by Will Thomas
Lifting the Hammond typing machine, I put a piece of paper in it and typed my resignation letter. When it was done, I folded it in thirds and put it in an envelope. I felt better having written it.
The Guv had presented all of his faults to her at once, and at the same time given her cause to believe I was in constant danger if I kept my position. I understood that Barker was in a great deal of pain and wanted to leave the priory because there was a madman or madwoman somewhere in London trying to destroy his entire life. Philippa had good intentions trying to broker a meeting between her intended and mine, but it had been a complete disaster. I even wondered if she were speaking to him now.
“Is there anything I can get you, Mr. L.?” Jenkins asked, looking at the envelope on my desk. “A cup of tea or something?”
“No, thank you,” I replied.
He went back to his desk, but every sound rankled on my nerves, from the flap of his newspaper to the squeak of his chair. I hesitated with the envelope in my hand, then I stood and placed it in the center of Barker’s desk.
“Good-bye, Jeremy,” I said, taking his hand before he had even offered it. “It was a pleasure working with you. Take care of yourself.”
It was worth it to see him with his mouth open, gaping at me as I took my hat, which had miraculously reappeared on the hatstand, and walked out the door. At the bottom of the stair, I stepped outside and pulled the door to. There was a plaque in the gate with my name upon it. I’d have to remove it later.
“So, out of work again,” I remarked to myself.
The position Rabbi Mocatta had arranged for me could vanish as quickly as it had been offered. I felt like the acrobat who leaps from the trapeze hoping beyond hope that someone will catch me from the other side.
“Where to now?” I muttered.
It isn’t every day one resigns, or if it is, I feel sorry for the fellow. I put my hands on my hips in Whitehall Street and looked south toward the Houses of Parliament, then north toward Nelson’s Column. Where should I go? I wondered. I stopped a cab as it came by.
“Cornhill Street,” I told the driver.
My favorite spot in all London is in what is known as St. Michael’s Alley. It is a small terra-cotta building called the Barbados, a coffeehouse which some say is the oldest in London. Here men puzzled over the strong new bitter drink brought to the Old World in hopes of competing with the tea trade. In my opinion, it won.
Once inside, I breathed in the earthy aroma, sloughed off the horrible day, and gave a sigh as if expelling evil humors. I sat down in a booth constructed of old pews, and enjoyed the near darkness, which was comforting in comparison with the bright sun outside.
“Black Apollo,” I told the waiter. “And a barrister’s torte.”
I was indulging a fondness for sweets. First half a pie and now a torte. In my defense, it is a good torte, chocolate on the outside and coffee cream inside, plundered from the Americas. I drank innumerable cups of strong black coffee and ate the torte, which was gone too quickly. Then I had them bring my own churchwarden pipe and smoked some of that Virginia tobacco that Caleb extolled. I wondered what he was doing at the moment, but no matter. He wasn’t my concern any longer.
Between the tobacco and the caffeine, I was jittery after an hour and feeling sorry for myself. I cursed Barker for a while, then grew tired of it and turned my attention to Rebecca. Had she recovered from the ordeal that morning enough to accept a late call from someone who cared for her very much, or was it still too soon? One does not want to subject a woman to one’s attentions too early. On the other hand, one does not want her to think you complacent, either. I decided to go after I finished my cup. Then I decided to go after the last bowlful of tobacco. After I read The Times, and possibly Blackwood’s. Anything but stand between warring factions.
Five o’clock came around by the quaint bells of St. Mary-le-Bow. By then the wooden pew was as hard as a rock. I took myself off, the idea occurring to me that I was walking to my doom. How readily would Rebecca forgive me for not standing up to my employer and for not defending her? Perhaps my resignation would be a peace offering of sorts.
Cornhill became Leadenhall Street. Leadenhall led to St. Mary Axe, and there it was: Camomile Street. Such a gentle name. Nothing bad, nothing coarse, nothing dangerous could ever happen in a place called Camomile.
