Fatal Enquiry

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Cyrus Barker spent the entire day brooding in his hammock. I’m not sure if brooding is a distinctly Scottish trait, but it certainly was one of his. He lay there as if encased in a giant chrysalis, not moving for hours, not even speaking save to ask for strong tea every now and again. Apart from the tea, he refused all nourishment. I found I could not even draw him into a conversation on the merits and memories of our late friend. His responses were little more than grunts. It made for a very long day.

He wasn’t speaking but I hoped he was thinking, trying to work out an answer for our increasingly dire predicament. We were running out of money. I began to look around to see what items in the flat could be pawned: the tropical suit, obviously, and perhaps the desk. All I needed was the word, but he never gave it. He merely swayed in that hammock of his and brooded.

Hungry as I was, I tried to get the Guv to share the provisions I had purchased. As night fell, I had no choice but to eat them myself. He had seriously begun to worry me.

The next morning found him up and out of his hammock. The worst of his grief appeared to have passed, though it would take more than one day to get over the loss of so good and necessary a man as the Reverend Andrew McClain. At least my employer was on two feet again. Perhaps now the case could move forward.

“Thomas, do you recall what I once said was the difference between a private enquiry agent and a detective?”

“A detective is not above breaking the law to achieve his own ends. Stealing into people’s houses, for example.”

“We may be forced to break that rule today.”

“Oh,” I said, not bothering to hide the disappointment in my voice.

“There is no other way. I must talk to Gerald Clayton. Desperate times require desperate measures.”

“But isn’t Clayton’s estate likely to be well guarded? After all, a pair of dangerous criminals is at large.”

“I did not say it was going to be easy. We certainly won’t be going in the front door.”

“I’ll be surprised if we will be going in through the ground floor,” I said.

“Good man! Now you’re thinking like a detective. We shall see if we can scale the brick and climb into an upper window.”

“I far preferred it when we were private enquiry agents and had at least a certain level of dignity.”

“Desperate times,” he repeated.

The Clayton family, I understand, has a large estate in Derby, into which their London property could be dropped like a stone in a well. For London, however, the property would be considered substantial. I hazarded a guess that the Claytons had performed a service for the Tudors or William of Orange, and had been doing well ever since. Certainly they had ingratiated themselves with someone to afford the large stone structure with its elaborate gardens and statuary, set back from the world and guarded with spear-topped iron railings and at least one constable, idly tapping on the iron tracery with his truncheon as he passed by.

“I don’t like the look of those bars,” I said. “No footing for almost six feet.”

“Let us reconnoiter, and see if we can find a more secluded spot to climb. This is far too public in the light of day.”

We circled the fence-enclosed property and found that it extended all the way around, save for a gate in front and back. The back gate was lower than the fence and was neatly hidden from view by a brace of old elms on either side, set within, which could aid us as we left the property. If there was any proper way in, I reasoned, this must be it.

“I suppose we-”

“Get back!” the Guv shouted.

I jumped off the lower rung of the gate just as something struck it from the other side with great force, something large and black and hideous, that sprayed me in drool from its gaping maw.

“Bullmastiff,” Barker said, leading me down a quiet side street, as the creature began baying at us.

“My word! It’s the size of a calf. Have you ever seen such an ugly creature?”

I looked down at my suit. The monster had doused my lower limbs in strands of phlegm, making me yearn for a change of clothes, but I was not in a situation where such a thing was possible. We hurried away along a quiet street of shops.

“How much money have we got left, Thomas?”

“No more than a few shillings, sorry to say.”

“Give me one.”

Reluctantly, I handed it over, knowing I’d seen the last of it. Though a Scot, Barker has the generous nature of a rich man. He has me, as his almoner, tip cab men liberally and never expects change back from whatever he gives. It had been some time since he had been in such reduced circumstances, I was sure. He stopped at the door of a butcher shop and turned to me.

“Go across the street to that chemist’s and get a small bottle of Thompson’s Licorice Elixir,” he ordered.

He was standing at the corner with a packet from the butcher in his hands when I returned.

“I assume the meat and the Thompson’s are for that roving gargoyle back at Clayton’s,” I said, turning the bottle over and reading aloud the label pasted on the back. “‘A universal panacea for the relief of pain, irritation, diarrhea, coughs, colds, cramps, catarrh, excessive secretions, and vague aches. Efficacious in the treatment of meningitis and yellow fever. Analgesic, soporific, and antitussive.’ It sounds like the cure for everything.”

