by Steven Price
William got to his feet, started to pace. I want to be at that reception, John.
I thought you might.
I want to see Foole myself. If he has some sort of grift on Vail I want to see him working it. He nodded as if considering something and then he met Shore’s eye and he said, You should be there too.
The wife’ll make bloody certain of it. These evenings are planned months in advance, they’re damned exclusive. I don’t know if I can get you in.
Find a way.
And tell them what?
Tell them I’m principal of the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Tell them I’m a handsome example of American manhood.
So you’ll be in disguise.
What about the entertainments after dinner? You could offer my services. William cracked his knuckles one by one, feeling his way towards an idea. Do you know, I think we can use this nicely. I think we can start a record of Adam Foole.
How?
You remember that dinner with the Sûreté officials last fall?
In Paris. Aye. Shore drummed his fingers on his desk. What are you thinking? An exhibition of Bertillon techniques?
Why not?
I can think of a reason or two.
But William was not listening. We’ll make it an exhibition of fingerprinting as well, he said grimly. We’ll draw Adam Foole from the audience as a volunteer.
For god’s sake.
He’s a ghost, John. I’ve double-checked the Agency’s records and there’s nothing anywhere on this man. He doesn’t exist, not officially. I want his measurements. I want to be able to identify him when the day comes.
When the day comes. Shore sat very still with his chin lowered and his throat in rolls around it and then he looked up and his expression was weary and a little sad. I’ll see what I can do, he said. Are you all right?
I’m fine.
You don’t look fine. Shore unlocked his desk and pulled out two glasses and unstoppered a bottle of whiskey from a shelf behind him and he poured two knuckles into each glass. The dark liquid smouldering and folding in over itself burning clear in the winter light.
To luck, said Shore.
William held his glass to the light. I never found luck in a bottle yet, he said.
Aye, Shore grinned. But that there’s in a glass.
THIRTY-ONE
Foole saw Pinkerton first.
Looming just inside the door of the Farquhars’ palace, his broad back pressed up against a marble bust, nodding with great seriousness to a knot of whiskered gentlemen. Among them the stout figure of Chief Inspector John Shore, ugly wide face flushed. He watched Pinkerton turn to shake the hand of a man at his elbow and saw with surprise it was Farquhar himself. Foole had not seen Pinkerton since the seance and he felt a sudden plummeting dread in his stomach. The big detective did not see him.
Foole stepped fiuidly back across the lintel and let himself be jostled up against the iron railing by the other arrivals, women in their sable cloaks and fox furs and their companions turning sideways to fit through the door. He considered abandoning his purpose, finding some other way. There were carriages and hansoms stopped along the cobbled street, their orange lanterns burning through the fog. Foole peered out with the easy distracted frown of a man of means and tried to think. He did not believe in coincidences. And yet there were advantages, he reminded himself, to knowing where the two men would be this night of all nights. He felt the sweep of cold air on his face, and steeled himself. After a moment he turned and pressed back in. Let Pinkerton stare. He had come to take a man’s measure and leave with the means to his house and he would not be diverted.
Still he was careful. He moved slowly along the line of arrivals and shuffled up next to Mrs. Farquhar and greeted her with a smile and went through. He had thought to arrive late, never mind the hour. It was a Saturday evening in London in the dead of winter and behind him the fog was already choking. He glanced cautiously around for Pinkerton but could no longer see him though he felt or feared he felt some eye upon him. He had come dressed the part. Fitted in an expensive evening jacket tailored for him only two days previous, his high collar crisp and startling against his throat, his walking stick and top hat and white gloves. He had come to be seen.
Farquhar’s was an imposing mansion, cavernous, marble pillars flanking the entrance hall. Pink ribbons and white streamers tied off in bows lined the railings and sills of the hall. It was chilly and Foole shrugged out of his coat and took off his gloves and hat and glanced quickly across at the coat check where the gentlemen guests were crowded and he slipped instead along the far wall and down a corridor until he reached a small cloakroom. And there he found a coat stand thick with the Farquhars’ own coats. He glanced around and then shifted his hat and coat to one hand and began riffling rapidly through the pockets of the coats but he did not find Farquhar’s keys.
