Fatal Enquiry

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

To be perfectly honest, I was getting tired. We had narrowly avoided being arrested in Westminster Abbey, broken into a Masonic temple in order to talk to Pollock Forbes, and had an interview with a very much alive Seamus O’Muircheartaigh. Perhaps it was the Irishman who exhausted me most. He had a way of draining the energy from a room, as if he fed upon it. Had going to see the Irishman been worth the danger? I couldn’t say.

It was my wish that we could go back to the barge, and quit risking capture for the rest of the day. I would put up with the tasteless tea and the repetitive menu. I would even make do without a book and go to bed early. Unfortunately, Cyrus Barker didn’t see things my way. Though the sun was obscured by clouds, it was still up in the sky somewhere and his pocket watch told him it was just three o’clock. There was plenty of daylight left.

“While we’re this close to the East End, I should like to see to the safety of Fu Ying,” my employer said, referring to the Chinese girl who was his ward. “Nightwine would never hesitate to use one’s relations against him.”

“But, sir,” I said. “Anyone who knows you well will be watching her rooms in Three Colt Lane, hoping you’ll appear. Inspector Abberline is sure to have plainclothesmen in the area waiting to arrest you. If you try to see her, you’ll be jugged like a hare.”

“Then we’ll bypass Limehouse and try Mile End Road. I want Andrew to keep an eye on her, even if it means bringing her to the mission. I trust his abilities over anyone’s in London.”

“Do you really think no one’s considered Handy Andy, sir?” I argued. “I mean, everyone knows you have been supporting his ministry for years, not to mention the fact that he is your sparring partner.”

“Aye, but his mission is a warren and I know all the exits. Also, McClain’s followers may help divert any pursuers.”

“It’s still a risk.”

“Nothing is a sure thing, but I’ll have one of the most able fighters in London to protect me.”

“I’ve fought Brother Andrew in the ring, sir,” I admitted. “He’s very good.”

“I was talking about you, lad.”

“Oh,” I said, surprised. Barker rarely pays a compliment.

We took the tram at Aldgate Station, taking care to separate. It is a wearing thing when you’re looking at everyone as if they would suddenly recognize you and call for the police. I sat several rows behind the Guv, trying not to look at his stubbled head. The more one tries not to look at something the harder it is. I focused my attention instead on the street, but it was a depressing sight. Everyone looked dirty, ill, and poor, from the women selling paper flowers to the tradesmen desperately hawking their wares. The streets were grimier here, too. There were no crossing sweepers where there was no money to be made. The job generally fell to young girls and boys in the better parts of London, but here, no one bothered. The hooves of our tram horses were muffled by the layers of debris and refuse on the ground. I couldn’t help but marvel at the difference twenty minutes’ travel makes in London.

When we arrived, I saw immediately that something was wrong in Mile End Road. There were people milling about the street to no purpose, as if something had occurred, but I couldn’t tell what it was. Barker alighted from the tram and I followed at a short distance, crossing the street to the far side. The Guv had a cautious eye on a policeman talking to a man I recognized as one of McClain’s volunteers. We passed an alleyway when a voice spoke almost in my ear.

“Go down the road and cut back this way in the next.”

I glanced over my shoulder. The voice belonged to a man in a trilby hat with the collar of his macintosh pulled up, obscuring his face. I recognized the voice, but couldn’t place it.

“Who was that?” I asked, after I had caught up with my employer.

“I don’t know,” Barker admitted. “But we are about to find out.”

He steered us into another alleyway, which we traversed until we reached Bridge Street and doubled back. I noticed there were fewer people there, and also no sense of excitement or tension. We came to the far end of the alley and found the man standing there awaiting us. His hand, which had been clutching his collar over the lower half of his face, fell away and I recognized him instantly.

