The Hellfire Conspiracy

6

“Can you infer anything from the note?” Barker asked.

“The envelope is grubby and of rather poor quality, like the notepaper itself, but the writing is legible enough and it follows the general form of a poem. It reminds me somewhat of Edward Lear.”

“Lear? I am not familiar with him.”

“He writes nonsense rhymes, limericks and such, mostly for children.”

Barker sank back into his swiveling chair and blew smoke toward the ceiling. There was a pause while he made up his mind. “I want you to go to the British Museum,” he said. “Track down this Miacca legend for me and Lear as well.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll pay a visit to Scotland Yard and see if I can talk Swanson into letting me look at those files in his possession.”

I seized my bowler and stick and stepped out the door into Craig’s Court just as Big Ben boomed four times. Research was my favorite part of the investigative process, the hunting of pertinent facts culled from thousands of others in libraries or public record offices. As I raised my stick to hail a cab, however, I thought about how the killer had possibly been watching us today as we walked about Bethnal Green. It made me stop and survey the street and the dozens of anonymous windows that faced me. It is unnerving to know that someone might be scrutinizing you and meaning you harm.

The study area of the Reading Room in the British Museum is formed roughly in the shape of a wheel. The hub is a warren of desks and cabinets for the use of members of staff, and shooting off from it are spokes made up of adjoining desks and chairs for patrons, all in blue-green leather, one of which I had come to think of as my own, P16. I had been coming here since I was sponsored for membership by the patron of my youth, Lord Glendenning, before the unfounded charge of theft leveled upon me by my university nemesis, Palmister Clay. After my personal disgrace and imprisonment, his lordship had seen fit to sever all ties with me but had neglected to withdraw his sponsorship. That written recommendation had been an anchor to me since then. It was here, for example, that I had first come across Barker’s advertisement in the Situations Vacant column of The Times. I still came here on half days to read and think. Now I had come here to track down the tale of the vile Mr. Miacca.

I made my way to the section on folklore and soon found what I was looking for in a book containing legends and stories of London called Tales of the Old Town, published in 1849. I took it back to my desk and flipped through the contents until I found the tale of Mr. Miacca, and turned to the appropriate pages. My memory had been correct. Miacca had been a nasty fellow, but reading the story over, I saw that he was more. There was something of the supernatural in him. After copying the passage into my notebook, I closed the book and set it down on the desk.

Next came the Edward Lear. I didn’t suppose Barker considered Mr. Lear a serious suspect, but the author of the little poem in our office was certainly aping his style. I couldn’t find his books in the poetry section and had to ask one of the librarians if the British Museum stocked his works. It did, as it turned out, but they had been relegated to the children’s section, which I considered shabby treatment. True, children could read and understand his poems and limericks, but they had been intended for adults. I wondered what Barker, a serious if self-taught scholar, would make of “The Owl and the Pussycat,” or “The Courtship of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.” I chose a copy of his book and sat down again, indulging myself in a poem or two. Mr. Lear is a silly fellow, and, as far as I am concerned, there are not enough like him in the world. After a few pages, I found myself chuckling. Much of his work is repetitious, but occasionally he skewers the foibles of man with his sharp wit. I wasn’t about to copy all of Lear’s nonsense into my notebook, so I contented myself with a few poems.

I looked over the top of the book to check the time on the wall clock over the door, and out of the corner of my eye caught a sudden movement. Looking about, all seemed as it should be, but I had the unsettling feeling that I was being watched. Was it Mr. Miacca, right there in the Reading Room with me, or was I letting my nerves get the best of me? I dipped back behind the book to collect myself. Why had I not thought to bring the pistol from my desk drawer? I steadied my nerves and attuned my senses before taking action. Barker wasn’t there to help me. I had only my training to fall back on.

I looked up suddenly and having done so, my ear caught a sound, the flapping of a newspaper. I looked about casually. Beside me there was a heavyset fellow intent on some work of translation. The rest of the people along my row were all reading with their heads down, as was the row of patrons behind us. I looked at the knot of employees. One held a book in front of his face, but I was certain I’d heard the rustle of newsprint. I continued glancing about the room until eventually I saw it, a newspaper facing me directly, in one of the rows on the other side.

I focused on the hands, which were small. I was being watched by a woman. It had been a while since a woman had stared at me in a library. I was not so naive as to think it was my grace or appearance that had attracted her notice. It must have something to do with the case, I reasoned. The newspaper began to settle slowly. I caught a glimpse of blondish curls before turning back quickly to my studies.

What shall I do now? I asked myself. I couldn’t exactly walk over and say, “Pardon, but I couldn’t help notice you were watching me just now.” On the other hand, any interest I had in fairy tales had evaporated with the attentions of a young lady at hand. I stood, stretched decorously, shooting my cuffs, avoiding the natural desire to glance in the woman’s direction. I then turned and made my way to the exit.

