Blood Is Blood

by Will Thomas

  “Could it be possible that he is attending to other business elsewhere? Does he have other offices or clients outside of London? It’s possible that he found he had to take care of something that has taken more time than he had expected.”

  “There, you see!” she said, clutching her bag and leaning forward imploringly.

  I looked away, unable to take the searing glance she was giving me. It felt overly personal. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “You’re so resourceful. I hadn’t thought of that. Of course, you’re right. It would wreak havoc upon the business if he had a lead he didn’t pursue. Do you think he is all right, then?”

  “I don’t see why not. If, as you say, he is a contractor, in a world of plans and parquet floors, I don’t see how he could be in any real danger. Most likely he was called away for something involving his work.”

  “But what if it’s the alternative?”

  “That he might be in danger?”

  “No!” she cried. “That he left because of me. He left me because I was a disappointment, a poor wife. I know I’m not a very good cook, and I haven’t had much schooling, but I’ve tried to impress the associates he has brought home. Is it me? Am I so repulsive that he must disappear in order to—”

  “That’s not possible, madam,” I answered. “Believe me.”

  “You don’t think I’m…”

  “Mrs. Archer, you have nothing to worry about on that score.”

  She wiped her nose with the handkerchief, which was totally inadequate to stanch the salty tears rolling down her cheeks. I gave her mine. She sat for a moment, calming herself, twisting the wedding ring on her finger nervously.

  “How long have you been married?” I asked, if only for something to say.

  “A year. A year and a half, actually.”

  “Ah. You have two options, as I see it. Notify Scotland Yard, or wait for your husband to return.”

  She looked up at me with those greenish-gray eyes of hers. When she spoke, her voice was rough.

  “You really won’t help me, then?”

  “It’s not a question of will I, but of can I. I’m but one man. You’d require at least a dozen agents to follow so many possibilities. And I don’t have Mr. Barker’s permission to start such a case.”

  “Oh, bother Mr. Barker!” she cried, then stopped herself. “Forgive me. I’m overwrought. Is he badly injured?”

  “I don’t know yet. He certainly was injured.”

  “But not near death, I trust.”

  “No.”

  “So there’s at least a small chance he might take my case?”

  I shook my head. Her hopes were misplaced.

  “Ma’am, at this moment your husband could be anywhere in the country. Every tick of the clock could take him farther away. And if he is in London, there are tens of thousands of garrets to be searched.”

  “I understand,” she murmured, staring at her hands. “Forgive me. I’m sure you’re right.”

  “I would recommend most of the detectives in this court, if that is your preference.”

  “Thank you. I was recommended to Mr. Barker as the most professional and the most discreet. If word were spread it would mean the end of our business and our fortunes. But you have no part in that.”

  “I fear not,” I said, rising.

  “Thank you, Mr. Llewelyn. I-I won’t take up any more of your time.”

  She stood, took a deep, straining breath, and left the room. I could hear her dainty shoes on the stair, and the sound of the latch.

  Shakespeare said it best. “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.” As soon as she was gone, my mind began calculating. Mrs. Camille Archer had asked almost nothing about the state of our rooms. She had come into a bare office and sat, while most women would have left in search of a more prosperous-looking agency. She had leaned forward a little too often, in spite of the knowledge that I was doing my best to put her off. In effect, she had flirted with me. I know a woman at the end of her rope might do just about anything, but I doubted this was one of them.

  “What a corker!” Jenkins called from the other room, but I was distracted.

  It was a ruse. She had been hired to ascertain if Barker were alive or dead and I had unwittingly told her. After years of training, I had been tricked by an adorable nose and a bit of lace.

  I turned and, without a word to Jenkins, ran out of the chambers and down the stairs into Craig’s Court. I dashed into Whitehall, looking right and left. A cab was just pulling away on the north side of Whitehall Street. It might be hers and it might not, but following it was better than doing nothing. Hailing a cab, I jumped aboard and told the cabman to follow the one ahead. He snapped the whip and we began to move into the bustling traffic.

