Blood Is Blood

by Will Thomas

  “What’s all this, then?” I asked a tall fellow peering over other people’s shoulders.

  “Someone’s been hurt. A woman, I think. Two constables just rolled a hand litter up the street there. That’s all I know.”

  My hand was on the door of number 5, but I took it off again.

  “Make way,” I shouted. “Make way!”

  I began to push through the crowd, none too gently. If one moved authoritatively enough, people assumed one was official. Most of the people gave way. The rest I gave what they deserved.

  I saw the hand litter coming toward me, led by a constable in an opalescent oilskin. As he hurried past me with the litter, I looked down on the still form. It was as I feared. It was Sarah Fletcher.

  Her nose had been broken, and the blood, currently being washed away by the rain, drenched her chin and collar. It was swollen and her eyes blackened. A bruise on her cheek distended it, as if she had a toothache. I suspected there were many more bruises and possible broken bones about her person. She was unconscious, mercifully so. I did not envy her when she awoke. It was part and parcel of being an enquiry agent.

  An ambulance arrived and Miss Fletcher was loaded into it. There was a commotion for a moment as someone tried to get into the vehicle but was expelled. The court was full of onlookers by that time and I began questioning witnesses about what had happened.

  No one knew when or how she had arrived at that spot. Her clothes were wet, but not overly so. She must have been dry when her body was left there in the street.

  “When did anyone first see her?” I asked a young man who worked in the telephone exchange.

  “One of our linemen came in a bit after seven, saying a woman was lying in the street outside our offices. He didn’t know if she was injured or drunk. We went out to help the poor woman. I bet it was her fella.”

  Just then a hand seized me by the shoulder and I was dragged by the arm across the street and into an office. J. M. Hewitt’s office, to be precise. His normally placid features were frantic and angry. His hair was plastered to his head and his clothing drenched. It had been he who had caused the commotion at the ambulance, trying to climb aboard. He shook me by the collar and pushed me against the filing cabinet. I never thought I would have to defend myself against a friend.

  “What in hell kind of assignment did you send her to?” he bellowed. I could see that he was at his wits’ end.

  “It was routine,” I said. “She was merely to follow after a young woman to learn where she went. Then she was to stay with Mrs. Ashleigh to protect her. It should have been an easy assignment.”

  “Well, it wasn’t, was it?” he shouted. “You nearly got her killed!”

  “Hewitt, you know this work is dangerous. You yourself have the scars to prove it. Miss Fletcher knows it as well. This is the work she chose. I asked her to handle a simple assignment. There was no reason to think she would be injured, but ours is an unpredictable profession. Any assignment she undertakes may become dangerous. If you have private reasons for wishing her to stay out of danger, you must discuss that with her. I asked you to recommend a female operative, not a lady friend.”

  “She’s not a lady friend!” he insisted.

  “May I assume that you want her to be?”

  “That’s beside the point. I’ll not recommend people to you anymore. You may have the wealthiest agency in the court, but you’re often the most violent.”

  “We’ve just had our floor blown out from under us. Obviously our search for the perpetrators has been met by a second attack on their part. I believe she was taken by members of the Hobson gang. Jack Hobson himself was just killed.”

  I didn’t tell him that I was the one who had killed him. There was no need to tell him everything.

  “You believe they were Hobson’s men, then? Why was she taken?”

  “She was mistaken for Mrs. Ashleigh and abducted from her residence. We have to follow this line of enquiry to find out if they are the ones responsible.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Late last evening.”

  “Why didn’t you go after her?”

  “We had no idea until Mrs. Ashleigh appeared at our door after midnight, and by then they were long gone from her residence.”

  “I’m going after her,” he said. “I want to be there when she wakes up. And never ask for a female operative ever again.”

  “I’m sorry about what happened. I’m going to find who did this or die trying.”

  “You said it, not I. I wish you luck finding the Hobsons, but don’t expect Miss Fletcher to help you any further with this case.”

