by Will Thomas
"What is your position here, Mr. Maccabee?"
"Mac, please, sir. That's a difficult question. It changes from day to day. Factotum, butler, bodyguard, housekeeper, valet. Take your pick. At present, I'm also secretary, accountant, and messenger, but those are your duties. Did the Guv'nor give any indication of when he might return?"
"Mr. Barker? He said he'd been neglecting some cases while filling my post and would speak to me at breakfast."
"That sounds like the Guv. I believe there's a spare nightshirt in the wardrobe, and some other clothing that might fit you. How are your ankles? I make an excellent liniment."
"No, thank you. I'm fine."
"I'll bid you good evening, then, sir."
I like to read with my meals when I am alone, and I recalled Barker's order to study the books in my room. I picked them off the desk and read the spines. The first was called Methods of Observation and Ratiocination, followed by Implied Logic in Everyday Life, Understanding the Asiatic Mind, and Folk Tales of Old Edo. It was an instructional cramming course. I settled on the Japanese tales, which seemed the least dry reading of the lot, and perused them while eating my meal at the desk. A Welshman is always glad to add to his private store of tales.
Having finished my meal, I crossed to the bed, wincing at the pain in my ankles. At that point I noticed that the window near the bed was ajar an inch or two, and since there was no fire in the grate, I got up to shut it. It was bolted open, another of my employer's eccentricities. I changed into the nightshirt and read in bed for an hour or two, until the events of the day overtook me, and my lids grew heavy. I closed the book and turned down the gas jet over my bed. The night before I had shared a garret with five other unfortunates, waiting for them all to settle down before I packed my bag and stole out. Now I had a room all to myself, with a comfortable bed and a butler bringing me meals on a tray. A man's life can change completely in one day.
In the middle of the night I was awakened by something binding my lower limbs, and there was a strange sound in the room. I sat up and looked about, attempting to straighten my bedclothes. Something was there by my feet. It was my assailant of the previous evening, Harm. He'd stolen into my bedroom and curled up at the foot of the bed. The sound, I realized, was his snoring. I shrugged philosophically. I supposed if I had a nose so mashed against my face that my eyes protruded, I'd snore as well. I pulled the covers higher, the black bundle of fur coming with them, and went back to sleep.
***
I woke up stiff and sore the next morning, with the beginnings of a cold. I cursed the open window and reflected on the irony that I had escaped a frigid garret room only to catch my death because of an employer's whim. The sun was up, but low in the sky. I judged it to be about eight o'clock.
Somehow, through all the bustle of the first day, my battered old pasteboard suitcase had found its way to my room. I shaved and combed my hair with the aid of a pitcher and bowl on the nightstand. The suit I picked out of the wardrobe wasn't an exact fit, but it was better than my own. I made my bed, wondering what had happened to my predecessor that he didn't need his entire wardrobe anymore, and straightened the room before going out into the hall. I hesitated, not certain what to do next.
"Llewelyn? That you, lad?" Barker's voice came from overhead. He must have ears like a cat.
"Aye, sir!"
"Come up here, then. There's a good fellow."
I climbed a narrow and steep staircase to the upper story. The entire top floor was one single long room going up to the roof peak, with a pair of gables on each side. The walls were a deep cardinal red. The room was dominated by a large canopied bed at the far end, with heavy curtains of the style made popular at the turn of the last century. Low bookshelves lined the walls, and every foot of the slanting wall space was hung with weapons: swords, scimitars, blowguns, harquebuses, spears. It was a fantastic collection, if a bit bloodthirsty.
A blaze was burning in the attic grate, and two chairs were set before it. Cyrus Barker was in one of the chairs. Though he wore a dressing gown of gray silk, his wing-tipped collar was crisp and his tie securely knotted and pinned. With one hand he was scratching Harm behind the ears, and in the other, he held a dainty cup and saucer containing a pallid liquid which could only be green tea. Of course, he wore those strange spectacles. I wondered if he slept in them.
"Have you settled in?"