“It’s almost pure laudanum. Half the East End doses their children with it regularly,” my employer said. “It is cheaper than alcohol and the licorice syrup cuts the bitter taste of the tincture of opium.”

“What is catarrh, exactly?”

“It is an inflammation of the mucous membranes of the nose, but laudanum will not treat it successfully.”

If I have given the impression that Barker is a know-all, let me disabuse you of the notion. As an autodidact, he either knows a good deal about a subject or nothing at all. He is well versed in medicine, which I believe is due to his working and training under a certain Dr. Wong of Canton, China. Knowing him as I do, the Guv is probably more interested in using his anatomical knowledge to bring down a fellow rather than to cure his head cold. Barker opened his package and decanted the dark green liquid over the raw meat. Kneading it repeatedly before we walked back to Clayton’s estate, he made the mutton absorb a good portion of the liquid, then rewrapped it carefully and flung the package over the fence.

“Why did you rewrap it?” I asked.

“I want him to work for his reward. It will ensure that he will eat all of it and possibly even lick the wrapper. Shall we get some tea while we wait? Tell me we still have enough for a cup of tea.”

“Just barely, I’m afraid. It won’t kill the dog, will it?”

“No, it will merely put him into a sound sleep for most of the day.”

We found a tea shop, where I regretfully parted with our last few pence. The buns newly pulled from the oven smelled especially good and the cakes on the counter made my eyes water.

“Stone-broke?” Barker asked, regarding me.

“Not so much as a farthing,” I said. “Unless you count the Chinese coins in my pocket.”

“I used the last of my pennies at the Bank of England, I’m afraid. It’s maddening. I’ve got money secreted away in half a dozen places in London and I cannot get to any of them. Still, I’ve been in worse situations in my life than this, or at least as bad.”

I drained the teapot, adding extra sugar to my cup for the energy it would bring.

“How will we make it through the day without money, sir?”

“God will provide. Mark my words. By midnight tonight, you’ll go to bed with a full belly. Fair enough?”

“If you say so.”

“Doubting Thomas. Your mother named you well. Let us see about a dog, shall we?”

When we returned to the Clayton estate, the bullmastiff lay prone in the corner of the lawn, its limbs sprawled and its tongue lolling from its mouth. It was not completely unconscious, but when we climbed over the gate and crossed the lawn, it gave no protest beyond a cough and a shake of its head. We walked around him, a black spot upon the green, and made our way across the lawn. Before we reached the house, we passed an ancient-looking edifice that was something in between a mausoleum and a temple. Its roof had crumbled and it was overgrown with ivy, and yet I recognized it for what it was, a folly, recently built to give the property an aesthetically pleasing air of age and sanctity. I was starving and this family was throwing its money away on buildings with no purpose. Folly indeed, I thought.

“That is where Lord Clayton’s body was found. Rather a private spot, don’t you think?” the Guv asked.

“I do. It is the perfect spot for a rendezvous of some sort. If it is a woman, she might have had a confederate nearby to kill Clayton.”

“That is certainly one interpretation.”

The door at the side of the house, for all its wrought-iron hardware, proved to be unlocked. Barker eased it open and stepped inside, but I hesitated on the threshold. This was it, I told myself, the day we set aside our hard-won reputations. Beyond this, we could lay no claim to dignity, either for ourselves or our work. We had truly become part of the Underworld. I stepped inside and stood beside my employer.

“What…” I whispered, but he put up his hand for silence. He had gone motionless in that way he has, as if turned to stone. He listened and felt the atmosphere, the temperature, possibly even the barometric pressure of the house, soaking it in through his pores.

“There is no one on this floor, unless they are seated, but someone is above our heads. In a house this size, one can expect a butler, a valet, a housekeeper, cook, upstairs and downstairs maid, perhaps a footman or two. We’ll have to walk a gauntlet to get to Clayton.”

“What is our purpose, exactly, in speaking to him?” I asked in a low voice. “You’ll never convince him to change his mind.”

“We’ll see about that. If someone is squeezing him from one side, let us squeeze from the other. It shouldn’t take much, I should think. When I met him, he did not strike me as a fellow with much personal resolve.”

There was a sticky moment when a maid bustled past and we hid in an alcove, but eventually, we made our way upstairs to the first floor. I thought perhaps Barker knew where he was going, but we were forced to open and close doors until we finally found Gerald Clayton sitting before a fire in a faded leather armchair, sipping from a large snifter of brandy though it was not yet noon. Clayton’s eyes were closed and it was difficult to tell how much he had swallowed already. Barker eased himself into the chair across from him and I stood behind, resting a forearm on the top of the chair.