Or could it?
CHAPTER TWENTY
An hour later I stood in front of Rebecca’s house, thinking of a plan and looking for any possible loopholes. Barker called it “testing the knots,” a nautical term. I had a plan. I didn’t know if it was a good one, but I had a plan, the only thing I could do: I must throw myself upon the mercy of the court.
I crossed the square to Bully Boy Briggs, who was standing across the street, leaning against a lamppost. His cap was pulled down low over his head, making him look half asleep, although I knew he was nothing if not vigilant.
“Hello, Jim,” I said.
“Thomas.”
“Quiet tonight?”
“Like a graveyard.”
The truth was, I was nervous to speak to Rebecca. She had been put in an uncomfortable position on my account, while hoping to make a good impression on Barker and Philippa. I had hoped myself that the first time they met, it would be a wonderful occasion, the Guv slapping me on the back and Rebecca realizing she had never had any reason to worry on that score. Instead, all had gone as bad as, or worse than, she had feared. Now I lurked about her residence, afraid to go inside.
“Has anyone come or gone since I was here last?” I asked Briggs.
“A brougham arrived. Older woman, black hair, rather severe-looking.”
“Her mother.”
“Come and gone.”
“Excellent.”
Things had not been difficult enough; now her mother had been brought into it. Her mother, who despised me. I almost rethought going in to speak to Rebecca.
“How’d you like a little exercise?” I asked.
He gave me a gap-toothed grin. “Now you’ve caught my interest. I’m your man. What do I have to do?”
“Not much. I thought we might take down the Hobson gang.”
Briggs whistled. “That’s a tall order. When do you want me to do it?”
“Now.”
He grinned again. “You’ve become much more impatient since you met this bit of fluff.”
“She’s not a bit of fluff!” I said, my dander up.
“There, you see?” he replied, as if I’d fallen in his trap. “You’re going off half-cocked.”
I thought about it. “Very well. Perhaps not tonight. Would you consider reconnoitering around the docks?”
“That would depend on what that was,” he said.
“A look-see,” I replied. “A walk around. I’d like to know what the boys are up to this evening.”
“That I can do, but who will guard the missus?”
The missus. I liked that.
“I will.”
He shrugged his mountainous shoulders. “Suit yourself, if you think you’re up to it.”
“Who says I’m not up to it?” I said, stepping toward him.
He raised his hands in front of him. “Not me. I’ll leave you to it. They’re over by the East India Docks, right? Or have they moved?”
“They’re still there, or were last night.”
“I’ll take myself off, then. Cheerio.”
“Cheerio.”
I turned and walked toward the door, looking overhead. It was growing dark. The clouds were like soot against the iron sky. I took hold of the knocker and banged it. The sound reverberated in the quietness of the neighborhood. One thing I knew: by dismissing Briggs, I was letting myself off the hook of having to have a talk with Rebecca tonight, although if she wished to speak to me, I was available. It wasn’t the bravest thing I’d ever done, but there you are.
Half a minute later the maid answered the door, looking disappointed that it was only me. I suspected she had never p
articularly cared for me, and now that Rebecca’s feelings had been hurt, I was the most convenient one to blame.
“Come in, sir,” she said. “I’ll tell Mistress you’re here.”
“There’s no need. Merely inform her that I shall be guarding the house myself for a while, so Mr. Briggs can run an errand.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, before shutting the door in my face.
I am of the opinion that young maids should not give themselves airs. Merely because they work in a certain residence does not make them members of the family. Rebecca thought her loyal, but privately, I believed she was a spy for her mother.
Turning, I went to stand at Jim’s post and looked about. A mist was falling, so fine it merely beaded on my bowler hat. I watched it swirl about the gas lamps like will-o’-the-wisps or fairies. It was beautiful, as though God were presenting an entire performance for me alone.
“Thomas!”
