by Will Thomas
We split a steak and mushroom pie between us. Afterward, he hooked a bootheel over the other knee and lit another cigarette.
“I prefer Texas beef and Virginia tobacco,” he said. “But I can’t fault the ale.”
“Of course not. It’s Watney’s.”
“Do you think your list will bear fruit?”
“I suppose it’s possible for a man to bear enough ill will to blow up your brother without saying a word, but it is more likely that ill will shall manifest itself somehow.”
“You’ve had some education yourself, I see.”
“I spent a short while at Oxford,” I said.
“I’ve always wanted more education than I had. I’d have liked to have finished my schooling, but it was cut short by the Taiping Rebellion in Shanghai. After the American Civil War, I was hired by Mr. Pinkerton, and I’ve been traveling ever since.”
“Travel broadens the mind.”
“Not as much as books. I generally keep one in my saddlebags. I’m a great enthusiast for Marcus Aurelius.”
“With good reason,” I said.
“When’s Cyrus coming home?”
“Soon, I hope. He doesn’t convalesce well. It isn’t in his nature to lay about.”
“No,” Caleb said. “It isn’t. Our mother used to keep us in during the monsoon season. You would have thought she was taking a hot poker to his feet the way he carried on.”
“It’s so strange hearing you talk about his childhood days. I rather thought he’d sprung to life at forty.”
“He’d have preferred we treat him as an adult at ten.”
“And you?”
“Me? I’ve never much regarded anyone’s opinion of me one way or the other.”
“I rather suspected that,” I said.
He gave me a rare smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling, but he gave no answer. The two brothers were alike in one way, at least.
“So, what do we do now, Mr. Private Enquiry Agent?” he asked.
“As I said before, I am a humble assistant. Perhaps it is time to talk to your brother. I’m certain he has some ideas.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I had verified the whereabouts of everyone on the list except Hobson, but it still wasn’t my case. I had to talk to Barker, to see if he wanted me to chase down the leads out of town. The day before had been a whirlwind.
Caleb had taken himself away. He still had business to transact for his employer, William Pinkerton, as I had with mine. As it happened, I didn’t mind. He was distracting and irritable, and I had a case to solve.
Stepping from my cab, I came to the ancient St. John’s Gate and went into the priory. I doffed my hat, and ran a hand through my hair. Then I walked down the corridor, my steps echoing in the halls. As I reached the doorway, I saw that Barker was asleep, as was Mrs. Ashleigh, in the hard chair beside his bed. Between that torturous chair and the accoutrements of female beauty, she must have been in a good deal of discomfort.
I cleared my throat and she awoke instantly, like a lioness on the savannah, ready to protect her young. She relaxed when she recognized me, and hid a yawn behind her lace glove. I came farther into the room.
“How is he?” I asked in a low voice.
“He’s fine, thank you,” the Guv growled from the bed. There he was, flat on his back, buried in a mound of flat pillows, his left leg encircled in a contraption of wooden splints and hardware, and it didn’t matter. Cyrus Barker was in charge. He wasn’t a wounded animal in a corner. He was Henry the bloody VIII on his throne, about to take off heads. One of them, I suspected, was my own.
“Philippa,” he rumbled. “Go have a cup of tea.”
He was even short with her. He was never short with her. I often suspected he thought of her as a full-size Staffordshire figurine, a shepherdess or lady, who would shatter if not handled with care, but this time, he didn’t ask her. He ordered her.
She didn’t argue, but when she turned to leave, she glanced in my direction. I read the look as easily as Caleb Barker had read the signs in the tunnel the day before. It said, like the legends on antique maps: be careful. There be sea serpents here.
“What have you been doing?” he asked shortly. The pain was causing him to be in an ill mood.
“Sir, I went to Scotland Yard to find out where each of the suspects is presently.”
“To whom did you speak?”
“Chief Constable McNaughton.”
“Why not Poole?”
Chief Detective Inspector Terence Poole of the Criminal Investigation Department was an old friend of ours. He and the Guv had known each other for years and he was Barker’s trusted source for information and advice. Once or twice he’d gotten himself in trouble for revealing secrets to Barker, or not revealing secrets of Barker’s. He even tolerated me.
“I’ve developed a good rapport with McNaughton,” I answered. “He doesn’t actually loathe me, or if he does, he hides it well.”
“Poole is a senior officer and may be privy to more information.”
“Let’s face it, sir,” I argued. “Terry Poole has crossed the threshold. He’s not a beat inspector anymore. He spends most of his time out of ‘A’ Division, attending various meetings. He’s a good man and a fine detective, but McNaughton, well, he’s got a lean and hungry look.”
Barker grunted. I had actually prepared my case and proven it. The Guv had become a shadow of his former self. Still, you don’t walk up to a wounded lion, smite him on the back, and say “Wotcher!”
“How are the repairs coming along?”
“They’re like a team of beavers,” I said. “I’ve never seen so much fresh timber. I made a few suggestions. Beech paneling in a lighter shade of mahogany. The room was too shadowy. The painters say they could darken the paneling if you don’t like the result.”
“Mmph.”