"Yes, sir," I responded. "But, about that windowЕ"
"A house rule you must humor, I'm afraid. Most of the deaths in this country are due to shutting up the patient in a room full of his own noxious fumes and microbes. Fresh air was meant to flow freely about our bodies at night. To shut oneself up in overheated rooms stultifies the brain and lowers one's natural ability to fight infection. I never catch cold, Mr. Llewelyn."
"I believe I've caught one."
"Your body is not accustomed to fresh south London air. Give it time. Soon you'll be as a steam boiler glowing red in the chilly night. Now come, have some of this delicious tea."
I watched my employer's large hands pour tea from a tiny pot into a cup and saucer. We were grown men playing "tea party." The tea was passable, I suppose. I wondered what he'd say if he knew there was a coffee drinker under his roof.
"How were your errands? Did you find everything?"
"Fine, yes, sir. No problems at all."
"And did you study the books I placed on your table?"
"I spent the evening reading the Japanese tales. Fascinating they were, too."
"Excellent," he pronounced, standing and exchanging his dressing gown for a frock coat. "I'm going to the office. I want you to spend the day studying the rest of the books. We'll discuss them thoroughly after dinner." He tucked the dog under his arm like a book and preceded me down the staircase.
My day was spent in hard study. It reminded me of my time at university. Mac brought me several cups of green tea, no doubt at the insistence of my employer. I thought there was a sardonic gleam in the young butler's eye. Lunch proved to be a rather tasteless stew and a hard roll. Later, dinner was even worse, a Scottish feast of mutton, mashed turnips, and potatoes. Not that I was grumbling, but I would have preferred a plate of jellied eel over this lot. Barker didn't seem to notice. It was my own fault for hiring myself out to a Scotsman.
My employer called me up to his eyrie after supper. He was standing in one of the gables, looking out over his garden.
"Fog's coming up," he noted. "Are you prepared for our little chat?"
"I am, sir."
Oral examinations were the dread of most students during my university days. One needed to be thoroughly grounded in the subject and able to think on one's feet. Luckily for me, Barker questioned in a straightforward and logical way. I found myself answering almost conversationally. He expounded after some of my answers, and it was evident that he was well informed on all of the subjects in the books. Far from the torture I expected, I found I was almost enjoying myself. The gentleman in his own home was far removed from the tyrant in his chambers at 7 Craig's Court.
"That's enough, then," he said, finally. "You've proven to me that you now have a rudimentary grounding in the subjects I desired."
"May I ask a question?" I hazarded. "I understand the need for logic and ratiocination, but why all the oriental studies?"
"The Foreign Office considers me an authority on the subject and frequently calls me in for casework and interpreting. I'm something of an orientalist, though my knowledge was acquired firsthand, rather than out of books."
"Firsthand, sir? You've lived in the East, then?"
"I was raised there. Foochow, Shanghai, Canton, Kyoto, Manila. All over, really. That's enough now, lad. Get some rest. Be ready for your first day tomorrow."
I wanted to question him further, but I had been dismissed.
***
The next thing I knew, Barker was bellowing my name. It was not an ideal way to start one's first day of employment.
"Sir!" I answered, sitting u
p in bed.
"It is time you were about, lad. It's nearly seven." The voice was over my head, vibrating down from his garret.
Mac had failed to wake me. "Where is Mr. Maccabee?"
"It is the Shabbat," he answered. "Mac's day off."
I rubbed a hand over my face vigorously, then just to show it who was in charge, I climbed out of bed and threw some cold water on it. I put on one of my predecessor's suits and prepared myself for my first day at work. I wanted to make a good impression.
Barker was all hustle and bustle as he came down the stairs, dressed in a spotless double-breasted black morning coat. He inspected my suit critically, then led me out to the curb. Raising his stick, he brought the first cab to our feet.
Barker's residence was just off the circle known as Elephant and Castle. The street was named for the well-known public house, which, if you believe the guidebooks, was corrupted from L'enfant de Castille, after a Spanish noble's child that stayed in London some time in the city's obscure past. If one were to look at a map of London, one would note that the E and C is a kind of hub around which lie the spokes of major thoroughfares, leading to all the famous bridges of the city: Lambeth, Westminster, Waterloo, Blackfriars, Southwark, London, and the Tower. All of them could be reached from Barker's residence in a matter of minutes. It was this fortunate placement, I think, that made Barker choose a home on the unfashionable Lambeth side of London.