I turned as I heard that voice that always put a catch in my throat. She was coming out of the house, buttoning a cloak about her.
“Rebecca, go back inside,” I said. “It isn’t safe.”
“Not safe, with you here? Don’t be silly. Now what is this nonsense about you standing out here all night?”
“Not all night,” I argued. “Merely until Mr. Briggs returns. It shouldn’t be more than an hour.”
“Come in, then. You’ll catch your death, love, and we have much to discuss.”
She called me “love.” That went straight to my heart.
“I can’t be protection for you if I’m inside the house.”
“Surely you can watch from a window or something. You cannot protect me with a cold, and you know how they can quickly slide into something more serious. I prefer to stand at our wedding, not your funeral.”
I couldn’t help smiling.
“My dear,” I said. “Aren’t you being a touch melodramatic?”
She looked at me solemnly, and then the facade cracked as she gave me a crooked smile. “Perhaps a touch.”
The door opened behind her and an ochre light spilled onto the flagstones. Silhouetted against it was the trim figure of Aunt Lydia.
“Is he being recalcitrant?” she asked.
“Of course he is,” came the reply. “He is a man.”
I crossed my arms. “I will not allow my entire sex to be disparaged.”
“Make him come in,” Lydia called. “He’ll catch his death.”
“My words exactly,” Rebecca said.
“He should have some tea!”
“No!” I said. “No tea!”
“Duty?” Aunt Lydia asked. “Thought as much. Men are so impractical.”
“I was not aware that women were so free with their opinions lately.”
Both of them erupted into laughter.
“I didn’t say anything funny.”
Rebecca put her arm under mine and led me to the door. Once there, Aunt Lydia seized my other arm, and that was it.
“I apologize for the way my employer acted today, since he is not here to apologize for himself. Neither Mr. Barker nor I were aware you were coming. I assume Mrs. Ashleigh considered it a surprise for all of us, never imagining that it might not go well.”
Rebecca grew solemn. “It was not the meeting I had envisioned.”
“Mr. Barker did not find you lacking in any way. He was just feeling unwell and anxious to leave the hospital. Nothing you said or did affected his ill mood.”
“I understand.”
I wasn’t so certain she did. I had been so accustomed to living in a bachelor household for years that I had never considered how much effort would be put into addressing the sensibilities of a woman on a daily basis. In our house, Etienne threw pans out the window or Mac got into an uproar over how I left my shirt on the floor on a daily basis. All of us scattered when the Guv was in a mood, but we thought little of it, knowing it would blow over like a summer storm in a short while. This husbanding business was going to be harder than I thought.
In spite of the fact that she was still smarting from my employer’s sharp words, she was not one to bear a grudge. Soon I was sitting with a cup of tea and some kind of round powdery biscuit with candied fruit in the center. I was trying my hardest not to get powdered sugar on my suit, and to balance my cup without rattling it. To be honest, I was still nervous about being there. I felt that it was still possible to find myself on the other side of that locked door again. Aunt Lydia liked me, but there were limits to her largesse.
“Really, I need to be outside, watching the house,” I said.
“To stand in the rain in a quiet neighborhood, staring into the street?” Rebecca asked, more for my welfare than in argument. “Mr. Briggs, who is far gentler than his appearance might lead one to believe, has stood there every night for a week, drinking cold tea from a ginger beer bottle, because you’ve hired him for no good reason.”
“Camille Archer was here, posing as my sister,” I pointed out.
“It was a practical joke. I don’t believe she meant any real harm. Do you know for a fact that she is dangerous?”
“She disappeared quickly from a hotel after she left our offices. A woman of the same name visited a criminal in Paris.”
“That sounds frightfully circumstantial,” Rebecca said. “Perhaps the poor dear is merely eccentric.”
“She may be a great number of things,” I said, “but one of them is certainly not a ‘poor dear.’ I suspect her of being connected to the bombing of our offices.”