Of course, I had no idea whether she might follow. More probably, she would turn her attentions to some other young gentlemen studying at one of the tables. Once outside, I resisted the attentions of a cabman there and turned right, headed along Gower Street, and walked to Regent’s Park.

It was warm and sunny, a rare and glorious afternoon. I walked along the path between grassy expanses in the dappled shade of oaks that must have grown there since the park was first designed. I dared not look behind. It was rather like fishing; I didn’t want to spook my prey. In all probability, there was no prey to spook, and I was making a fool of myself. I was about to give it up, but as I passed the brass plaque that announced I had reached the Zoological Gardens, I saw in that highly polished metal surface that I was still being shadowed, and by a female in a bowler hat and a trim-fitting black outfit. I rather doubted this was the infamous Mr. Miacca. The glorious day suddenly got that much brighter.

Now that the fish, if I might be so crass as to equate the young lady in question with a fish, had risen to the bait, how was I to set the hook? She could still break off the line were I to change course in midstream. Not really having an idea of what to do, I walked past the lions and seals; finally reaching the wolf cages, which somehow seemed appropriate, I sat down at a bench and, with as much savoir faire as I could muster, I raised my hat.

“Good afternoon, miss,” I said as she approached. I recognized her as the friend of Miss Levy.

She stopped and actually gaped at me. “Was I that obvious?” she asked.

“No,” I replied, “but I am an experienced enquiry agent and it is difficult to pull the wool over my eyes.”

She sat down beside me. “My word,” she said, “you are good.”

“I am Thomas Llewelyn.”

“Beatrice Potter.”

She was attractive, with light-colored hair swept away from frank blue eyes and delicate features. Her clothes were of the best quality and in the height of fashion. She came from money, obviously. Not landed money, perhaps, but money all the same. When we were children, I wouldn’t have been allowed to speak to her, being a mere miner’s son, and now she was following me.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I followed you from the museum, or do you know that as well?”

“I assume that you happened to see me in the Reading Room. You didn’t follow me there. Are you Jewish?”

“Jewish?” She frowned. “Why do you ask that?”

“Miss Levy, your friend, is Jewish. And you were reading the Jewish Chronicle in the museum.”

“So I was. I fancy that one of my grandparents was Jewish, but so far I have found little proof. Certainly the other three quarters of me are English enough, and my family is doing its best to deny the other. I find Jews fascinating and have been studying their history and politics. And you?”

“I’m as Welsh as rarebit, but most of my closest friends are from the Jewish quarter and my employer has worked for the Board of Deputies. So, if you happened to recognize me in the Reading Room, why did you follow me?”

“I’ll tell you if you’ll answer one question first. Why were you reading Lear?”

“It is pertinent to the case. Beyond that I can reveal nothing. Now you tell me why you followed me.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Oh, I like that even better,” I said. “So come, come. Tell me. I can believe anything, provided it is fanciful enough.”

“I am an investigator.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Pull the other one. Are you private, or are you in fact working for Scotland Yard?”

“Neither. I am a social investigator.”

“I see,” I said, though to be frank, I didn’t. “I don’t suppose that pays very well.”

“Nothing at all, actually, but it’s very important. That’s why I am working in the East End. I wish to know why the greatest empire in history cannot feed, clothe, or shelter many of its people. I wonder why the mistakes and attitudes of one generation are doomed to be repeated in the next and why the arrival of a people with a rich and ancient culture such as the Jews inspires fear and loathing among an otherwise sensible people. And right now I’m wondering what caused a university man to take up what is obviously a dangerous profession.”

“What makes you think I was at university?” I asked.

“I may be a woman, but I do have a functioning brain, Mr. Llewelyn. The Reading Room is for scholars. You have a membership. I will even speculate that in spite of your education, you are of humble beginnings. So, was it Oxford or Cambridge?”

“It was Oxford. And you are right about my beginnings. How have I given myself away?”

“If anything, your accent is too perfect. You speak better English than most of the young men in my set.”

“Ah,” I said. There was an awkward pause, during which I thought about the phrase, “my set.” I was right about her class origins. But she was speaking. “I beg your pardon?”

“You haven’t answered my question. What caused a university man to take up such a profession?”

“Eight months in Oxford Prison severely limited my choice of occupations, Miss Potter.”

“My word,” she replied. “That was blunt.”

“My apologies,” I said. “I misspoke.”

“No, no, I admire it, Mr. Llewelyn. You use information like a weapon. That is good. You are in the business of giving and receiving information, as am I. There are people out there attempting to stifle knowledge and mask truth. Sometimes it is private individuals, sometimes it is the government itself.”

“Miss Potter, are you one of those crusaders who want to redistribute the wealth and give the vote to women?”

“Do you consider either of those bad things, sir?”

“To tell you the truth, I have no idea. I’ve never investigated the question before.”

“Then you are more intelligent than most of the male population. At least you haven’t made up your mind without having researched the issues. There is hope for you, yet.”