“Good morning, Mr. Clayton,” Barker stated in a low voice. “What have you to say for yourself?”

It was worth the price of admission to watch the man jump and spill his drink, even if it meant ruining a decent Persian rug. My first thought upon encountering Gerald Clayton was that he must have been a great disappointment to his father. He was a vision of dissipated youth, with waxy skin and protuberant eyes, his hair lank and oily-looking. There were two stacks of papers in front of him he had been working his way through. No doubt it had to do with his father’s death and recent inheritance.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing here?”

“It is I, Cyrus Barker. I’ve come to find out why you’re ruining my name across London, Mr. Clayton. I’ve worked many years establishing a reputation which you have now sullied. I have come for my pound of flesh.”

Clayton filled his lungs to cry for help but before he could expel a sound the Guv was over the table and had clamped a large hand about his throat.

“Now, Clayton, be reasonable,” Barker said soothingly. “If you alert your servants or attempt to summon the constable in the lane, I shall be forced to get very unpleasant.”

Clayton’s eyes darted from Barker to me and I did my best to appear formidable. I gave him my most devilish look, and reached a hand into my inside breast pocket. What might I have in there? A clasp knife? A knuckle-duster? Actually, it was a pocket volume of Browning’s poetry, but he wasn’t to know that.

Barker pulled his hand away and patted Clayton’s chest. “That’s better. There is no reason for violence, I’m sure. Mr. Clayton, are you being blackmailed?”

“Yes,” he admitted, putting his hands to his throat where Barker’s thick fingers had just been. “Is it that obvious?”

“You do not strike me as a naturally vindictive person, and I did not give you cause during our brief exchange the other night to seek vengeance against me. There must be another factor. This person blackmailing you, is it a man or a woman?”

“It is a man, sir.”

“Let me give you a name, then. Have you ever heard of Sebastian Nightwine?”

Clayton’s brow shot up. “The very man! You seem to know everything. Is he a known blackmailer?”

“He is not, but the man is responsible for my present situation. What better way to damage my reputation than to murder the last man I spoke with, and coerce his son to say we had a public argument. What does he have on you, sir? Letters, perhaps?”

“I wish they were only letters.”

“Photographs, then? The modern age has proven a boon to blackmailers.”

“I was an ass,” Clayton blurted out.

“I suppose it happened at university. I’ve heard young men frequently make fools of themselves there.”

“You have no idea. I would give anything to take back what happened. Nothing really happened at all, but it looks bad.”

“No doubt,” Barker said, though he understood what Clayton meant no more than I.

“I was in an amateur theatrical group at Oxford,” Clayton began. “We were doing Antigone. After the final performance we hired a photographer to take a photograph of all the players. By the time we got round to it and the photographer was prepared, we were all rather drunk, I’m afraid. The chiton tunics we wore were already short and rather askew, and we wore heavy makeup. The result was that we looked like a bacchanal of the lowest sort. Why couldn’t we have done something like Henry IV, I ask you?”

Cyrus Barker frowned. He was not the kind to go in for amateur theatrics or to understand the kind of high-spirited antics that occur from time to time at a prestigious university such as Oxford or Cambridge.

“I’m not certain I follow you,” he admitted.

In response, Clayton pulled open a drawer of the desk beside him and pitched a photograph across the table as if it were a playing card. It landed faceup in front of us. The photograph was one of those studio cards with a heavy backing, in sepia tones. It featured a group of four young men seated in front of a painted backdrop representing a classical scene. The young men wore laurel wreaths and had their hair in tight curls, and wore so much rouge they could have been mistaken for women. There were but two chairs, and two of the young men were seated in the other’s laps. The costumes they wore were so short as to leave little to the imagination. I could see how it could lead one to the belief that something illicit and possibly even illegal might be going on.

“Did your father see this photograph?”

“No, thank the Lord.”

“Are there more?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. Apparently the photographer was not scrupulous and knew a good thing when he saw it. I’m sure he took several. We were so drunk I didn’t remember a single thing afterward.”

“So there was no impropriety,” Barker remarked. “Merely the impression of impropriety.”

“We were merely drunk and disorderly, sir.”

“Are you still acquainted with the other gentlemen in this photograph?”

“No. I’m not even certain I recall their names.”

“How did Mr. Nightwine approach you?”

“He came to the house after my father died, telling me to go to the police with accusations against you. I assume he purchased the lot from whoever took the pictures.”

“What did he say he would do with the other photographs? I assume they were as debauched-looking as this one?”

