Fatal Enquiry

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

We jumped apart as he strode toward us. When Sebastian Nightwine reached us he shoved us apart still further, and before I could stop him, slapped his daughter across the face. I was instantly furious and struggled against the hand he pressed against my chest. I may know two dozen ways to attack a man, but with three broken ribs, I could do little to defend her.

Sofia drew a pistol from beneath the mattress and pointed it at her father.

Nightwine looked at her, undaunted by the weapon in her hand. “Don’t be stupid, girl,” he said. “I don’t know what you see in this chap, I really don’t. You should have killed him when you had a chance.”

“Stop it,” she said, her aim never wavering.

“This is quite a love nest you’ve made between the two of you. It’s nice to know in the midst of this crisis you can play house together.”

“Get out!” she ordered.

“What are you going to do without me? We both know you’d never make it on your own. There’s only one suitable occupation in London for a girl like you.”

“You forget I’ve learned a few skills. I might find my services in need.”

“What do you expect to do?” he retorted. “Advertise in The Times? ‘Situation wanted for professional poisoner and assassin’?”

“Something like that, perhaps. Whatever I do, it is my decision to make.”

“It is now. You are sacked. I have no need for your inconsistent services any longer. I have found a more suitable replacement.”

“He’s welcome to it. No more slaving as your bondservant, seeing to your slightest whim, traveling ahead to make sure that everything is perfect for your arrival. No more killing for you, because someone stands in your way, or must be made an example of, or because they simply irritate you. Thank you, Father. This is the only kindness you have ever shown me.”

Taking her parasol from the sofa, she walked cautiously to the door before slipping the pistol into her bag. Without another word, she quitted the room, closing the door behind her. She had left me to handle her father on my own when I could barely even stand. Nightwine pulled a small silver case from his jacket pocket, lit a cigarette, and seated himself on the sofa.

“Mr. Llewelyn, I must congratulate you on giving the Elephant Boys the slip. I gave them a most thorough dressing-down. I do not brook failure, either in my subordinates or in my own children. Now that you’re back on your feet again, perhaps you would be willing to take a message to your employer.”

“What sort of message?”

“Tell him that I now hold all the cards. I’ve got Commissioner Warren in my pocket. We’ve become great friends. Do you know what I did last night? I played baccarat with the Prince of Wales. The Foreign Office is very pleased with my plan and has taken possession of my maps. I’m keeping the more vital ones myself, such as the map of the city of Lhasa. For most of the week, I’ve been working with Her Majesty’s Army. The Sirmoor Rifles will see us as far as the Tibetan border. I’m to be made brigadier general. One cannot have a common colonel lead an important expedition.”

“You’re not a common colonel, Nightwine. You’re a common criminal. I don’t know how you have successfully pulled the wool over so many eyes.”

“Careful, Mr. Llewelyn. There are slander laws. As you can see, I did not commit the murders your employer has attempted to lay at my feet. I have an alibi for each one. You have no proof that I’ve done anything wrong and your own credibility is as lost to you as your employer. Neither Scotland Yard nor any official office of government will believe any of your accusations against me. Meanwhile, Cyrus Barker hides like a rat in a hole. He is of such little account to me, in fact, that I have rescinded my request for protection from Scotland Yard. Barker is defeated. He can no longer touch me.”

I eased myself into a chair opposite him and tried to appear as unconcerned as he was. “I should tell you I had a fine chat the other day with a friend of mine at the Foreign Office, detailing your plan to sell Tibet to the highest bidder. He was interested to hear it and promised to pass it on to his associates. Don’t be surprised if your reception at the Foreign Office is decidedly frosty the next time you go.”

“When I was at the Foreign Office this morning, they handed me a banknote for nine thousand pounds sterling. I wondered why they had decided at the eleventh hour to send along a major to accompany me on the expedition. Now I see I have you to thank for that. It’s of little concern, however; I’ll have him shot the minute we reach the Tibetan border. A frontier accident, you understand. I’m disappointed in your Foreign Office, I must say. They haven’t near the guile the Chinese or Russians have. They are almost as naïve as you.”

“What is to keep me from going to Scotland Yard and swearing out a complaint against you?”

“Stupid boy. Don’t you know Commissioner Warren would stop your complaint in a heartbeat? More likely you’d be the one to end up in jail. I believe you’ve already been there once this week. I’ve seen your record and it is the only proper place for someone like you.”

I stopped, thought for a moment, and then chuckled.

“You win, Mr. Nightwine. My hat is off to you. Congratulations on your successful scheme to bilk the British Empire of thousands of pounds. I’m no match for you, I confess it, but Barker will get to you. Neither of us knows where or when he’s going to turn up. I only hope I’m there to see you brought low. That is something I’d really like to see. You know, someday, when your bones are rotting in the ground, I’m going to write about these last few weeks. It should make an interesting book.”

“You do that. Write your little book. Then step out of your office and look down Whitehall Street where my bones are interred in Westminster Abbey as the Liberator of Tibet.”

“Liberator?” I repeated, rising to my feet. “I’m sure that’s a word that shall be on every Tibetan’s lips.”