Might I be of assistance, sir? A butler with the pallor of a corpse stood watching.
Foole turned, smiled. Forgive me, he said, surely this isn’t the coat check?
No sir. The butler shook his head gravely. Shall I escort you to your party, sir?
Foole nodded in relief. Thank you, he said. I’m afraid I’d only get lost again.
He mingled, he chatted, he laughed and charmed. He was a small man but handsome and he knew this and used it to effect. Ladies admired the delicacy of his wrists, gentlemen were drawn to his laugh. He moved through the crowd watching for Pinkerton but each time the detective drew near he smiled and turned away.
At last he reached Farquhar and the gallerist’s wife and smiled and introduced himself again. At her throat a latticework of diamonds gauzy and shimmering and impossibly lovely. Her hand when he leaned down to brush his lips across it felt cold, a diamond on each finger. Farquhar’s eyes were small and creased and sat in their folds of skin like buttons and Foole felt a shiver pass through him to see it. The man was not tall. His wife towered above them both, her throat old and sagging. She might have been twice Farquhar’s age. What scandal had been strangled there, Foole wondered.
Yes, Mr. Foole, of course, Farquhar was saying with a smile. His voice was crinkled, friendly. It is such a pleasure, sir, to have your acquaintance.
Likewise, sir.
You are a collector, I understand.
Foole inclined his head.
Mrs. Farquhar’s long pale fingers lingered a moment on his arm. And is there a particular area you are interested in, Mr. Foole?
Until now, American painters, early century. But I mean to fill my house here in Piccadilly with British works.
You have seen The Emma, sir?
A little flush for my means, I fear. But yes, I have seen it.
A fine sport, all the same, Farquhar beamed.
And you are located where, sir?
Half Moon Street.
Why, Mr. Foole, Mrs. Farquhar said with a shy smile. We are almost neighbours.
We shall have to arrange an appointment, sir, smiled Farquhar. Perhaps this coming week. But tonight, sir, I insist you enjoy yourself and concentrate on nothing but the excellent company.
Mrs. Farquhar smiled and smiled. George has several accomplished watercolourists in our collection here, she said. I would be pleased to show you.
I have heard as much, laughed Foole. But I couldn’t possibly steal you from your admirers.
They stood the three of them in a narrow eddy out of the crush of the crowds and Mrs. Farquhar fanned herself politely as they spoke. Foole clapped the gallerist on the shoulder as they discussed the details and Farquhar himself never felt a thing. Foole’s hand deftly picked the man’s pockets, hunting his keys. He found nothing but a handkerchief and a penknife and an emerald ring sized for a lady’s finger.
As he slipped back into the crowd he glimpsed the American detective. Pinkerton leaned against the balustrade on the second step of the stairwell, looming over the crowd, vengeful and dark. He was watching Foole with great interest. The guests in their finery drifted between the
m with drinks in hand.
Just then a tall matron in a blue gown reached out and took his arm and when he turned she smiled a gruesome smile and introduced herself and her companion. They were just arrived from Boston, she said, and had been told he was a countryman.
Delighted, Foole said with a bow.
When he raised his eyes the detective had disappeared.
The bell rang, they went in to dinner. It was a large dining room ablaze with gas like the great room in some modern guildhall, its vaulted ceilings painted luridly with cupids leaning over in perspective and dropping golden apples down upon the viewer, its carved mahogany beams gleaming like great black planks torn from some Spanish galleon. All was opulence and sheen. The long tables were laid out along three walls with the Farquhars and Colonel Vail seated at the centre. Pinkerton had been seated directly opposite Vail, next to Shore and Shore’s wife, and Foole to his surprise was at the main table also. An enormous sculpture of a swan carved from ice was slowly dissolving on a wheeled cart between the tables. The assembled forks and knives and spoons gleamed in their ranks like instruments at a surgery and Foole saw his own face distorted and swimming in the bowl of his soup spoon. The room was hot and despite the thick curtains along the walls the dozens of voices thundered up echoing off the ceiling and Foole found it difficult to hear. Wine stewards stood at the ready and servers moved silent as wraiths from guest to guest ladling out soup from great copper tureens and Foole studied the face of each server as if seeking some resemblance. They were the invisible and the absent and this, he knew, gave them power.