“Well, good, then,” I said, trying not to laugh. “At least there is hope.”

“So that man with whom you came into the charity was your employer?”

“Yes. His name is Cyrus Barker.”

“He seemed a brusque sort.”

He was indeed a brusque sort, but I didn’t want Miss Potter to get the wrong impression. “He’s a gentleman and a fine employer. And of course, a first-rate enquiry agent.”

“I’ve heard you detectives are very loyal to one another,” she noted.

“Sometimes in an inquiry, your employer is the only person you can trust. He’s saved my life on more than one occasion. Do you volunteer at the C.O.S.?”

“I did for a while, but now I work at a tenement called the Katherine Building. I interview prospective tenants, collect rents, and see that the building is well maintained. As an investigator, I keep a file on each tenant, their history, occupation, family, and beliefs. When they are gone-and, of course, being poor, they rarely stay long-their social history will be of greater use as a record of conditions during this time.”

“So it is a salaried position, then. I am surprised that you work.”

She laughed, displaying a set of perfect teeth. No one in need of money had teeth like that.

“I don’t need to, of course. My father owns a railway. I’m sure he could buy the Katherine Building twice over.”

“It seems an unusual pastime for a young woman, running a slum tenement. Most young ladies would simply marry.”

“Some find the institution of marriage to be a form of tyranny not unlike slavery. Most of us at the Charity Organization Society feel that way. We do not need a man to become whole individuals. We are scholars and freethinkers, Mr. Llewelyn. We refuse to be put on a pedestal but instead hope to help bring about social change.”

“Mrs. DeVere and Mrs. Carrick are both married,” I pointed out.

“True. It is a hard choice. We lose a lot of sisters to marriage. I’ve turned down several offers myself. It is a difficult decision to remain celibate.”

I tried hard not to blush, but I’d never heard a young woman speak so frankly.

“So are there many young women like you in the East End just now?”

“Oh, yes, dozens. Social work is a respectable use of time for young, unmarried women these days. But enough about me. Do you like being a detective?”

“Mr. Barker prefers the term ‘enquiry agent.’”

“What is the difference?”

“We take the moral high ground, so to speak. A detective is willing to break the law in order to solve whatever case he is working on. He may break into a house to obtain information.”

“So you’ve never broken a law to obtain information?” Miss Potter asked.

“Well, we’ve bent it a little once or twice.”

“And are you not a former criminal?”

“I was, in a way, but it was complicated.”

“Your distinctions have quite gone out the window, then, sir.”

“Allow me to return the compliment, Miss Potter. You are good.”

“You haven’t answered my question, Mr. Llewelyn,” she pursued. “Do you like being a detective?”

“No, no. You cannot put me off that easily, Miss Potter. You followed me here for a purpose. What was it, may I ask?”

“I thought I might help you,” she said, looking down at a handkerchief she was kneading in her hands. “I could volunteer at the C.O.S. again. Miss Hill would be glad to take me back. Perhaps I might overhear something said by one of the patrons that would lead you to Gwendolyn and her abductors.”

I wanted to tell her that we were no longer looking for a white slave ring but instead a madman. However, it was not my secret to reveal.

“What do you think?” she pressed.

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” I retorted. “It is what my employer thinks that is important. I don’t know what he shall say. He keeps a bachelor’s home and offices, I should warn you. Why do you wish to help, anyway?”

“Aren’t white slave rings a social problem, sir?”

“They are,” I admitted.

“You do wish Gwendolyn to be saved and these criminals caught?”

“Of course.”

“Then I suppose it is female detectives you don’t like.”

She argued well, I gave her that, but then, most women do.

“You’re building a straw man,” I reasoned. “I have neither criticized female detectives, denied wanting Miss DeVere to be found, nor claimed that white slavery was not a social problem. I merely wondered about your personal motives.”

“You’re protective of your employer.”

“I’m not sure he needs protection, but he doesn’t need to be interrupted in his work.”

“Very well,” she said. “I do have personal reasons. I want to be able to say, if only for my own sake, that I have worked for a professional investigator. It makes me feel I too am a professional and not a rich girl playing games. Tell your Mr. Barker I expect to be paid.”

“Do not consider yourself hired just yet, but I shall speak to him tonight. Will you be at the Katherine Building tomorrow?”

“Of course not,” she replied. “It’s Sunday.”

“Then I shall send word of my employer’s decision,” I said, rising from the bench. “I bid you good afternoon, Miss Potter.” I raised my hat to her and left the park. The Guv would be waiting for me, and also, I thought it best to be the one to end the conversation. It was the only control I had.

As I hurried out of the park, my mind gathered impressions. Beatrice Potter was a beautiful and intelligent young woman and seemed genuinely committed to bringing about reform in the East End. I did not think, however, that the girl was being truthful about her motives for wishing to join us in the hunt for Gwendolyn DeVere.