Several minutes later, we were seated at a table over our first course.
“There’s a chic
ken head in my soup, sir,” I said, nudging it with a dubious finger.
“It is just garnish, Thomas. You do not have to eat it.”
“What is that in yours?”
“This is bird’s nest soup. What do you suppose is in it?”
There is always a moment before I begin to eat when I think Ho is trying to poison me. Then I taste my food, and realize what a master chef he is. Ho is a true Chinaman. He’ll serve anything that lives, from seaweed to elephant. In the West End there are restaurants that will take a breast of fowl, cut it from the bone, stuff it, bread it, cook it, cover it in sauce, and garnish it until one is not sure what kind of animal it was to begin with. With Ho, like as not, there will be eyes regarding you from your bowl.
I was still dipping my spoon away from the head when the bowl was wrenched from my hands and the next course served. Ho’s is famous for its service, or lack thereof. The Chinese waiters are notoriously surly, and none more so than the owner himself. He came out in a stained singlet and apron and stood, eyeing us unpleasantly. I suspected he and Barker were close friends, but they certainly were discreet about their friendship.
“We shall be away for a few weeks,” Barker stated, between selecting morsels of Chinese sweetbread with his chopsticks.
“You could use time away,” Ho said. “You are getting sleek and fat.”
I nearly swallowed my tongue. I trembled at the thought of anyone daring to make such a suggestion. True, Barker was a good fourteen stone, but I knew from personal experience in the boxing ring that none of it was fat. Barker only smiled, however. He allowed Ho liberties denied to us mere mortals.
Ho stepped away and disappeared into the gloom. The low room was lit by small penny candles and was full of tobacco smoke. After we finished our main entree-a large, unidentifiable fish, its body cavities filled with some kind of stuffing-Barker contributed his pipe smoke to the general effluvia.
Just then, a man stepped in the door and stood, allowing his eyes to adjust to the meager light. He seemed out of place in this den of anarchists, criminals, and enquiry agents. He looked more like a government accountant or a banker, a thin ascetic-looking fellow, balding at the temples, with a sharp nose, a pointed chin, and very deep-set eyes. He could have played Mephistopheles at the Lyceum.
Having caught my employer’s glance, the man raised an eyebrow, then crossed the room to our table.
“Barker,” the fellow acknowledged coolly, seating himself across from us. “I hear you had some excitement in Whitehall last night.”
“Yes, thanks to your countrymen. Three bombs in one night.”
“That many? I only heard two.”
“Oh, come now, Seamus. It’s not like you to get your facts wrong.”
A waiter appeared out of the gloom and bowed to our companion.
“The usual.” He turned back to us. “We are all fallible, Cyrus. Even you and me.”
“I know I’m fallible,” my employer rumbled, “but it’s nice to hear you admit the same. Still speculating?”
“A flutter here and there,” the fellow admitted. “The pound is strong at the moment.”
“And the business enterprises, are they going well?”
“I’d be lying if I said they weren’t.”
“Is there anything I should know about?”
“Nothing of interest. Is the agency up and running again?”
“Not fully,” Barker admitted. “I’ll need to have some repairs made. I’m thinking of taking a trip for the duration. Vienna is doing some marvelous improvements in criminalistics.”
“Still continuing your oriental studies?” the man asked, stifling a yawn. He seemed like the sort who is interested only in his own pet subjects.
“There is always more to learn.”
“And more to acquire.”
“Word on the street says you’ve been buying some paintings lately.”
“Word on the street should mind its own bloody business,” the fellow snapped. He shrugged his shoulders. “A Bouguereau or two came on the market unexpectedly. I like Bouguereau’s little shepherdesses. Innocence interests me.”
“You have expensive tastes, Seamus.”
“Not at all,” he said silkily. “My tastes are simple. I only like the best.”
The waiter arrived and then did something rather amazing. He set the man’s frugal meal of rice in tea in front of him gently. Where was the rudeness for which Ho’s waiters were famous?
“Stay for lunch?”
Barker shook his head. “We have already eaten, and I’ve got a lot to do before our journey. We’ll leave you to your solitary repast. Come, Llewelyn.”
The Irishman and I bowed to each other, and wordlessly I followed my employer through the door, down the steps, and across the echoing corridor. It wasn’t until we were back on the street looking for a hansom or an omnibus that I broke the silence.
“Was that the fellow on Parnell’s list?”