Robert Forrester was chief warder of Her Majesty’s Yeoman Guards, responsible for the Tower of London, Her Majesty’s Crown Jewels, and the so-called Tower Hamlets: Whitechapel, the City of London, Poplar, Bethnal Green, and several other neighborhoods in the East End. It was a grave responsibility, but one that appeared to rest on competent shoulders. Forrester was a sturdily built man in his sixties with a beard like a king from a playing card. It went perfectly with his dress blue uniform or his more formal red and gold tunic for ceremonial occasions, but less so with a trilby and a macintosh. I suppose there’s a reason why military men avoid mufti whenever possible.

“Cyrus,” he said, looking my employer square in the eye. “You must prepare yourself. I have some news.”

“What has happened?”

“It’s Andrew McClain. He had a heart attack this morning and didn’t make it. I’m very sorry to bear such terrible news. I know what he meant to you. If it is any consolation, he died in the ring, as he would have liked.”

Barker put his hand on the wall behind him and bent over as if he’d been gut punched. He didn’t speak for at least a minute. I was reeling myself. It didn’t seem possible. We had seen him just two days before and he had been fit and vigorous and full of life. He could have run rings around me, and had on numerous occasions. I knew what Barker was thinking, or at least I thought I did. A man with a heart as big as Andy McClain’s should have outlasted us all.

“Was he boxing at the time?” the Guv finally asked. I noticed he was having some difficulty speaking.

“No,” Forrester answered. “The local beat constable told me Andy had been showing a potential patron around the mission.”

“Will there be a postmortem?”

“It is standard procedure, though his death appeared to be due to natural causes. He was in his mid-fifties after all, and had subjected his body to heavy abuse for years.” The warder put his hand on Barker’s shoulder. “Sometimes the heart just gives out, Cyrus.”

“I shall need to see the postmortem all the same. Some men simply have weak hearts, but Andy was different. He watched his diet carefully and exercised every day. I would have thought he would live to be an octogenarian. Who was this patron? Did you get a name?”

Forrester shook his head. “No name.”

“He canna be dead!” Barker burst out. “He had plans. There were things he needed to accomplish.”

When Cyrus Barker became upset, I had noticed in the past, his Lowland Scots began to spill out.

“I’m sorry, Cyrus,” Forrester repeated. “I know what he meant to you. This must be quite a blow.”

My employer’s hand still rested on the wall, as if for support. For once, the fight seemed to have gone out of him. “More than you could possibly realize. Thank you for telling me, Robert. It means a great deal that you were the one who did.”

“I didn’t want you to hear it on the street,” Forrester replied.

“I need to walk and think. Excuse me.”

Cyrus Barker turned and left the alleyway. Forrester and I nodded to each other and I turned to follow my employer. The Guv was clearly agitated, and if I didn’t hurry along, I would lose him in the teeming streets of the East End. When I caught up to him, there was a bleak look on his face.

“It is my own fault,” he lamented, lurching through the street as if he weren’t even aware of where he was going.

“What are you talking about? How can it be your fault? Brother Andrew had a heart attack.”

“If you believe that, lad, you have underestimated Nightwine entirely.”

The remark stung a little, I must admit, but I had never seen Cyrus Barker looking so bereft, so completely and utterly overwhelmed. I felt as if I could have pushed him over with the slightest effort.

“It is just a coincidence,” I argued. “He is dead, and we shall both miss him terribly. The timing is dreadful, I know, but what else could it be?”

“It could be anything. Nightwine could have poisoned his tea, for all I know. Anyone who can kill people with powdered caster bean shells would know how to simulate a heart attack. An overdose of digitalis, perhaps? We won’t know until the postmortem.”

I had trouble believing that Brother Andrew’s death was anything other than a sudden tragedy. For one thing, Nightwine was being followed about by Poole and his lot. For another, I doubted McClain would have allowed Nightwine into his mission. It didn’t make sense. I began to think that perhaps the Guv was developing an obsession. We had taken one hit after another, and my rock-solid employer was crumbling right before my eyes.