The Black Hand

16

The next morning we boarded a train for who knows where. Barker knew, of course, but I might as soon expect a yeoman at the Tower of London to hand me the Crown Jewels in a bag as for the Guv to reveal his personal plans to me. I reasoned that since we were at Victoria Station, we would be heading southeast along the Chatham Railway, but how far? The line ended at Dover, but there was a ferry there for Calais. Did he intend for us to leave the country?

To complicate matters, we were bringing Harm with us, Barker’s prized Pekingese dog. The little brute had been placed in a wicker contraption, the better to carry him about, which he considered an affront to his dignity. He stared at us miserably through the small window in the front of the basket; but for once, he did not howl, as he is often given to do.

It was a beautiful morning to escape London, even if one was not being threatened by Sicilian murderers. I glimpsed a fox trotting alongside the railway lines, though we were not yet out of the city. Outside, the air was fresh and invigorating, but that did me little good since, as usual, I was closeted in the smoking compartment with my employer. I always end up near the windows, which I throw open wide, but this only means that Barker’s tobacco smoke must eddy around my head before making its way out the window.

My employer had purchased a stack of newspapers at a station stall, and was working his way through them as we passed into the Kentish countryside. The railways really need to do something about the trees that grow along the tracks. They spoil a fine view of the little towns and villages along the way. I supposed the seeds were somehow collected and spread along the line by the moving trains and it is a testament to England’s verdant soil that so many trees spring up, but I’d rather have my oil painting views of the small towns and hamlets of rural Kent. Before I knew it we slid into Tunbridge Wells and out again. Barker switched newspapers. I don’t believe scenery interests him unless a murder has just been committed in it.

We rolled past tall rows of hops, like overgrown vineyards, being harvested by men with long poles. I understood that many hop pickers were from the East End, and the harvest provides a chance for the workers to get out of the city, as well as the opportunity to lay by some money for the winter. Their lives are hard, but then they haven’t been chased out of town with Black Hand notes threatening their lives.

Eventually, my companion’s pipe went out and I could smell sea air. The pigeons that had flapped by our train earlier had been replaced by raucous fulmars and gulls, and I knew Dover was not far off. We eased into the station like clockwork, and then immediately, chaos ensued. Two hundred people seemed bent upon catching the next ferry to France. As it turned out, however, we were not among them. Barker merely purchased two fares to Hastings and we boarded another train. Fortunately, it didn’t have a smoking compartment this time, and being one of those composite carriages that only has first and third, we found ourselves in a first class carriage. The seats were plush and there were small framed pictures of the countryside behind our heads. The brass overhead racks in which we put our bags shone from much polish.

I would have enjoyed myself fully if it weren’t for Antonio Gallenga. Drat the fellow, I couldn’t get the “eye” out of my head now. As we waited for the train to leave, I watched the passengers. Were we being followed? Did anyone on the platform look Italian? I studied the faces and postures of the men waiting and developed a list of five possible suspects. I grew concerned because we were in a corridor carriage, where a fellow could walk by our compartment at any time, and I wished we were on the Brighton line with no corridors, all privacy and safety. A fellow could open the door, shoot us both dead, and hop off the train before the next station; and we had not even an exterior door in our compartment by which to escape. Didn’t the designers of railway carriages realize how dangerous they could be?

Rolling along the famous cliffs, I could see a thin blue strip across the Channel that was France. It was a cloudless day with crystalline clarity and the horizon seemed but an arm’s length away, rather than the twenty miles or so to Calais. Though I jumped every time a guard or passenger passed our compartment, I admitted it was better to be here than scurrying about London watching the victims pile up.

We passed through Rye and Romney Marsh and eventually arrived in Hastings, a collection of houses and buildings, all topped with red roofs, and a haven, I understand, for artists and poets. I didn’t see any as we disembarked and changed trains yet again, but neither did I see any of the five men I’d scrutinized in Dover. Perhaps it had all been my imagination. Even better, we changed to the Brighton line, which meant we could travel in a carriage with no corridors.