We were down to monosyllabic responses already. It was not a good sign.
“And my brother?” he continued.
“As it turns out, he has been on the run. There was a gun battle in Sussex, and Caleb was the only man to survive. I had to sell my soul to convince McNaughton not to toss him in jail.”
My employer shifted his weight, and grimaced in pain.
“Keep your eye on him, Thomas. Who knows where the man’s been these twenty years? Prison as likely as not. That Pinkerton badge could have been purchased from a pawnbroker in Arizona.”
“How would I—”
“Quiet. Let me think.”
I let him. It was preferable to being bawled at.
“Give him his lead,” he ordered. “Let him come or go as he likes. If you find yourself with any time, follow him. Don’t reveal our plans to him. On the other hand, get him to reveal his. You are naturally loquacious. That should not be difficult.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Is there anything else to report?”
“There’s an important thing I didn’t get to tell you yet. A woman came to the offices shortly after the bombing, posing as a prospective client.”
“And?”
“And there was something strange about her. I can’t quite put it into words. She reported her husband missing, but then behaved in a way that was unbecoming for a concerned wife. I didn’t trust her, and my instincts turned out to be correct. When she left, I followed her to her hotel, but she had already checked out. I gave chase but by the time I reached the street she was gone. She gave the name Camille Archer, but the worrisome thing is that she had the cheek to sign her name as Camille Llewelyn in the hotel register, so she knows who I am.”
“That is troubling, indeed. It was certainly no coincidence.”
“I took the liberty of hiring Miss Sarah Fletcher, the female operative, to search for Mrs. Archer.”
“Miss Fletcher,” he said, considering. “Excellent move. I hear she is competent.”
I wanted to warn him, but I held my counsel.
“What about the tunnels?”
“It was an excellent
suggestion, sir. Caleb and I walked the tunnels for an hour searching for clues.”
“Get on wi’ it.”
When Cyrus Barker lapses into Scots, he’s at his most elemental.
“We found two sets of footprints in the tunnel, one with a turned nail in the sole. We followed the trail to a spot near the Embankment, not far from Cleopatra’s Needle. There were some fag ends of cigarettes there.”
“Let me see them,” he said.
“We didn’t keep them, sir.”
“Blast. What sort were they?”
“Gauloises, sir, like Etienne’s. They had been only recently smoked.”
“I think it’s time for you to visit the suspects. See what they are up to.”
“Should I take Caleb?” I asked.
“That’s a fair question, lad. Should we? He might learn a secret or two, but we’d know where he was.”
“He’s wearing on my nerves, sir. He’s playing a game, but I’m not sure what kind. Do you suppose he’s trying to scoop the case from under us? Another successful case completed by the Pinkerton Detective Agency?”
“He’s welcome to it, Thomas. There’s little reason why a professional detective would take such a case.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“There’s an old seafaring term that describes Caleb well: a loose cannon. He goes wherever he likes and leaves destruction in his wake. Be careful, Thomas. He’ll try to save his own skin first. Don’t expect him to save yours. Hand me the list.”
I gave it to him, aware that in doing so I was abdicating the case. It was his case, his agency, and he had a right to go after whomever he wished. He perused the paper, mumbling to himself as he did so.
“Excellent work, Thomas,” he said, handing it back. “Good list. I can neither add nor subtract from it. Perrine, for example. You must discover if he is still incarcerated.”
“Sir, he’s in Paris,” I answered.
“Then go to Paris.”
“When?”
“Now. Or tomorrow morning will do, I suppose.”
“I promised McNaughton I would not take your brother out of the country.”
Barker lay back on his pillows for at least half a minute. The bottle of laudanum was still at his elbow. I wondered if he had fallen asleep.
“Sir.”
“Don’t let him see you, then.”
“All right. What if Caleb refuses to come?”
My employer snorted. “Refuse Paris, that cesspool of sin? The trouble will be in getting him to return.”
“Is that everything, then?”
“You’re coming along, Thomas. Go to Paris. Be certain to check in with the Deuxième Bureau.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And send in Philippa on your way out. I have been trying to get her to leave. One would think I was in triage at the Battle of Bull Run.”
“That was in America, wasn’t it, sir?” I asked.
He gave me a withering look.
“I’ll go find Mrs. Ashleigh.”
After I had located her and given her the message, I left the priory and returned to Craig’s Court, where I found myself in sole possession of the office, for once. It was possible that Jenkins had drunk himself into a stupor over the turn of events and was out with a headache. I didn’t blame him. I wish I had thought of it myself. An idea occurred to me then. I picked up the telephone and spoke into the receiver, giving a number. Eventually I was patched through on the line.
“Mocatta residence,” a maid answered. Rebecca’s was a strictly female-staff residence.
“This is Mr. Llewelyn. Could you please relay a message to your mistress, asking her to call me at her next opportunity?”
“Yes, Mr. Llewelyn.”
“Thank you. Good day.”
Rebecca rang a few minutes later.
“What is your schedule like?” I asked.
“Nothing that cannot be rearranged.”
“Would you care to have an early tea? At a respectable ABC, of course.”
“I’m a widow,” she said. “You needn’t be so circumspect.”