  “That’s fair enough, J.M. I hope she recovers quickly.”

  I nodded and walked back to our chambers. In number 7, several pieces of furniture had been reclaimed or replaced, and it was starting to look like an office. The old carpets had been cleaned, looking good as new, and Barker’s tall leather chair had been reupholstered in that shade of green he preferred. The desk would be replaced as soon as it was finished. His old one was beyond repair, and I’m sure Cyrus Barker would not want old memories of how the desk had crushed his limbs.

  I picked up the telephone set to call the house, but no one answered. Barker couldn’t get to the telephone in his condition, and Mac had left, which left Caleb Barker. Had he left his brother alone in his condition?

  It never occurred to me that Barker might be both injured and alone. What if he were attacked? Philippa had returned to her town house to nurse poor Frost, who had been knocked about by Hobson’s boys. She told me that morning she would talk Scotland Yard into sending a constable to stand outside her door. No one would dare attack her now. Had I the foresight, I’d have done the same for Barker.

  We could rest easy knowing she was safe, but Barker was another matter. He could not walk, or prepare his own food, or defend his home. I suspected he would not ask Caleb for help, and it was doubtful Barker’s brother would offer it. Therefore, I was left with one conclusion. Mac would have to come back, and it was my duty to convince him to do so.

  “Jeremy, have you seen the agency address book lately?” I asked. “I’m looking for the street where Mac’s parents live.”

  “I have it here, Mr. L. Mr. and Mrs. Ezekiel Maccabee, 29 Watling Street, Cheapside.”

  I wrote the address on my cuff. Then I tore my resignation letter in half.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I shall be out hunting for Mac for a while. Could you do something for me while I’m gone? Lock the front door and don’t let anyone in you do not fully trust.”

  “What about Mr. B.’s brother? I guess that would make him the other Mr. B.”

  “Tell him that I’m out and you don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  “Right.”

  “Lock up,” I told him. “Stay safe. Good clerks are hard to find in this day and age. Not to mention good forgers.”

  * * *

  Watling Street was a trim residential street, a row of attached houses alike in size and shape but dissimilar in brick front or trim. Some of the residences were centuries old, but others had been built in this century and were cleverly designed to fit among their elder sisters. Jacob’s parents lived in one of these. I looked about, since the rain had finally passed, and had to admit that having a residence in the City was not so bad a thing. I stepped forward and knocked on the door. A maid answered.

  “Good morning. I wish to speak to Mr. Jacob Maccabee, please. My name is Thomas Llewelyn.”

  She disappeared for five minutes or so, long enough for me to begin to suspect I’d been forgotten. The door finally opened and Mac stood there, wearing a brown cardigan over a soft collared shirt. Instead of his highly polished shoes, he wore a pair of slippers.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said, looking at me over a pair of half-lensed spectacles.

  “Mac, you need to come back.”

  “As you saw,” he said, “I was sacked last night.”

  “It was a rash act and the Guv reg
rets it. He wants you to come home. You are sorely needed, as you are no doubt aware.”

  We were still standing in the doorway, and it seemed obvious he had no intention of inviting me in.

  “Thank you,” he said. “It’s nice to be appreciated. However, I have not had a holiday in over five years and I thought I might take one before applying elsewhere.”

  That was it, then. This was to be a negotiation.

  “Certainly you deserve one, Jacob. You overwork yourself every day. I understand how you feel. But, think of the Guv! The man is in pain and lashing out at anything and anyone. He is a bear in a den with a wound he might or might not recover from. He spoke to you without thinking. He was rude, but then you’ve heard how he treated Rebecca.”

  “I have, indeed,” he answered. He was being at his most priggish, I thought.

  “The man’s under a good bit of pressure. After all, his offices were dynamited. His bank account was ransacked. Mrs. Ashleigh was nearly kidnapped. His assistant was getting married, which might be the most alarming catastrophe. Now, because of a few poorly chosen words, the last prop has just been removed. No, it was ripped from under him, unprepared.”

