by Will Thomas
As expected, it came. The next I knew, I woke stretched flat on the floor, pain roaring in every limb. I blinked at the ceiling and hoped for death. It was a couple of minutes before either of us spoke.
“Where in the Sam Hill did you learn how to fight like that?” he demanded, rubbing his jaw.
I tried to work out who Sam Hill was, then concentrated on the gist of the question.
“Your brother taught me,” I said, trying to sit up. “He trained under a teacher in Canton named Wong Kei-Ying. It’s very effective.”
Caleb leaned against the wall, still nursing his jaw, which I had elbowed.
“Must be, if I fought a kid to a draw.”
“You have a good left hook,” I said.
“Thank you. It feels good to bust someone’s head now and then. It’s therapeutic.”
“Where did you learn a word like ‘therapeutic’?”
“I do have some education, Mr. Llewelyn. In America, there are towns that swear by their mineral water to cure anything from lumbago to a cold in the pants. Now, tell me who’s on this list you’re making. Has anyone sworn vengeance on my brother in the last few years?”
“A few,” I admitted. “There was a financier who promised to destroy him, though I think he meant financially. There’s a fellow named Keller who swore he’d kill Barker, but he’s going to be hanged in a few days.”
“A fellow might take exception to something like that,” he said.
“The problem is that most anyone who goes up against the Guv either dies or finds himself in prison, and you can’t blow up a man’s offices while in prison.”
“No, but your friends can.”
I considered the matter. “I’d have to really like someone to dynamite a building for him.”
Caleb nodded. “It’s been my experience that most prisoners don’t make very good friends.”
“True.”
“That’s all you’ve got?”
“Sir, this only happened at half past eight this morning. My employer is injured, my offices are gone, I had a strange woman in here just before you arrived and I followed her to a hotel due to her suspicious behavior. Then you arrived. I haven’t had time to solve the case. In fact, I haven’t even got the plaster out of my hair.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “I’m cutting myself loose. I’ll see you in the morning. Where can a man find a good meal and some beer around here?”
“The Clarence. It’s one street to the south.”
“Near Scotland Yard? I think not. I’ll head north and see what I find for myself, thank you.”
In a moment, he was gone. I heard the door click shut.
“Five-thirty, Mr. L.!” Jenkins called from the outer room.
“Thank you for telling me. Good night, Jeremy.”
“Good night, sir.”
I was alone at last in the peace and quiet. Somewhere in the distance I heard the quaint sounds of old London Town, but it didn’t soothe me as it otherwise might. I put my forehead down on my desk. The plain wood was not as cool as Barker’s glass-topped desk, but it was cool enough for my fevered brow.
Should I follow after Caleb Barker and see what he was doing, perhaps catch him in a criminal act? No, I believed what he’d said about the meal and the beer. It was wise not to trust him, but I did not want to be lured off-task by what could prove to be a fool’s errand.
I didn’t sleep exactly, but almost immediately Big Ben chimed six. I stood, looked about the dusty room, and then went downstairs to lock the door. Out of doors, everything seemed louder. I made my way to the Underground and eventually came up the stairs into Newington Causeway. After five minutes’ walk, I was home.
“What has happened today?” Mac asked at the door, overwound like a spring.
“Where to begin?” I asked.
Sighing, I took him through all that had occurred since that morning, including a certain annoying fellow who had informed against me to Mrs. Ashleigh. He was less than contrite.
“A brother,” he murmured when I was done. “I knew he had one, but somehow I never imagined he would come here. America is so far away.”
“I wish he had stayed there. He’s an unpleasant character. If you are fortunate, perhaps you will avoid his company entirely.”
“What about this Mrs. Archer? What is her game, do you think?”
“I got the impression that she enjoys toying with men like a cat batting about a mouse.”
“A coquette, you mean?”
“No. Something darker, I think. I don’t want to know how much darker.”
