Fatal Enquiry

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The next morning the storm had rolled off toward the Continent, leaving everything bedewed and smelling of loam. I had done the best I could with a suit which had been drenched several times, a thrice-used collar, and a tie that had traveled from Canton while I was still in public school. I was going to see Robert Anderson, but not without misgivings.

“Why should we expect him to reveal anything to us, sir?” I argued. “He didn’t ask for me to come and probably feels I have nothing to offer him.”

“Then you must disabuse him of that opinion. What I have told you to say I would be interested in hearing, were I in his position.”

“But suppose he gives me nothing in return?”

“Really, Thomas, you must work these things out for yourself. Balk! Stay seated in his chair, an impediment to the day’s activities, until he either has you thrown out or finally opens his mouth.”

“What if he doesn’t know anything? I mean, his concern is the Irish threat. He has nothing to do with matters in Tibet.”

“Since when have you been an authority on the duties of the spymaster general? Do you suppose he is not concerned about a matter which could potentially enlarge the British Empire a hundredfold?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I see your point.”

“We should have sold the tea kettle and bought a new collar,” he went on, eyeing me critically.

“I would have liked a shoeshine, as well,” I said. “It can’t be helped.”

“Good luck, lad,” Barker said, patting my shoulder.

“I thought you didn’t believe in luck,” I answered.

I crossed at Westminster Bridge, aware that I was not far from where this case had first begun. I could look over and see an engine steaming across the Charing Cross Bridge. I assumed Jenkins had opened the offices as always in Craig’s Court. What day was it? It was so easy to lose track when one is on the run. By my calculations, it was Friday, April 9. Officially, we had been wanted men for five days. Generally, the Guv likes to finish a case within two weeks’ time, though I seriously doubted he would make his self-determined deadline this time.

Entering the combined chambers of the Home and Foreign Office, I went up to the sentinel who guarded the building from anyone attempting to enter without proper authority. Pulling a piece of paper from my pocket, I borrowed a pen and wrote the words RE: Shambhala expedition. T. Llewelyn on it. I handed it to the guard, a stocky, ginger-haired fellow with a florid face.

“Give this to Robert Anderson,” I said.

The man frowned at me and I understood why. One doesn’t simply demand to see the spymaster general of all the British Empire without an appointment. Also, I was rather certain he recognized my name, for I had seen this particular Cerberus before. After some hesitation he pointed a pudgy finger at a bench, and stepping to a door, he conferred with a colleague before handing over my paper. Then he returned to his desk. Nothing happened for the next twenty minutes. The wheels of British government grind exceedingly slow, but finally, a civil servant, possibly the one he had spoken to, came and fetched me. As I passed I looked into the piercing blue eyes of the guard and he eyed me shrewdly. I was surprised at my own gall, but it was too late to turn back now.

Anderson was seated in his office, looking slightly harried and a bit grayer than when I had seen him last, when we had investigated a faction of Irish bombers. His office was Spartan and not particularly large, decorated with a Union Jack on a pole and a cross on the wall made of olive wood. I supposed the two represented what he stood for, God and Country.

“I’m not in the habit of speaking to wanted men, Mr. Llewelyn,” he warned, writing as he spoke. “You should not be here. What do you want?”

“I won’t take up much of your time. I was wondering if you could tell me the name of the gentleman leading this expedition to Tibet.”

His pen paused briefly, stabbed itself into his inkwell and went on writing.

“I couldn’t possibly answer that question. The names of our agents are confidential for obvious reasons. Besides, I have no idea what you will do with the information.”

I would not be deterred so easily. “Very well. Do you think if I inferred that said agent was Sebastian Nightwine, I would be far off the mark? You needn’t say anything. Just tap your nose with your pen.”

“You have a gift for facetiousness, Mr. Llewelyn, which is liable to get you into trouble.”

“I must take that as a ‘no,’ then. Fine. The consequences be on your head.” I rose as if to go.

“Sit down,” he commanded. “To what consequences do you refer?”

“I scarce can say, and certainly would not hazard a guess. I’m sure you know that he is very dangerous. If you can explain to me why Her Majesty’s government is plotting the takeover of Tibet with a man who has a file at Scotland Yard two inches thick, I’ll be on my way.”

“You are starting to sound like your employer.”

“I’ve been cramming. I wanted to get it right.”

“I shall tell you what I’d tell him, then. It’s none of his concern what the government does. Him, least of all, under present circumstances.”

“Now, see,” I said. “That’s what I told him. It would be far more advantageous to go to see W. T. Stead, and lay all our evidence before him.”

“That scandalmonger?” he demanded. I knew I’d succeeded in getting his attention because his pen stopped.

“The Pall Mall Gazette is a reputable newspaper, even if they are a trifle socialist. They even print photographs!”