We passed the old ruins of Pevensey Castle and skirted Eastbourne before crossing the Cuckmere River and coming to a halt in the small coastal village of Seaford where Juno had been sent earlier. As we disembarked, we faced a small esplanade and a shingle beach with the white chalk cliffs known as the Seven Sisters to our left. There were small boats pulled onto the shore, a few scattered net houses, and a stone redoubt built years before to keep Napoleon from landing on our flanks. I doubted there was a cheerier spot in all England that morning, and not a Sicilian in sight.

A dogcart was waiting for us at the station, with a driver that appeared to be acquainted with my employer. We climbed in, with Harm between us, facing backward as the dogcart allowed, and were soon rolling through the quaint streets of the seaside village. Seaford sits at the delta where the Cuckmere pours into the Channel. From there, the land rises north continually, though the bay pulling our vehicle seemed accustomed to the effort. In ten minutes we were in open countryside, with the chalk cliffs to our right and the channel breeze forcing us to clap our hats to our heads.

We finally came up to a gate flanked by a pair of young men resting their arms upon an old stout-timbered fence, reeds sticking out from between their teeth, looking content enough to stand there all day long. I couldn’t tell if they were guards or gardeners taking a break from their labors. They plucked at their caps as we passed through, then went back to ruminating on the rise of the South Downs and the chewing of their cuds. Meanwhile, we rolled along a meandering path before finally reaching the house.

It was obvious that part of the building was very old and that it was once a farmhouse. A building of equal size and age stood beside it, and must have been a barn at one time, but further enlargements and extensions had connected the two, and a new barn with stables and other outbuildings had been added over the centuries. It was a wide manor now, of two stories, with plaster sandwiched between old vertical beams and a many-angled roof bristling with chimneys. It was quaint and comfortable, and well tended, with gardens and a pebbled drive. Lucky is the man, I thought to myself, who owns such a comfortable home, wondering who he might be.

“Here we are,” Barker said, hopping down. That was it-no explanation, no hint of why we were there. After releasing Harm from his basket prison, Barker walked to the front door, seized the brass knocker, and gave it two good taps, which I could hear echo inside. Soon a solemn-looking butler opened the door, his countenance brightening when he saw the Guv’s weathered features.

“Welcome, sir. It’s a pleasure to see you again. Madame is in the conservatory, awaiting your arrival.”

My employer stepped past him and led me into the hall, which I thought a very telling action. The butler did not announce us but instead stepped outside to see that our luggage was unloaded. Light finally dawned in the old Llewelyn cranium. This was her home, the Widow’s home, Barker’s mystery woman, whom he disappeared off to see on odd evenings and Sundays when he wasn’t involved with a case. I had wondered about her often, questioned the Guv as obliquely as possible, and queried anyone who knew him well, and yet had always found a brick wall before me. Now I found myself about to be ushered into her presence, without a chance to see whether my hair and tie were straight and how much road chalk had managed to end up on my suit.

With Harm at his heels, Barker led me from one chamber to the next, each filled with ornate furniture or paintings the size of a wall in my room in Newington. This was not a farm but an estate, and the Widow must be quite wealthy to own such a large holding. Was it my imagination, or did my employer saunter from chamber to chamber as if the whole pile was his and he lord of the manor?

We finally passed through a pair of glass doors into a conservatory. I had barely enough time to take in the plethora of foliage on all sides, from small pots to grown trees hanging with pineapples, when the owner of all these wonders abruptly rose from a wicker basket chair and came toward us. This was she, the Widow!

“Cyrus, you’re late,” she scolded, and stepping up, planted a kiss on my employer’s cheek. Yes, on Cyrus Barker’s cheek. It was astounding. I wanted to pinch myself to be certain I wasn’t asleep in my room at home.

“Couldn’t be helped, my dear,” Barker rumbled. No, no, he didn’t rumble. He purred, I’d swear he did. One could hear the affection in it. It took all my training not to stand there dumbfounded, with my jaw hanging open.

Barker cleared his throat. “Philippa, allow me to present my assistant, Thomas Llewelyn. Thomas, this is our hostess for the next day or two, Mrs. Philippa Ashleigh.”