“Are you hungry? I can make a sandwich, or even a casserole, if you like.”
I considered the subject. “What kind of pie do we have in the larder?”
“Lingonberry, I think.”
“I’ll have a slice of that,” I said.
“Just that? No meat? No vegetables? That’s not very substantial.”
“Then give me half the pie. Is that substantial enough? And some milk. Do we have any in the house?”
“We do.”
“There you are, then.”
“It’s still not a proper meal.”
“Mac.”
“Have it your way, then.”
“I intend to.”
I sat in our opulently appointed dining room, possibly the most formal room in the house, at the end of a long table, eating pie. Pie cannot fix everything, of course, but it has never ruined anything, either. I ate the entire half with a tall tumbler of cool milk and stared at the wall opposite me. Then I had a bath. After that, I called Mac.
“Look, I’m sorry. It’s been a beastly day, but I shouldn’t take it out on you.”
“You haven’t. To tell the truth, I’m amazed you are even lucid. You’ve had a day.”
“Thank you, Jacob. I have, indeed. What o’clock is it?”
“Half past seven.”
“I believe I’ll go upstairs and read a book,” I said.
It was almost a challenge. Neither of us had the Guv to tell us what to do. I felt numb. What was I going to do about Caleb Barker? Should I let him visit his brother? And why in the world did I eat half a pie for dinner?
“Oh,” Mac said. “Yes, read. Get your mind on something else.”
I hadn’t realized how steep our staircase was and how many steps it had. Inside my comfortable room, I lifted a novel from my bedside table, a collection of stories by Mr. Kipling. Then I collapsed on the bed and promptly fell into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER SIX
Blessed Tuesday began with a ruckus downstairs. I pulled on my dressing gown and descended the staircase in my stockinged feet. Stepping into the kitchen, I found Caleb and our chef, Etienne Dummolard, nose to nose in the middle of an argument.
“I like a cigarette as much as the next man, it’s true, but it’s not a goddamned condiment! You drop one more ash in my egg and I’ll plug you so bad you can read newsprint through your chest.”
“You cannot ‘plug’ me with a meat cleaver in your head, Cowboy Américain. You reach for a gun and I will split your skull.”
I looked into the skillet and shook my head, wondering how long Caleb Barker had been in the house and how he had gotten there. I hadn’t given him our address. “Those aren’t ashes, Caleb. They’re truffles.”
“Well, what do you call that?” he asked, pointing to the side of the pan.
“Er … Well, yes, that’s definitely an ash.”
“I just asked for a couple of eggs without all the fancy folderol. Is that too much to ask? Some spuds and a bit of bacon? Surely that’s not beyond your skills, is it, Cookie?”
“Who is this ‘Cookie’?” Etienne demanded, looking at me. He is a bearlike fellow, unshaven, slovenly, with a nose like a radish. His temper is legendary.
“He called you a cook,” I said.
“A cook?” he cried. “A cook? I am a chef, trained in Paris at the greatest school in the world.”
“That’s the problem, then,” Caleb said. “Thos
e places breed the taste right out of you. Everything has a sauce. Have you ever had a real beefsteak before, man? I mean a fresh one, pink and rare? You don’t need sauce, you don’t even need salt. I suppose that’s too much to ask.”
Etienne began cursing simultaneously in two languages, while reaching behind him. I knew what he’d do and he didn’t disappoint. He untied his apron and threw it at Caleb. Then he did the same with the pan. Caleb ducked just in time, though he was spattered with egg. The pan burst through the picture window, and plummeted into the koi pond behind the house, no doubt scaring the fish.
“I quit!” Etienne bellowed.
He marched toward the hall door. As he did, he glared my way, and I thought he might strike me, but he didn’t. I’m blessed if he didn’t wink instead. Then he was gone.
“Sensitive fellow, isn’t he?” Barker’s brother asked, picking egg off his shirt and eating it. “Hmm. Not bad. I’ve had worse.”