  Mac crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame, twirling his spectacles in his hand. “He should have thought of that before he sacked me.”

  I listed to the left and tried to peer inside. He listed to the right to stop me. I told myself if I could get him to invite me in, I would have won.

  “Yes, but this gives you the moral high ground. If you act the better man, he shall note and appreciate it for years. There is no telling what good shall come of it.”

  “Thank you for your concern, Thomas. I appreciate it,” he said, sounding almost sincere. “But, you know, I’ve looked at everyone around me. You’re getting married, everyone’s lives are changing, yet here I am in the same position and the same life I had ten years ago. I’d like to get married myself, perhaps work in a larger house, with servants to work under me. I’m not five and twenty anymore.”

  Mac was a strategist. I reminded myself never to play chess with him.

  “You won’t believe what happened this morning. I called home to tell the Guv that Miss Fletcher was found beaten, and do you know what happened? No one answered the call. You were on holiday, apparently. I was trying to find Miss Fletcher. Etienne had gone to his restaurant. Caleb has disappeared again. The Guv was alone. Completely alone. There is no one to bring him a glass of water. He is completely defenseless. A street Arab could beat him in a fair fight. If he choked there is no one to slap his back. No one to see if he’s taking his medicine. It is a sad state of affairs.”

  “That is a great pity,” he replied. “He should have thought of that before.”

  Think, Thomas, think, I told myself. Strategy, flattery, irony, empathy, whatever would work. I hung my head, defeated.

  “Very well, if I can’t change your mind, I’ll leave you to your reading. Let’s have a cup of coffee sometime, after you’ve settled in to your new position. I would like to see you again soon.”

  “Certainly. Thank you.”

  “Good, then. I’ve got to get back. That American is mad. He burned a hole in the carpet with one of his blasted cigarettes.”

  “A hole?” he asked.

  “A scorch mark, or perhaps a hole. I’m not certain.”

  “Which carpet?”

  “The runner in the front hall. He must have mashed the lit cigarette into it as he was leaving.”

  “That was ordered special. It extends from the front to the back door exactly!” he exclaimed.

  “Does it? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Did you tell the Guv?”

  “Of course I did. He said this case was too critical to ‘waste time on a rug.’ Those were his words, not mine.”

  Mac bit his lip, deep in thought. Then he opened the door wider.

  “You’d better come in.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  That evening Cyrus Barker was ensconced in his castle, the shutters bolted, the drawbridge raised. He was garrulous because he could not wish away his injury, and there was no magic wand one could wave so he could track the man who bombed his offices. In his mind, I think he could forgive a fellow for coming at him, even in an underhanded way, but one did not interfere with the agency, or his working chambers. Then one incurred his wrath, which was terrible to behold.

  We were at dinner. Mac had returned and cooked it for us. It was near seven o’clock, and the sun was setting slowly out our front windows, dawdling among the branches across the street, as if looking for a place to roost. Caleb and I were seated at one corner of the table to vex Mac, who would have set us at either end with six feet of empty space between. The Guv was in bed with a tray of soup and a glass of water. Philippa had forbade him beer while he was recuperating, and he was limited to two bowls of tobacco per day. He had cut up rough about that, but then it was Philippa, and she always got her way. He argued merely to make his position known.

  We were having tournedos of beef in a mustard and wine sauce, with mushrooms and Brussels sprouts. Caleb was being his usual laconic self. He held up a sprout skewered on the end of his fork.

  “Beef and sprouts,” he said. “I came all the way across the ocean for this?”

  “If Etienne was here, you’d better be at least mid-ocean on your journey home, or he would cut your throat.”

  “How does Cyrus rate his own chef? Two, including ol’ Mac here. He’ll eat practically anything. I’ve never known a man so uninterested in food.”

  Barker intoned from the other room.

  “‘Put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make not provision for the flesh, to fulfill the lusts thereof.’ Romans thirteen, verse fourteen.”