  It was a stupid mistake, I told myself. It never occurred to me that someone might try a second time to harm Barker, or even me, now that I thought of it. She could have easily reached into that reticule of hers for a lace handkerchief and pulled out a pocket pistol instead. She could have put an end to my incompetence, a well-deserved end, no doubt.

  The hansom bowled into Charing Cross, heading toward the station there. I assumed she would be leaving London, but at the last minute, the cab turned into a smaller street, coming to a halt in front of a private hotel. Bradford’s Family Hotel, to be precise. I watched her descend and go into the building. She had indeed chosen that cab, so I wasn’t a complete idiot. Telling her Barker’s condition was incredibly imprudent for a trained private enquiry agent. At least I had not said where he could be found.

  I paid the cabman and alighted. Family hotels are a misery for enquiry agents. They offer propriety to families coming into London, and safeguards their identity. Their clerks won’t tell one anything, and one is not permitted to wander the halls or converse with guests. One is stopped at the desk and driven back out into the street again.

  In spite of that, I approached the desk, and spoke to the clerk. “A young woman came in just now, wearing a gray dress. I need to speak to her.”

  “Who might I say is calling?”

  “A friend of her husband. A business associate, in fact. She is upset over the disappearance of her husband.”

  “So I understand, sir. She arrived last night. I’m afraid she was near tears this morning at breakfast.”

  “What room does the woman occupy?” I asked. “I have been hunting her husband for her and would like to give her some information.”

  “I cannot say, sir, and you cannot go upstairs. This is as far as you may go.”

  “Would ten pounds change your mind?”

  “Bless you, sir, ten times that amount would not keep me from enforcing our guests’ privacy. I am the son of the owner. Our living is based upon it.”

  “But since I cannot go upstairs, what is the harm in knowing the number?”

  “It is policy, sir.”

  Our interview was reaching the point where it would be easier to punch him than to continue the conversation. I also had a pistol in my pocket, a snub-nosed Webley to track a snub-nosed girl. But no, it wouldn’t do to have it thrown about that Thomas Llewelyn, Cyrus Barker’s assistant, had assaulted a humble desk clerk, in a family hotel, no less. Bribing a clerk, on the other hand, might still be tolerated.

  “A shame,” I said. “Me with so many pound notes in my pocket, and you with your family honor. That won’t keep you warm at night.”

  I laid down a five-pound note. And then another. I stopped at twenty. He snatched them up and they disappeared into his pocket.

  “Actually, she left this morning, sir, bags and all.”

  “But I just saw her enter this establishment!”

  “Yes, sir, she entered through the front door, then exited out the back.”

  I cursed, pushed past him, and ran out the back door. There I found a brick wall and a narrow alley. At the end of it, one side went back to the street, while the other looked narrow and disreputable. She’d soil and snag her pretty en
semble on those walls.

  Angry with myself, I ran into the thoroughfare, but she was gone. Frustrated, I turned and went into the hotel again, to the same desk and the same clerk.

  “Let me see the ledger, please.”

  “I’m afraid that’s strictly forbidden, sir.”

  I opened my jacket and put my hands on my hips where my pistol was secured in my trouser pocket and glared at him.

  Wordlessly, he opened the ledger. I scanned the list. There was no Mrs. Archer written in the book, but there was a Miss Camille Llewelyn. The last name was printed in large block letters. She had done it on purpose, I realized. I was nothing more than a pawn in her hand.

  The chances of my finding her now were remote at best. There was nothing more I could do now but return to the offices. As I hailed a cab, it began to rain. I climbed aboard, watching the familiar view while the downpour fell like a curtain in front of me, buffeting me with its fine spray. Rain dripped from my hair. I shook it off, realizing my bowler was probably in the cellar at Craig’s Court.

  As I rode, I admitted to myself that I had been rude to Mrs. Ashleigh at the priory. I’d taken out my ill temper on her. I decided to have Jenkins order some stationery so that I might send her a note of abject apology. I had no excuse and no defense. My only choice was to throw myself on the mercy of the court.