“If you reveal any information regarding this expedition, you may provoke an international incident.”

“I believe you’ve got that backward, sir. If I reveal the information I would stop the international incident you are provoking.”

He got up from his chair and shut the door. On the one hand it showed he was giving me his full attention, but on the other, I was trapped.

“I am not involved with the Shambhala expedition,” he insisted.

“That hardly matters,” I pointed out. “When Mr. Gladstone’s government goes down clawing and scratching into the mud over this, saying you were not involved will hardly absolve you.”

“They might consider the offer too good to refuse. Even Barker could not stop the momentum.”

“The Guv says the prime minister has wanted to add new colonies ever since his opponent, Mr. Disraeli, made us an empire. The problem is there’s a worm at the core of the apple.”

Anderson leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I presume you’re referring to Sebastian Nightwine.”

“Yes. In case you haven’t heard, he and Mr. Barker have been acquainted for twenty-five years, ever since Nightwine killed his brother.”

“Mr. Nightwine has spoken extensively about your employer. It is how I’ve become connected to the matter. I am considered the local authority upon Cyrus Barker. But, as you see, I still have work to do. I presume you have something to ask or tell me. I hope it is the latter.”

“It is. Mr. Barker wishes me to inform you that in his presence, Nightwine told him many years ago about this plan, only with one significant change: Nightwine intended to seize control of Lhasa and have himself declared king. He had no intention of handing it over to the British government.”

Anderson shook his head. “Your powder is wet, I’m afraid. It doesn’t matter what he said many years ago.”

“Fair enough,” I responded. “How about yesterday at 4:25 P.M. when in my presence he said he’d sell Tibet to the highest bidder? He was gracious enough to allow Britain to make the first offer, but ultimately you would need to have the winning bid.”

Anderson closed his eyes and his shoulders slumped a little. “How can I verify this is true?”

“The Guv said you’d ask that. The three of us were the only ones in the room at the time. He said to give you his word.”

“That’s good enough for me, but not, I fear, for my associates. The negotiations are at an end. The deal is complete. Mr. Nightwine is to turn over his maps to us on Monday.”

“In exchange for money, I assume,” I said. “You’ll never see it again. What’s to keep him from pocketing it and betting at the fan-tan parlors in Shanghai?”

“This is the British government we’re talking about.”

“With thousands of pounds in his hand he could buy whatever he wants in Asia. He could take over Tibet as he said, or he could buy his own island and fortify it with cannons. I don’t think he cares much about the British government one way or the other. He’s doing it for the money. He told me to my face he was taking his retirement.”

“There was talk about giving him an earldom.”

“I’m sure, but the Russians would offer to make him a count, and the Chinese would make a mandarin of him.”

Anderson began to scratch his beard, as if it had begun to itch. “Do not speak with Mr. Stead, for now at least. I need to talk to several people. It is probably too late to stop this, and some men on the committee will be deucedly hard to convince.”

“I will tell Mr. Barker when I see him. Thank you for seeing me without an appointment.”

I was actually in the corridor before he called me back in again.

“Yes, sir?” I asked, having no idea what he was about to say. He was frowning, but not in a way that looked as though he were angry with me, though he did not look me in the eye.

“Look, I just wanted to say if Cyrus should ever retire or you feel the desire to move on, come and see me.”

I stared at him, nonplussed. “Are you offering me employment?”

“Perhaps, if we can reach an agreement,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

“I’d never leave Barker’s employ, sir,” I told him. “The man’s done too much for me.”

“I’m not asking you to. Situations change, however, and if you should ever find yourself at loose ends someday, remember us. You’ve had experience with the Irish and know a primer from a fuse cap. We’re always looking for capable young men.”

That’s because the Irish keep killing them, I wanted to say, but didn’t. “I’ll consider your offer, sir,” I answered diplomatically.

“Do that.” He took up his pen and began to write once more. After a moment, he looked up at me dismissively. “Good day, Mr. Llewelyn.”

I came out of Anderson’s office and down the stairs, my head preoccupied with the offer he had just made and wondering why it had made me angry. Why should anyone assume that Cyrus Barker’s career was over? As long as he drew breath, to cross him off as a has-been, or worse, a never-was, well, it was an insult. Barker’s career was a great social experiment. He was trying to legitimize a profession that still had one foot in the shadows.

Were my employer there, he would have pointed out that I had taken my eye off the quarry. I was so busy preparing a mental defense of my employer that I hadn’t bothered to notice the subtle changes which had occurred in the lobby during my absence. Barker would never have allowed it to happen. I was nearly out the door when I felt cold steel on my wrist, and turning around, found myself staring into the intent eyes of Inspector Frederick Abberline. I found I much preferred them at a distance.