He had been seated next to an old man with a powerful neck and a long scar running the length of his cheek and his white hair combed over a bald patch at his crown. He was a clergyman.
Church of England, the man said.
A pleasure, sir, Foole replied gravely.
When the clergyman gripped Foole’s arm his hand was enormous, and scarred, and just visible were the faded blue lines of a tattoo. I were a sailor near twenty years, before I could rightly purchase my living, he said. It were a rough life. The seas belong to God. They don’t leave a man in peace.
Indeed, Foole said. And how do you know the Farquhars?
The clergyman grunted. The who?
Foole cleared his throat.
Ah, just a little joke, lad. Mr. Farquhar contributes charitable works to the parish. We go back a way. You’re from the colonies?
Foole grinned a puzzled grin. I’m over from New York. If that’s what you mean.
Welcome to London, lad. This your first visit?
No.
Ah now.
I keep a residence here, Foole added after a moment. I come more often, since my wife passed.
The clergyman shook his powerful head, his eyebrows contracting as if a drawstring around his skull had been pulled tight. She is in a better place, sir.
Yes.
Foole glanced uneasily past his companion to Pinkerton, across the way. The big detective frowned at Shore and then stared balefully down into his soup in a savage absorption. Foole nodded at the clergyman without listening. He could hear Mrs. Farquhar talking about the fall of Khartoum.
A man next to Farquhar leaned in and said, loudly, Do tell us about The Emma, sir.
Farquhar smiled, a cat with a canary. I purchased it for twelve pounds, sir.
A hard bargain.
Indeed, indeed.
The clergyman laughed a sudden soft snorting laugh and there was a gentle derision in it and Foole realized he liked the man immensely.
Someone should tell the poor fellow, God doesn’t bargain.
Someone ought to indeed, said Foole.
Mighty pleased with themselves, aren’t they? The clergyman leaned over his soup bowl and took a delicate sip from the side of his spoon and Foole wondered anew at the strange manners of the man, his roughness, his refinements. I wonder if it will ever change for us. I look at my brother’s two sons, sir, and I think about it. There’s a writer we have out in Hertfordshire who writes about that sort of thing. He thinks there will be flying carriages.
Foole turned some pale disfigured thing over in the broth with his spoon, watched it sink again from view. He smiled. Flying carriages? Pulled by what? Birds?
The clergyman smiled too. They’ll fly on their own power. Like a locomotive.
Impossible.
I should imagine so. Though the good Lord has given us a most astonishing world already.
Mr. Farquhar leaned across and said loudly, And what do you think, Mr. Pickins?
The clergyman looked up in surprise. About what?
About what, he asks. About General Gordon.
You do know they arrived only two days after the city fell, Mrs. Farquhar interrupted.
It isn’t a city, my dear.
Of course it is. What is it then?
Khartoum? Something like a walled village, I should expect. Colonel Vail, you were in the Sudan, were you not?
The Colonel was shaking his head. I was in Egypt, sir. But my understanding is that Khartoum is indeed a city. A walled city, that is. A village could hardly withstand a siege for so long.
Foole felt Pinkerton’s eyes on him and glanced across but the detective was not looking at him. Mrs. Farquhar took a long slow sip of the wine. Foole watched the diamonds at her throat flare in the gaslight. She said, The newspapers were all full of him a year ago. Do you remember that, darling? They said he was the only man suitable for the task. The Pall Mall made him out to be quite the dashing figure.
Yes, Farquhar smiled. Chinese Gordon. Sounds rather fierce, what?
I remember it because we had just met the General, in Palestine. When was that, darling, wasn’t that just one year before the whole business started?
Farquhar pursed his lips. Two years before, wasn’t it?
No, one year. It was one year before. Your mother was just passed. She turned her attention back to the table and swept it with her chin raised, her long throat exposed. We had no idea he was so important, you see, when we met him. He was a most peculiar man. I suppose all great men are, is that true, do you think? She smiled. General Gordon told us he was conducting research into the geographies of the Bible. He told us one night that he believed he had located the mountain where the Ark ran aground after the Flood. He said he was interested in where the Garden of Eden might have been.