Before concentrating on our hostess, I spared a final glance at my employer. While appearing casual, every line of his body was warning me to be on my best behavior. I noted he hadn’t explained his relationship with her in any way. Were they friends or, dare I say it, courting? I realized I would have to deduce it for myself. The Guv wasn’t going to tell me. If they were in fact involved in a courtship, I would have to add it to the long mental list of contradictions which made up Cyrus Barker. I could no more imagine him as someone’s swain than as a grammar school teacher.

“Cyrus has told me so much about you,” Mrs. Ashleigh said. She smiled, but her eyes were appraising me from head to toe like a fortune-teller at a fair. If I was hoping for a kiss myself, I’d have been disappointed. I received a cool hand instead.

Three responses entered my head at once and muddled it. The first was, “He’s told me absolutely nothing about you,” the second, “Where did the two of you meet?” and the third was, “You have the most beautiful blue-green eyes I have ever seen.” What came out instead, after my brain ceased to function, was a sort of strangled, “Ahh!”

She was a woman in her late thirties, quite handsome if not in fact beautiful. She certainly seemed beautiful when her face was animated by those luminous eyes. Her hair was a pale red, almost blond where the sun struck it, and was pulled back and pinned in an artfully casual manner. She wore a white day dress with a high collar. She was tall, taller than I, but not nearly as tall as Barker, who was at least six feet. She appeared to have no trouble ordering him about.

“Sit there, Cyrus; and Thomas, you sit over here on my left. How do you take your tea?”

“With a little sugar, please.”

She handed each of us a cup, and then a small tray of Barker’s favorite shortbread, before pouring a cup for herself. She leaned over gracefully and scratched Harm between the ears. Our lives had become quite civilized all of a sudden, considering we were being hounded by assassins. I munched my biscuit, sipped the steaming tea, and listened to the novel experience of my employer holding converse with his lady.

“Is Peter keeping you safe, my dear?”

“Safe as houses, Cyrus. He moved into the gatehouse with all his crew two days ago. How long shall you have them stay?”

“No more than a week, I’d say. The danger should be contained by then.”

“Yes, one way or another,” Mrs. Ashleigh said archly. “Have there been any attempts?”

“We didn’t give them a chance.”

“They must be seething, whoever they are.”

“Let them seethe. I’m not going to sit by and let them operate in London.”

“But, darling, you don’t own London; and, last I heard, it hasn’t asked for your help.”

I wanted to agree but thought it best to remain hidden behind my cup.

“I own property in London-more than one, in fact-and I don’t want to see any criminal organization moving in with impunity. You know I wouldn’t endanger any of us, unless I believed it was important.”

Philippa Ashleigh gave a gentle sigh. “The gardeners have been struggling for most of the week with an old oak stump on the south edge of the estate, but it is not half as stubborn as you.”

Barker gave a smile under his bushy mustache. “I am right glad to hear it, ma’am. There are few enough of us old stumps left.”

“You know best, Cyrus,” she responded sweetly, sipping her tea. It was like watching a match of lawn tennis. Now Barker turned my way and I realized he was looking at me. I knew what he was thinking: never trust a woman when she agrees with you. I quickly took another biscuit and tried to appear occupied with studying the foliage about me, though Barker will tell you I don’t know an orchid from a bluebell.

“Cyrus, have you got anything to do?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“To do. Does Mr. Beauchamp require your consultation or advice?”

“I had intended to see him, yes.”

“There’s no reason why you can’t do it now, is there?”

“Well, I suppose not.”

“Then run along and leave Mr. Llewelyn to have tea with me.”

Barker cleared his throat. “Philippa, I had intended to take the lad with me.”

“Oh, bosh,” she replied. “You don’t need him there. You just like ordering him about. Go see your friend.”

Barker cleared his throat a second time. The first had been to tell Madame that he was in charge. The second was to reassure me of the same. I didn’t believe either. “Lad, I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take your time, Cyrus.”

“Aye, ma’am.”

Barker picked up his stick, gave her a stern look, and backed out of the room. I didn’t think there was anybody on earth who had such control over Cyrus Barker.