  When the cab arrived in Craig’s Court, I sprinted to the front door and up the stairs.

  “Jeremy, order some stationery—” I began, but one look at our clerk stopped me in mid-sentence.

  Our clerk seemed to be having some sort of fit, a case of St. Vitus’s Dance, perhaps. He was twitching his head in the direction of the office. Pulling my Webley, I stepped into the chamber, wondering if Mrs. Archer had returned. Perhaps the bomber was working his way to the roof, one floor at a time. I expected anything, anything in the world, except what I found: a full-size, living, breathing American cowboy, straight out of one of Ned Buntline’s novels. His oilskin coat was dripping on the wooden floor.

  “Well, that’s not friendly,” he remarked, his eyes trained on the gun in my hand.

  “Sorry,” I said, although I kept it in my hand, pointing it at the floor.

  “You’re the runt of the litter, aren’t you?”

  He was a full head taller than I, in a long brown slicker and a wide-brimmed hat. His hair curled on his collar, and his long mustache was shot with gray. His eyes were shrewd and even mean. I saw a gun belt on his hip.

  “Why, that comes as a shock,” I remarked, shrugging my shoulders. “Nobody’s ever commented on my height before.”

  He crossed his arms and gave me a crooked smile.

  “Who the hell are you?” he asked.

  “I’m Thomas Llewelyn, Cyrus Barker’s assistant,” I said, raising my pistol again. “But this is my pitch, not yours. Who in hell are you?”

  The cowboy raised his hands, not in the least afraid that I was armed.

  “The name’s Barker,” he said. “Caleb Barker. What have you done with my brother?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “May I see some proper identification?” I demanded of the man. “Someone has already tried to blow me into the cellar and dupe me today. I consider your sudden arrival suspicious.”

  He reached into his pocket, and my hand naturally raised the pistol again. His hand withdrew nothing more dangerous than a sheaf of papers, which he held out to me. I opened them and was arrested by the legend printed across the top of the letter.

  “Pinkerton Detective Agency!” I said.

  In response, he lifted the lapel of his coat. On the inside, a pewter shield was pinned to it, with the agency name printed upon it.

  “Here are your papers,” I said, handing them back. “I’ll accept you are whom you claim to be, for the moment.”

  The truth was, I could tell it was Barker’s brother. Caleb was tall, although not as muscular as my employer. They had the same strong jaw, though their mustaches were different. I could have picked him out of a crowd.

  “My brother,” he growled again. “Where is he?”

  “Our offices were bombed this morning. He is in hospital.”

  “How bad is it? Was he seriously injured?”

  I hesitated. I had just given this information to Mrs. Archer and was still castigating myself over it. But in truth, he was the Guv’s brother and deserved to know.

  “He has a shattered limb and a concussion.”

  “I’d like to see him.”

  “He’s been drugged. I doubt he’ll be awake tonight.”

  Caleb Barker put his hands on his hips and frowned fiercely at the floor. After a moment he spoke. “Fine. Then tell me what you’re doing to catch the man who did this.”

  “I’ve culled a list of people who might have cause to do the Guv harm. Scotland Yard is confirming their whereabouts.”

  “The Guv?”

  “It’s what we call him,” I said. “Some of us, anyway. I’m not sure who started it. Anyway, I’ve spoken to Scotland Yard, and they’ll confirm the location and condition of each of the suspects.”

  “Was it a large blast?” Caleb asked, pushing back his hat.

  “No. As far as I can ascertain, it was four small devices, each set in a corner, with just enough charge to bring the room down. The Irish, for example, would have blown out half the block.”

  “I’ve had dealings with the Irish before in Pennsylvania. They don’t do things by halves. Well, you’ve got a start. Has Cyrus been awake?”

  I was momentarily nonplussed by hearing my employer referred to by his given name. That would take some getting used to.

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “What are you doing now?” Caleb asked.

  “I’m waiting for Scotland Yard to contact me.”

  “What’ll I do while you wait for them? I didn’t come here to sit on my thumbs. He’s my brother. Blood is blood. You go against me, you go against us all.”