It was Waterloo we were crossing this time, before turning south. I was to work in Whitehall, one of the most famous streets in the world. Rattling down Whitehall Street in the hansom, I could look directly ahead and see the Parliament clock tower containing the bell called Big Ben. Over my shoulder were Trafalgar Square and Nelson's Column, and down the street was the prime minister's residence, and the Home and Foreign Offices. Everywhere you turned there was a monument, a statue, a famous landmark.
Craig's Court is a quiet little cul-de-sac backing up against Great Scotland Yard and the police headquarters that have appropriated the name. Despite its abbreviated length, Craig's Court has a reputation, for it is where most of the enquiry agents in town keep their offices.
Inside the agency, the antechamber, the scene of such trepidation two days ago, now seemed dull and vacant. The clerk was still there, buried behind another Police Gazette. Barker continued on, but I stopped to introduce myself.
"†'Lo. You're the new assistant. Welsh fella."
"Yes, Llewelyn."
Jenkins didn't improve on second glance. He was in his early thirties, sprawled in his chair as loose-limbed as a marionette, and was so nearsighted he almost used his chin for a paperweight while copying down my name.
"You just had to have a long name," he complained. "Last one was named Quong. Nice and short."
"What happened to him?" I asked. Jenkins raised a hand and formed his fingers into a gun. He brought his index finger to a spot between his eyes and squeezed the trigger. My predecessor was dead. That was what I had been afraid of.
"Here," he said, pulling himself up, as if an inspiration had hit him. "Jones is a Welsh name, init? That's not long."
"Are you proposing I change my name to Jones so you'll have less work to do?"
He shrugged his bony shoulders. "Just a thought. Have you got a cigarette?"
"I fear not."
"I need a cigarette. Tell Mr. B. I shall return directly."
He left. It was a wonder Barker got any work done, taking on charity cases like us. I went into the inner chambers.
If I was fearful of being shot at on that first day, I needn't have worried. I spent part of the morning taking shorthand notes for my employer and the rest typing them up. Aside from the odd hint of blackmail or other crimes in the letters he dictated, I might just as well have been working in a bank or a government office. The only excitement of the morning was trying to make sense of Barker's notes. His personal handwriting was almost indecipherable.
There is no need to wonder what time it is in Craig's Court when Big Ben peals noon. We had a ploughman's lunch at a pub around the corner, called the Rising Sun. I've never been able to abide pickled onions, but Barker polished off a plateful with his lunch, washing them down with abstemious sips of his stout. I ate fresh bread and cheese and drank a half-pint of bitters, all of which was excellent.
"What shall be our itinerary for the rest of the day, sir?" I asked. I hoped I had the rest of Saturday free, but with Barker as an employer, it was not good to presume.
"I'm going out of town this afternoon. You may have the rest of the day off. It is a beautiful day, and I suggest you don't waste it. Why not walk home, and get to know the area better?"
"Certainly, sir. I will."
"I'm off, then. Tell Mac I shall be late again." And he was gone. He moved fast for a big man.
So that was that. An invigorating walk across half of London. Of course, it began pouring rain halfway across Waterloo. I had no umbrella, having pawned it months before, but I did have a stout bowler and heavy woolen Ulster coat that had once belonged to my late predecessor. It had no bullet holes, I noticed. I pulled up the collar and tugged down my hat and settled into a regular, plodding pace. Being poor and Welsh, I'd learned to walk in hilly country. These flat streets were nothing to me. I walked steadily down Waterloo Road, watching the rain cascade in a stream from the brim of my hat. I passed commercial and residential districts, by small parks and churches. It was not the worst way to spend a Saturday afternoon. London is a beautiful city, and never more so than when it rains. The streets gleam, the buildings all take on a dappled color, and the lights from butcher shops, tobacconists, and tea shops cast a cozy shade of ochre upon the pavement.