“This is a fine kettle of fish. What are we going to eat now?”
“I’ve worked a chuck wagon before. I’ll make some eggs, if you toast the bread. Is that the pantry?”
“It is.”
“Where’d you get the Frenchman?” he asked, dropping butter into a copper pan.
“He came with your brother. He was a galley cook aboard the Guv’s lorcha, the Osprey.”
Caleb looked over his shoulder, an egg in each hand. “Wait. Cyrus had a boat?”
“Yes. He was captain of a merchant vessel. Hokkaido to Singapore,” I said, toasting bread over the stove top.
“Last time I saw him he was afraid of the water.”
“Really?” I asked, trying to sound casual. “What was he like as a child?”
“Like most brothers, I reckon: short, skinny, and irritating. We had no idea then that he’d get so big.”
I was silent, waiting for him to speak again. His brother was not half as loquacious.
“Our parents made us dress like the Chinese. Being missionaries, they thought it would make us fit in. I was already too tall, but Cyrus could lie low and not be noticed. One day he came home with a pair of Chinese spectacles. The next day he gave our mother a conniption by shaving the front of his head. You’d think he was just another orphan running through the alleys of Foochow. His Chinese was perfect, though he learned it in the street. Our father had to cane him once or twice for his language. He and I didn’t really get along, I’ll admit. Some of that might be my fault. I didn’t have much time for a scrawny little brat tagging along. Strange one, too.
“Our parents sent me to a boarding school in Shanghai. I begged, I guess. I didn’t care for China, and I got into a lot of fights. In Shanghai, I was with other European boys my age. And girls. I was very interested in girls. Still am.”
“No doubt,” I said.
“Anyway, it all went to hell, didn’t it?” he continued. “Our parents died during a cholera epidemic. I suppose, being missionaries, they thought themselves proof against disease. Cyrus disappeared and I assumed he was dead. Then the Taiping Rebellion reached Shanghai, and our school closed. They weren’t too particular if you were a seventeen-year-old student or an adult, especially if you spoke Chinese. I had a few close scrapes. The war was a disaster. Nobody knew who was in charge, the English, the Americans, or the Ching government. There were skirmishes all over but no organization. It was difficult to tell one side from the other, since few of us wore uniforms. Anyway, I got shot in the chest during a battle. I’d been interpreting for the Americans, a squad called the Devil Soldiers. Their general got killed and they retreated, taking me with them.
“Apparently, after they got the bullet out, I had a fever, and I woke up in the middle of the ocean halfway to America. As far as I knew, I had no family ties, no money, and no prospects. After I healed, I worked on the docks in San Francisco for a spell. I followed the railroads as an interpreter for the Chinese workers, then became a cowpuncher. I got in a spell of trouble, but I was offered a job as a deputy marshal in Dodge City. I did that for a few years, then I got fired.”
“Fired?” I asked.
“Sacked. It was politics. Our dispute reached the newspapers. Bill Pinkerton read about it and offered me a job. I’ve been working for him ever since.”
“Where do you work?”
“I’m based out of Chicago, but I go all over. New York, District of Columbia, Montana, California. Plate.”
“What?”
“Plate!”
I handed him my dish and he slid some scrambled eggs onto it. I lay the toasted bread on top. We sat and began to eat.
“Did Barker, I mean your brother, try to reach you?”
“He sent a postal card, last year, but I was on a mission at the time. It was a shock to hear that he was still alive. I sent him a card about six months later, saying we’d get together sometime, but of course we both knew we never would. Then I got an assignment to protect another agent in England, and here I am.”
“Did you remember your brother’s address or did you just come upon the sign?”
“Boy, do you ever give your tongue a rest? Don’t think I don’t know I’m being squeezed like a pump handle.”
“Pardon me. I’m naturally curious.”
“You’re naturally irritating, more like.”
I poured some coffee and took a gulp. Immediately I began choking.