  “Amen, Brother Cyrus!” Caleb called. “Mac, pour me another pint of this wonderful ale. I think I’ll roll myself a cigarette, having no good woman who gives two damns about my health.”

  Like all brothers, Caleb knew just how to vex the Guv. Having several brothers of my own, I understood perfectly. They will be the first to call you an idiot and the last to pat you on the back, but your successes and failures matter to them very much in the end. It is a complicated and delicate relationship, I thought to myself as I watched Caleb deliberately blow smoke in his brother’s direction.

  “Would you care for some poker after dinner?” he asked me.

  “Poker is a card game, is it not?”

  “It is. I could teach you how to play. Penny a point.”

  “The Devil’s pastime!” Barker warned from the other room. Caleb raised his eyes to the ceiling, pleading for divine aid.

  “Mac,” he said. “Would I insult your ale if I decided to go over to the Elephant and Castle public house? Y’all are handsome men, I’m sure, but I’d like a little feminine company.”

  He stood, but Harm jumped from his place near the table and ran to the front door, beginning what I consider his alarm call. The dog circled and scratched at the door, making enough sound for an entire kennel, as we stared at him blankly. There was something wrong, but I couldn’t tell what it was. Just as I detected an odd odor, Barker let out a bellow.

  “The house is on fire!”

  We followed Harm into the hall, where I lifted him from in front of the door before we ran outside. In the gloaming, I saw bright yellow flames licking the front of the house, and ivy curling from the heat. The fire was reflected in the panes of the Guv’s beautiful Georgian windows. We had very little time before the fire attached itself to the building.

  “There he is!” Caleb cried, pointing to a man in the street, visible because of the bottle in his hand, jammed with a burning cloth in the neck of it.

  Harm chose that moment to dig his nails into my ribs just enough to squeeze out of my arms. He pushed off from my chest, springing forward like an acrobat, and once he reached the grass he charged at the intruder.

  “No, Harm! No!” I called, but it was wasted breath.

  As straigh
t as a plumb line he flew, and when he reached our attacker he clamped jaws upon his ankle. He has a trick where he bites and then throws his back limbs around, savaging the flesh. He did this now, rending the man’s leg above his low boot. Surprised by an as-yet-unidentified attacker, the stranger cried out and dropped the burning bottle. There was a tinkle of glass, and then dog and man went up in a ball of flame.

  “Harm!” Mac and I cried.

  A minute before, we had been sitting at the table, bantering, and now our beloved dog could be dead any moment.

  Our attacker wailed in pain as the flames engulfed him, and at the last minute Harm separated himself with a screech and circled the lawn with his tail on fire. Not certain whether our duty was to save the man, catch the dog, or stop the fire, the three of us managed to do absolutely nothing.

  Harm rolled across the damp grass and smothered his own fire without our aid. Our neighbors in Lion Street ran out of their homes to help, and prevent injury to their own families and property. We could do nothing for the fellow who had come to destroy our home.

  “Jacques Perrine,” I said, looking at the burnt remains in the middle of the street. I recognized his burly frame and thick beard.

  “Of all the ways to die,” Caleb muttered. “Burning is the worst. But he meant it for us, so I don’t feel particularly sympathetic.”

  Mac hurried out into the street. “I’ve called the Southwark Fire Brigade. They’re on their way. If we use Etienne’s pots we can carry water from the stream to the fire!”

  Mac seized me by the shoulders and turned me around. The fire had reached the roof and many of the bushes in front were aflame. Fortunately, the building was made of stout Georgian brick. We ran through the house, each taking a pan, pitcher, or other vessel, plunged them into the stream, ran around to the front, and threw the water on the roof and the burning embers of the bushes.

  The firemen arrived on their pumper, and began spraying an unending stream of water onto the roof. Meanwhile, the rest of us drowned every last ember with unending buckets of water. The fire was contained within a quarter of an hour.