How wonderful. How strange.
Isn’t it, though.
What was he like?
Mrs. Farquhar smiled and folded her chin into one cupped hand, her long thin fingers curling up the side of her face. Sunburnt, she said wistfully. He walked with a kind of stumbling motion, then would glide a ways, then stumble again, as if he were always deep in thought. I suppose he was.
They say he has a very quiet voice. They say it’s amazing he can make the savages hear him.
Yes. She nodded. Very quiet.
He was a gentleman, her husband added. Impeccable manners.
Ah.
Did you ever meet him, sir, on your adventures?
The Colonel inclined his head. Regrettably, no, he said. Though I have known several of his friends and companions. I should have liked to have asked him one or two things.
What would you have asked him, sir?
The Colonel smiled.
He would have asked how he managed to subdue those blasted Taipings without so much as an English musket.
It has always surprised me, the Colonel said softly, how matters of the greatest importance can appear so slight from England, and how the most trivial matters can appear of consequence. The Colonel cleared his throat and his gaze fixed on Pinkerton. The table had fallen silent. Here, I would imagine, is a man who would understand the difference.
Pinkerton’s eyes were hooded but Foole saw him glance fiickeringly in his direction.
Colonel Vail, said Pinkerton, and nodded his head slightly. You honour me.
Indeed, you are both men of action, said Shore with a mild smile. If only the
good General had the two of you with him in the Sudan.
There were murmurs of assent and concern around the table. Shaking of heads. Frowns.
I understand a subscription is being raised, a lady said across from Foole. For a charity. In his memory.
How interesting, said Foole.
I heard that Her Majesty wrote a letter to his sister.
How interesting, said Foole again.
Oh, that is such a beautiful gesture. Such a beautiful gesture.
Well, said Farquhar with a shake of his head. I understand Mr. Gladstone was seen at the theatre on the very evening word was received about Khartoum. Rather embarrassing for him, I should think.
Mr. Gladstone is not easily embarrassed, the Colonel said.
It is a wonder he sleeps at all, Mrs. Farquhar said loudly. Leaving the poor man to his ruin, out there. The expeditionary force should have been sent months ago.
Foole shifted his eyes and met Pinkerton’s gaze. The two men studied each other and the room seemed to Foole to recede at its edges. Pinkerton’s eyes burned like twin black coals, lightless and charred. Foole lifted his glass.
Pinkerton looked away.
He waited until the detective was absorbed in conversation with a soft flushed woman to his left and then dabbed at his lips with his napkin and excused himself to the clergyman and slipped out to find the water closet. The grand hall beyond was emptied of its guests and there were servants in satin waistcoats setting out rows of chairs. Two workmen in leather aprons were assembling a low rough stage in one corner of the hall.
He ascended the wide stairs and stood on the landing out of the lights and watched the servants pass through the hall from the kitchens below carrying their platters of food and he waited until he was certain the upper floor was quiet. Then he made his way along the carpeted corridor, studying the paintings in the low light, trying the doors of the rooms as he passed. The first two were not locked and opened onto a dressing room and a small bedchamber belonging to a woman and Foole disregarded each but the third door was locked fast and he slipped a slender wire into the aperture and cracked the mechanism easily and went through.
Farquhar’s study. He did not open the curtains, he did not turn on any light but stood letting his eyes adjust. He could make out leaning tubes of rolled canvases, framed paintings turned to the wall, the big desk. Foole had done his research into the gallerist and knew Farquhar made his profits by touring through the small villages buying up paintings from the unsuspecting local poor. He would find in a season a lost Turner or a Gainsborough and use these profits to float his more ambitious purchases. Not theft, but not honest. He knew also that wealth was beside the point as Farquhar had married the daughter of a lord. There was a high bookshelf crammed with reference volumes and a cabinet with papers in disarray. The carpet was white and thick and very soft under his feet and he was careful to leave no impress of his footsteps where he walked. He paused when he heard someone approaching from the hall but whoever it was walked on past.