Summoning as much dignity as I could, I walked from the room where I had been held prisoner. I went down a corridor and a staircase to a lobby, trading curious glances with the desk clerk. Opening the door, I stepped out into a cool April afternoon. I walked, or rather shuffled, to a corner and looked at a street sign attached to a building. Praed Street in Paddington. My ribs ached when I raised an arm to hail a cab in Edgware Road, and crawling into the vehicle was a painful process, but I was finally on my way home.

Leaning back in the cab, I rested my head on the cushion, trying not to think. There had been enough torturing myself over the past several days. No more Sofia hovering over me, no more Thompson’s Elixir. I would sleep well in my own bed that night. The last of the laudanum worked its way out of my system and I was lulled to sleep, waking only when we came to a stop in the New Kent Road. I eased out and strained my ribs again paying the cabman. It was gratifying to shock Jacob Maccabee from his usual decorum. When I walked in the door, his jaw hung open and I thought his eyes would pop out.

“My word, you’re a fright!”

“Thank you, Mac. That’s reassuring.”

“Where have you been?”

“Beaten nearly to death by Sebastian Nightwine and then restored back to health by his daughter in a hotel in Praed Street.”

“You’re having me on,” Mac insisted, arms akimbo.

“I’m not, and don’t argue. It hurts to talk.”

“Sorry. It just doesn’t make sense. Unless you and she…”

“Yes?”

“Unless there was an understanding.”

“There is no understanding. I’ve merely been trying to stay alive.”

I sat down on the staircase in the hall. I still did not have much stamina. My epidermis might heal over the next month but Nightwine had bruised both muscle and bone. Mac’s look of horror didn’t assure me that when I healed I would look like my former self. Was this another price to be paid?

“Have you heard that the Metropolitan Police dropped the charges against us?”

“It was in The Chronicle this morning. Mr. Zangwill wrote an article claiming that the reward money on the Guv comes from no recognized source, and if it is true, must have come from the criminal Underworld. I’d like to think that would give some citizens pause.”

“Good old Israel. He is a better reporter than he was a teacher. Is everything back to normal here?”

“For the most part. The safe manufacturer has scheduled an appointment to replace the front panel. And I should tell you that Etienne has returned.”

“Has he? That’s a relief.”

“Of a sort, perhaps. He appeared one morning, I think it was Thursday, and went into the kitchen for twenty minutes or so, then came out again and made a telephone call on the set in the alcove. He spoke for about five minutes in French; then hung up and propped open the back door. Suddenly he began throwing everything from the kitchen into the garden: pots, pans, plates, glasses, silverware, crockery, utensils; in short, anything he could lift. Thank heavens the best china and silver is kept in the dining room.”

“He left it all for you to clean up?”

“No, an hour later, a wagon arrived with several employees from his restaurant. They brought packing cases full of all new equipment for the kitchen and took away all that had been thrown out. It took two hours, at least, before everything was unpacked to his specifications and the garden in order again. During the entire time, and even after, he didn’t say a word about it to me.”

“He’s a funny old bird, Etienne, isn’t he?” I noted.

“If by funny you mean peculiar, then most certainly,” Mac replied. “Do you think the Guv will come home soon, then?”

“I hope so.” By this time, I was holding on to the banister for support. “I’m exhausted. I need to go to bed. Pretend I’m a badger that has gone into hibernation and don’t disturb me. I’ll call if I need you.”

“But you need a doctor’s care,” he pointed out, with at least some degree of concern for my welfare.

“No hovering, please. I don’t want a face swathed in sticking plasters. I just want to rest. I think I could sleep for a week.”

He helped me upstairs to my room. Oh, how I loved those homely four walls. At a turtle’s pace I changed into my nightshirt and closed the curtains so that not a beam of sunlight could be seen. Then I crawled into my bed. My own bed: the best phrase in the English language.

Very well, so a week was an exaggeration. I slept until the following day just before noon.

Mac brought a light lunch and I slept again until after dinner. I woke around six o’clock, unable to get the conversation with Nightwine out of my mind. His preening over what a success he had become was too much to bear. He could not possibly triumph after all we had done to stop him. Perhaps he was lying to discourage us. Saying something enough times and to enough people can sometimes cause it to occur. That was Sebastian Nightwine’s way. Take away the rank, the suave manner and pleasing looks and what have you got? Merely a confidence man with an unchecked opinion of his own worth.

I climbed out of bed and began to run a brush through my hair. Opening my wardrobe, I chose a suit reserved for when I was not in the office, brown with velvet lapels. I wore a white shirt with a soft collar, and a waistcoat of tan gabardine. I tied my favorite Liberty tie, an Indian paisley of red and gold. Lastly, I donned a pair of Barker-style spectacles that reduced the view of my eyes to a smoky brown haze. It was not mere affectation, but covered the purple bruises under my eyes.

Studying myself in the mirror, I couldn’t call myself handsome, but certainly stylish. I should fit in very well among the evening crowd at the Café Royal. It was time to ask Pollock Forbes what the government meant by fraternizing with the likes of Sebastian Nightwine.