“Do you think a young woman is capable of building a bomb?” Rebecca’s aunt asked. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“I’ve known one who did, but then one meets many kinds of people in my situation.”
“I’m sure,” Aunt Lydia said, looking unsettled.
“I apologize, ma’am,” I said. “I did not intend to alarm you.”
She regained her composure as quickly as if I had flipped an electric switch.
“Of course not, Thomas. What a thought.”
“This is excellent tea,” I said. “Darjeeling is so refreshing.”
“This is Assam.”
I lied. I hate tea. I’m strictly a coffee drinker myself, but I understand tea is more than a drink. Tea is a language. It soothed rough nerves and restored order to one’s world during difficult circumstances.
Rebecca poured another cup. Aunt Lydia set another biscuit on the edge of my saucer. I tried to protest, but one man is no match for two women. He had best get used to it or retire from the field. It was comforting, I must confess. I had never been fussed over by a woman in my entire life. To find one at each elbow was a unique experience.
“Did Ivy not take your coat?” our chaperone asked. “That girl is no use at all.”
“No, ma’am,” I said. “I retained my coat intentionally. I must leave in just a minute or two.”
I didn’t want to tell them that I carried a Webley in each pocket and did not like to hand it to a maid unaware of what was inside.
“Rebecca, surely you can talk Thomas into removing his overcoat.”
“Really, I need to go—”
“But, surely—”
They were trying to remove my coat when we were interrupted by men bursting through the front and the back doors simultaneously. I recognized those low-crowned bowlers and donkey-fringed haircuts. It was the Hobson boys. Somehow, they had got around Briggs’s dragnet.
There were three or four at each entrance. They held axe handles and sailor’s hooks and staves of wood. They charged in through the doors, and came at us standing in the center of the room.
The woman screamed. I dropped the biscuit and the delicate teacup and saucer. My free hands slid into my coat, crossed-armed, and seized the grips of my Webley revolvers. I withdrew them and swung my arms out, a pistol in each hand, as the china crashed at my feet. Jack Hobson and a couple of his men coming forward saw the weapons I brandished. Some slowed or stopped in their tracks. Others did not.
/>
It is in my nature to hesitate, to ponder, to make calculated decisions. However, I had not been affianced before. The wide circle ended with my arms straight across from each other, pointed east and west. Simultaneously, I pulled both triggers. Barker had overruled my request to carry the weapons uncocked.
The first bullet caught a man high in the chest, probably piercing his lung and breaking his clavicle. He moaned and fell into the arms of one of his comrades.
The second fellow, Jack Hobson himself, I shot between the eyes. He was dead before his body even started to crumple and fall.
The acrid smell of gunpowder was in the air. All of us stared blankly at each other. Rebecca and Lydia had just discovered what sort of monster had been sitting in their house, drinking tea with engines of destruction in his pockets. The Hobson gang was coming to terms with the fact that their leader was dead and a man was brandishing revolvers at them. At such a time, a belaying pin or a length of wood was of very little value.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Rebecca and Aunt Lydia were still screaming. I suppose they had reason to. Of all the scenarios of which I could conceive, this was by far the worst: killing a man in front of my own bride mere days before our wedding. The fact that I was defending them was of little concern when there were bodies crumpled on kilim rugs.
There was a commotion at the front door and Briggs burst in, momentarily filling the doorway. He passed through the knot of men, his wide shoulders pushing them out of the way. Silently he regarded the injured man and the dead one and then he nodded as if he now understood.
“Hop it!” he ordered the Hobson gang. “Take these boys with you.”
He shook an arm and a long pipe of lead slid into his hand from inside his sleeve. I’d seen it before. He knew how to use it very well.
The gang immediately retreated, lifting their fallen comrades, living and dead, and removing them from the room. One hooligan actually bent down and wiped a gout of blood on the parquet with his sleeve, although it was impossible to get it all. Within a minute both doors were closed and we were alone again.
Briggs turned to me. “What are you carrying?”