Mac regarded me severely as I sloshed into the back passage, and Harm was displeased that I was dripping on the linoleum. He nipped at my heels (the dog, that is, not Mac, though he looked like he might have considered it), but it was a halfhearted and perfunctory attempt. Mac finally spoke.
"Out for a walk, I see."
"Very observant. You should be a detective," I replied. "Mr. Barker thought I should get to know the area better."
"I don't believe he meant that you should swim the Thames," he said acidly. "Give me your wet things. I've laid a fire. Actually, your timing is perfect. Your wardrobe has just arrived from Krause Brothers, and I believe your new boots are here as well."
"Excuse me. Did you say 'wardrobe'?"
***
The next morning, the rain had stopped, but a fog had rolled in thick and heavy. Luckily, it was a white fog and showed every intention of dissipating by noon, rather than the yellow kind, the London "particular," full of coal smoke and the effluvium of every factory in the old town. That kind can float about the area for days, choking out the lives of the aged and consumptive.
I didn't let the weather bother me, however, for I had a new wardrobe. Not one, but half a dozen suits in various cuts and fabric, and all tailored to fit like a kid glove. Needless to say, I spent the night alternating between trying on the various articles and thanking my employer for his generosity. It was more and better clothing than I had ever had in my entire life. Gruffly, Barker muttered something about not wanting the agency to look less than professional, but I believe he was pleased. At least I passed muster.
So that morning, I was fully dressed and beginning a new stack of books that had suddenly appeared on my desk overnight, when the Guv appeared at my door.
"I see you're already into the new books. Good work, lad." He came in and wandered about, doing those things one does when one is uncomfortable, such as inspecting the wardrobe for dust or distress, and whistling quietly off-key.
"Is there something you wish, sir?" I asked.
"Well, here's the thing. I am in the habit of attending the Metropolitan Tabernacle, Charles Haddon Spurgeon's church, which is right across the street. I was wondering whether you might like to join me."
I closed my book. "Certainly, I'll go."
He smiled. That is to say, his bl
ack mustache changed shape, like a bow whose string had been relaxed.
"Thank you," he said formally. "We leave within the quarter hour."
The church was, indeed, almost across the street. I had noted it in my walk, but it hadn't registered in my mind that it was a church. To my Methodist eyes, the building more closely resembled a bank or museum.
Inside, the building was immense, seating thousands and including a gallery. The latter had a long, gleaming brass rail encircling the room, and in one corner, it bulged out into a small balcony, not unlike a stage. As the first hymn began, I learned something else about my employer. His singing is no better than his penmanship.
The famous preacher got up to speak. I was impressed by his passion and energy. Spurgeon almost bounded about the stage. He lifted us to the very gates of Heaven, then swooped down and dragged us along the coals of Hell until our coattails were singed and brimstone was in our nostrils.
Coming out of the tabernacle and down the steps, I had to admit I'd had a good time. I'd even felt spiritually uplifted. Now, like most of the attendees, I was looking forward to a nice Sunday supper, a little reading, and perhaps a Sabbath nap. Alas, such was not to be.
A four-wheeler stood at our door across the street. In front of it a figure waited impatiently for us to arrive. It was a tall, thin man in a long coat and wide-brimmed hat. His face was pale and hawkish and he had a long black beard. From his temples hung the long side curls of the traditional Jew. I felt a sudden sense of foreboding.
Barker walked up to him, and they murmured for a moment in what I suppose was Yiddish. The Guv read over a note the man handed him.
"I fear we shall miss lunch," he told me after a moment. We climbed into the vehicle and were off.
4
I've always been interested in architecture and the way that buildings resemble their function. Churches point toward Heaven, banks reflect prosperity, and constabularies give us a sense of security. Even gin palaces attempt to show the supposed gaiety and good times to be had inside their doors. But what of morgues? You will never find a plainer building. They are boxes of bricks tucked away out of sight, discreet and anonymous. They are warehouses for bodies, communal coffins. Most are a single long hall, with rooms on both sides, an entrance at one end, and an attempt at a portico at the other, but which more closely resembles a goods dockyard. And why not? It is usually in the morgue that, officially, a person ceases to be a person and becomes merely a piece of property.