“What is this?” I croaked.
“What do you think it is? It’s Texas coffee. I made it myself.”
“What’s in it?”
“Coffee, a little water, molasses, egg shells, some chewing tobacco, gunpowder for taste, and salt. Oh, and cayenne pepper.”
“Surely you’re joking,” I said.
“Of course I am. There’s no cayenne pepper over here.”
I dared another sip. Something was left on the tip of my tongue. Eggshell. “I’ve been poisoned.”
“Drink it. Say, are you aware there are men in the garden?”
“They are Chinese gardeners.”
“Really? I think I’ll go get acquainted. My Mandarin is rusty.”
“We’re leaving in three minutes,” I warned.
“You can’t rush talking to a Chinaman. It’s poor manners.”
He left and went outside. I watched him from the broken window. Jacob Maccabee came in a moment later.
“Where have you been?” I asked.
“Hiding. He called me a varmint. What exactly is a varmint?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“Did he break the window or did Etienne?”
“Both between them. Oh, and don’t drink the coffee.”
He raised my cup to his nose and quickly pulled it away. “What’s in it?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“That window is the most expensive thing in this entire house. Do you know how hard it is to make a single pane that large?”
“I have no idea. I’ve never considered breaking it.”
“He’s so unlike his brother!”
“In some ways. And yet in others, he is exactly like his brother.”
“Oh really? How do you mean?”
“To begin with, I wouldn’t want to go up against either of them.”
“Does he carry a gun?” Mac asked.
“He was just guarding another Pinkerton agent. I doubt he did it with a jackknife. Why?”
“He looked like he wanted to shoot me.”
“Don’t worry, Mac,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “I’ve wanted to shoot you for years and yet here you stand.”
“I’m keeping my shotgun by my door just in case.”
Caleb Barker came in then. Mac turned and left the room.
“You might consider not terrorizing the staff, unless you prefer to do laundry as well as cooking,” I said. “You don’t work well with people, do you?”
“As I said, I prefer my own company.”
He wasn’t the only one, I thought.
“America’s big enough that
you can ride all day and not see a single soul,” he said.
“I can’t even imagine what that’s like.”
Caleb Barker pulled a watch from his canvas trousers and consulted it. “Three minutes, didn’t you say?”
“You did.”
“Let’s go, then. Tempus fugit, as it says on the clock in your hallway.”
In Newington Causeway, we found a cab and climbed aboard. When we reached Clerkenwell, I told the cabman to wait while we went inside. I couldn’t gauge Caleb’s mood. I suspected he was concerned about speaking to his brother after all these years and that he might feel guilty for not tracking him down before now, but that might not be the case.
We entered the room. Barker was still lying immobile, and Mrs. Ashleigh was sitting in a chair close by, embroidering a spray of bluebells in a small hoop.
“Thomas!” Mrs. Ashleigh said.
“Good morning,” I said. “How is the patient doing?”
“He sleeps a good deal, but wakes for a few minutes every hour.”
She was speaking to me, but looking at my companion.
“Mrs. Ashleigh, this is Mr. Caleb Barker of America. Caleb, Mrs. Philippa Ashleigh of Seaford, Sussex.”
Philippa’s eyes shot open but they returned to normal very quickly. She is famous for her aplomb.
“Why, Mr. Barker, how lovely to meet you. Your brother and I have talked of you many times.”
Caleb came forward, took her hand, and bent over it.
“Madam, I am most pleased to make your acquaintance.” He looked at the Guv, who lay very still behind those black-lensed spectacles he wore. “Is he awake?”
“I am,” the Guv rumbled. “Good morning, Caleb.”
“Good to see you again, Cyrus. It’s been awhile.”
“You sound like an American,” the Guv said. “What’s become of your Scots tongue?”
“Didn’t suit me,” he replied. “I’m sub rosa most of the time, as a Pinkerton agent. A Scots accent would stick up like a nail.”