“Worse, if such a thing is possible. Nightwine said he would show them to all my father’s old cronies, men with whom I would have dealings in the future. Mr. Barker, do you think there is any way to stop them from being circulated?”

“Frankly, sir, I do not. Nightwine got hold of them because he was looking for something like this and they were on the market. There’s no telling how many copies were put out by your unscrupulous photographer. They may have been produced for sale. Luckily, it requires a good deal of effort to recognize you. I have a few suggestions.”

“Name them, please!” Clayton said, leaning forward. I had not noticed until now that he was perspiring freely.

“The first is to marry quickly. Almost anyone will do. Make a proper husband of yourself and have children as soon as possible. Avoid amateur theatrics, drinking in public, and anything involving Greek literature. Above all, deny completely that the fellow in the photograph is you, should the subject arise. There is nothing I can see here to connect you to Oxford. You were heavily made up. Your father’s associates will have merely the word of the photographer against yours. Have you anyone you can marry?”

“I have a maiden cousin without a penny-”

“Propose to her immediately! Elope with her. Settle money upon her. By God’s grace you may learn to love her.”

“But I hardly know the girl!”

“See her anyway. Don’t tell her you’ve loved her from afar. Tell her the truth. She deserves that and might take pity on you.”

“Mr. Barker,” he said dryly, “it strikes me that you would say anything to get me to recant my testimony.”

In return, Barker gave one of his cold smiles. “You are in worse trouble than I am. I have given you advice and it is not underhanded. May I take it that this cousin of yours is rather plain?”

“She’s not famous for her looks, but she’s a nice girl, if I recall.”

“Do as you think best. You have made a hash of your life so far, boy. She may be your only salvation.”

Clayton put down his drink. “Sir, I think you are correct. I don’t know why I haven’t thought of it before. But what should I do if one of my father’s associates has already seen the photographs?”

“Your only course is complete denial. You’ll not emerge unscathed. You could lose friends and associates, but if you marry and show evidence of a clean character, you’ll find new ones.”

There was a fire in the grate, and with a gesture Clayton tossed the photograph in. It began to blacken and curl.

“I’ll do it. I shall write to Elizabeth this evening and go to Bristol tomorrow to speak to her. I’ll throw myself on her mercy.”

Barker, whom I must admit had looked as if he were ready to punish the young heir for turning our lives upside down, now sat back in his chair and regarded him steadily.

“If I handle Nightwine, will you agree to recant your testimony?”

Clayton took a large mouthful of brandy and swallowed it. He mopped his face afterward with a pocket handkerchief.

“I understand how untenable my position is. I will not emerge unscathed regardless of the outcome. I have tossed away every privilege my father gave me while he was alive, but I would like to think I have retained at least a vestige of honor. Very well. If you can make Nightwine go away, I shall do as you say. I wish you luck.”

Barker reached out his hand and grasped Clayton’s. He looked my way and inclined his head toward the door. Without a word we exited the room.

In the hall we encountered a sputtering butler, but my employer paid no more attention to him than a standing hall clock. We descended the stairs, passed between two open-jawed housemaids below, and exited as we came. We didn’t have to lay down our honor after all.

Outside the dog raised his head and stared at us listlessly. Barker put out an arm and stopped me beside one of the trees. We watched as the constable passed by, still swinging his truncheon. When he was gone we took advantage of the lower branches to climb over the fence, dropping onto the verge of lawn on the other side. Dusting grass from the knees of our trousers, we were away into the anonymous reaches of darkest Bayswater.

“Sir, I was rather shocked by the advice you gave Gerald Clayton. Deny everything? You usually expect people to tell the truth.”

“You’ll recall I told him to reveal all to his wife. As far as his creditors and associates go, in this sort of situation the punishment far exceeds the crime. A rumor sticks to one like glue. Better to deny, for no amount of explaining or assuring will convince anyone. In fact, I myself am not convinced.”

“You think he-”

“Oh, the photographs may be more than he is willing to admit. It doesn’t matter what he’s done in the past, however. The question is: what shall Clayton do in the future?”

Something else was troubling me and I turned to my employer.

“We saw Sebastian Nightwine debark that ship with our own eyes. How could he have possibly had time to get something on Gerald Clayton? It doesn’t seem possible.”

“I was thinking that very thing myself, and that is not the only problem in this case. No one would attack O’Muircheartaigh’s house without scrupulously keeping a vigil for days to learn their routines and habits. There’s only one explanation.”

“What?” I asked.

“Nightwine has an accomplice. And, if O’Muircheartaigh’s secretary was correct, and there’s no reason to think otherwise, it is a woman.”