“It was. He often eats lunch at Ho’s at this time. His name is Seamus O’Muircheartaigh. He’s got his fingers in more pies than a baker: land speculation, stock exchange, high-interest loans, blackmail, extortion.”
“My word!”
“Do you remember Nightwine?”
“Sebastian Nightwine?” I did indeed. I’d met him during my first case with Barker. The fellow was a big-game hunter by trade, but it was rumored he was also attempting to organize London’s underworld.
“He has moved on. Africa, I believe. It’s his one saving grace: he doesn’t stay in one place for long. He sold off his holdings in the East End to O’Muircheartaigh recently, or so I’ve heard. He always turns a profit.”
“So he’s little more than a criminal, then.”
“Yes, but of the first water. A criminal’s criminal. He trained himself by reading Machiavelli’s The Prince. Some of the money he brings in is funneled through to the Irish Republican Brotherhood. I can’t be certain whether he is a true patriot to the cause, or if it is just a good business tactic.”
“But you ate with him!” I protested.
“I did not. You saw me leave the moment his food arrived. I refuse to break bread with the man, and he knows it.”
“You acted very civil toward him. You called him over. You called him by his Christian name.”
“Make no mistake, Thomas. If I could toss him in Wormwood Scrubs today, I would. And if he could splatter my brains across the London cobblestones, he would. We respect each other for our talents and professionalism. We shall treat each other with courtesy until one of us eventually does the other in.”
We returned to our office, and for a moment I felt that everything was as it had been. Jenkins was seated at his desk with the Police Gazette in his hand, the glaziers had completed their work and gone, and all vestiges of dust and debris had been removed from the waiting room by our clerk’s broom and duster. Barker stopped for a moment to discuss with Jenkins a potential client who had appeared in our absence, while I continued into the inner office.
All was not the same here. The carpets were gone, and the vase was still a stack of shards on the corner of Barker’s desk. More obvious was the street urchin who sat in my employer’s chair, with his feet on the blotter and a lit cigar from the box the Guv reserved for guests in his hand.
“How’d you get in here?” I demanded. “Get out of Mr. Barker’s chair before I drag you out.”
“You and the Coldstream Guards,” he jeered. “Go soak your head.”
I made for him, but he was up and on his feet in a trice, keeping the desk between us and taunting me all the while. As a Classics scholar, I had to admit he had an imaginative way with words. In half a minute, he made my blood boil. I wanted to see just how far my fingers would reach around his throat.
“Ah, Vic,” my employer said, suddenly behind me. “Good to see you. I’ll take it from here, Llewelyn.”
“’Lo, Push,” the tattered boy said. I’d heard Barker called “Push Comes to Shove” in our previous c
ase. “’Oo’s the shirt?”
“Thomas Llewelyn, my assistant. Thomas, this is Soho Vic.”
Vic wiped his none-too-clean nose with his hand, then offered it to me to shake. When I refused, he stuck his tongue out and returned to sucking on his cigar, which he was puffing in quick drafts like an engine about to leave a station.
“Found the Sponge for you,” he said cryptically.
“Excellent. Where is he?”
“’Round the corner, paying ’is respects to the Sun. Said ’e’d be ’long directly.”
The Guv pulled out a half-sovereign from his waistcoat pocket and proffered it. The boy snatched the shining coin from Barker’s fingertips and thrust it between his dirty teeth. It passed inspection there, so he tossed it in the air a few times, as if admiring its weight, before thrusting it into his waistcoat pocket.
“Pleasure doin’ business wiff yer, Push. Got other errands to run. Cheerio!”
“You may use the front entrance,” Barker said, pointing toward the door.
“No fanks, Guv,” came the reply. “Got to ’ave me exercise. Not gettin’ any younger, am I? Fanks for the smoke and the beneficence.” Then he was gone out the back door, and presumably over the back wall as well.
“Soho Vic,” I said to myself. “What names these street arabs have. I assume he was born in Soho?”
“Krakw, Poland,” Cyrus Barker informed me. “His real name is Stanislieu Sohovic. It’s amazing how foreign names get anglicized, isn’t it? Came here with his father when he was still in nappies, then the old man was killed in a boatyard accident. Vic’s been fending for himself ever since.”
“You trust him to do business, then?”
“As well as any other merchant in London. Any enquiry agent worth his salt uses Vic and his kind to deliver messages and track down people. He’s got a number of mouths to feed, and despite his flippant exterior, takes his work very seriously.”