“Propriety, madame. I would not be seen pursuing you vehemently for your fortune.”
“It’s hardly a fortune.”
“Your husband left you a fair amount of money, not to mention a house in town.”
“Which you refuse to move into once we are married. In less than two weeks, may I add, in case it didn’t make your timetable.”
“Oh, is that when it is? Tea, then?”
“I’ll put Drusilla Goldman off again,” she said. “I don’t really enjoy her company. Four o’clock?”
“Four it is.”
* * *
An hour later we were in the tearoom, where I sat across from my intended. I could stare at that face for the rest of my life. Wavy dark hair. A white dress with a narrow waist. A thin face that framed two lovely brown eyes. Her smile, it was a second sun. I tried to work out whether I preferred her face straight on, in profile, or three-quarter, but decided it was impossible. Perhaps I’d hire an artist to paint her. Or engage a photographer for a portrait. But no, a photograph really wouldn’t do justice to her pale olive skin.
She was enumerating a list of changes to the wedding ceremony, or something like that. I wasn’t paying attention. I was thinking of the wedding night, in general terms at least. Perhaps I was a little nervous. I am no Casanova, though no one can fault my ardor.
“And I’m relieved to know your family is coming,” she said.
“Rebecca, you know that is impossible. My family and I are estranged. After being released from prison, I was too ashamed to return to my family in Gwent, knowing there was nothing for me there and no employer willing to hire a disgraced scholar.”
“Nonsense! Your sister came to town and said everyone was all a-twitter. Some of your friends and acquaintances are making the journey just to fill your family’s pews.”
“My sister came to London?” I asked, shocked. “When?”
Rebecca smiled and put down her cup. “Yesterday afternoon. She was wonderful. She told me stories about your childhood, Thomas. You were quite a rascal in the town, according to her.”
“Well, perhaps,” I admitted. “Which sister was it? Mara? Bronwyn?”
“Neither. It was Camille. Such a little charmer.”
Nothing has ever shook me to the core so quickly in all my life. Forget convention. I wanted to turn over the tables and barricade the doors, and hunt down my pistol, which I had stupidly left in the desk drawer because it didn’t match the Aerated Bread Company’s decor. Looking about the room, my professional eye searched for weapons I could use: the curtain rods, teapots of scalding water. I would throw the Spode if necessary. Was there a back door? Did the windows have shutters? Should we move to the wall? Could this table withstand a bullet were I to throw it onto its side? I stood and scanned the entrance, my heart thumping in my chest.
“Thomas!” she cried, reaching out for my hand. “What are you doing?”
I sat down again, turning my chair so that I could watch the door. “Describe her.”
“Who?”
“My ‘sister.’”
“She was very pretty, with enormous green eyes. Her coloring, I must say, did not resemble yours.” Her brow furrowed. “What precisely are you telling me?”
“Rebecca, I have no sister named Camille. A woman came to the offices trying to secure our services this week. She gave the name Camille Archer.”
I watched as she tried to take in what I’d told her.
“Camille Archer? But—”
“I realized as soon as she left that she wasn’t trying to hire us at all,” I interrupted. “She was trying to find out if Mr. Barker had been killed in the blast. I followed her to a hotel, and although I couldn’t catch her, I discovered she had registered there as Miss Camille Llewelyn. She even spelled my name correctly. She was flaunting her deception in my face.”
“That’s unconscionable,” she said, shaki
ng her head slowly. “I don’t know what to say. There was no reason to doubt her word.”
“Did she set a date for a second meeting?”
“She was hoping to help with the decorations. She said she would ring.”
“No doubt.”
There was no one near the door, but I became fixated upon it. Would an assassin enter and shoot us? Would conspirators distract me enough to seize my intended and spirit her away? There were too many theories to contend with.
My blood was up. “I’m not sure you should go back to the house. If you do, you mustn’t let anyone through that door.”
“You’re frightening me, Thomas.”
“Unfortunately, that might be the very thing to keep you safe.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
I was a poor companion at tea. I’d been nervous and distracted and I wondered now whether I should have postponed telling Rebecca that I had no sister named Camille. More than anything, I was incensed that Mrs. Archer, or whoever she was, had come close enough to actually touch my intended bride. If she thought she could threaten me with impunity I would disavow her of that notion quickly.
Back in our offices, I looked over the state of repairs in the rooms below and found myself satisfied. The temporary offices above, still mostly empty, now had crates on the floor containing all the salvageable items from our damaged chambers. Barker’s old coat of arms, for example, was leaning against the wall, none the worse for wear. We would get through this temporary interruption. The agency would survive and go on as before.
Caleb had not yet returned. I leaned back in the chair behind the desk and put my feet up, facing the window, as Barker sometimes did. I even tried scratching myself under the chin thoughtfully like the Guv did. Nothing happened. It was as if a bit of fluff was caught in the old cogs. Then, finally, they began to turn.
Staring out the window, I worked out what I would say, where I would go, what I would do in France. It was not a perfect plan, but I had the Guv’s blessing, and it had to be done. I waited impatiently, considering what might come next, when Caleb Barker strolled in in his confident way.