  “I have no idea why you’re here. You’re being very circumspect.”

  “Mr. Llewelyn, it’s none of your damned business what I do.”

  “It is when I’m in charge,” I said.

  “You, in charge? Ha! You’re just an assistant. I’m an operative, with twelve years’ standing.”

  I crossed my arms and glared at him. “Perhaps in America, where there are no standards, and just anything or anyone will do.”

  “That’s big talk from a tadpole still wet behind the ears,” he growled.

  I’d been sitting behind the temporary desk, but I rose at his last words and rested my knuckles on the surface.

  “A tadpole trained by the best enquiry agent in London. Now get out and don’t come back until I talk to Mr. Barker in the morning.”

  “You keep talking, boy,” he growled, “and I’ll have to wipe that smirk off your baby face. Why in the world did my brother hire someone like you?”

  “You’ll have to ask him about that, but you’re welcome to try me if you’re man enough, without your guns and spurs. Otherwise, you can get out of here and take the next boat back to America. Slaughter some more Indians for their lands.”

  “That tears it!” he growled.

  Caleb came forward then, hands out, ready to pummel me. It was all I needed. I charged over the desk and caught him full in the chest with both boots.

  I’ve spent too much of my life facing men who are larger than I. I’ve studied various fighting schools in vain for some kind of help in my predicament. Finally, I cobbled together bits and pieces of many arts into my own unnamed creation, collected just for myself. For the most part, there is only one useful tool, and that is precision. Taller men may throw a wild hook, punching securely in the knowledge that if it misses its intended target it will still cause damage. I have no such luxury. My speed, my muscles, my height and weight must all work together to reach one specific spot with all the force I can muster. If it succeeds I can incapacitate my opponent. If not, I must escape his clutches as quickly as p
ossible and search for another opening. It’s not ideal, but it is all that I have, which means serious men my own size must train twice as hard in order to survive.

  As I said, I came over the desk and caught him full in the sternum with both heels, pushing the air out of his chest like a bellows. He staggered back and swung that left hook my way, which I was able to duck in time, punching him just under the nose. It sent a shock through his skull and would make his teeth feel loose for days. His response was a straight punch to the gut of a man half his size. It caught me in the chest and knocked me back over the desk again.

  I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. The feet reach terra firma and one leaps and attacks again. Someone must learn that you are serious, resolved, even adamant. There will be no retreating. The only way by me is through me. There is no time for subtlety in a fight. If you attack me, I must assume you are trying to kill me. Therefore I must kill you.

  I jumped and reached for an ear, which had been pushed outward by the wide-brimmed hat he wore. An ear is mere flesh and cartilage. It can come off. He batted me across the collarbone, flipping me into a tangle of loose limbs, skittering across the dusty wooden floor to the wall.

  He came after me then, taking me by the collar, preparing to give me the solid right punch that would end it. However, just as there are few moves a man my size can inflict, there are few a taller man can use against an opponent my size. I slid low, just under his reach, and delivered a vertical kick to his cobbles.

  There are parts of a man’s anatomy that cannot be strengthened, that have little muscle. The eyes, for example, or the throat. There are bundles of nerve there, the chinks in the dragon’s scales. Caleb Barker staggered back, cursing like a sailor. I scrambled to my feet and attacked again, hoping to catch him under the chin with my knee, since he was bent over. I missed.

  He caught me on the chin and then twice in the stomach. I felt the edge of a fist against my temple that had been meant for my nose. Then came the hook again, which caught me full on the left cheek. It felt like he’d torn my head off.

  I heard rather than saw him step toward me. Growling, I leapt, practically climbing the man. My limbs were wrapped around his chest and I attacked, ripping, scratching, punching, pulling hair, biting, giving him all that I had, all that I had learned—no Queensbury Rules, just dirty fighting from the close alleys of Canton, Edo, Marseilles, Damascus. I knew the coup de grâce would come soon and it would lay me flat, and I wanted to inflict what damage I could while I still had time.