Fatal Enquiry

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

When they put you in a temporary cell in “A” Division, they cook you until you are done. That is, they give you hours to think over your misdeeds in the hope that you’ll confess and possibly turn on your accomplices. It requires no effort on their part and there is no law against it, as long as it takes no more than a day. Often the delay is legitimate. Inspectors fight for space in the few interrogation rooms as barristers do in the courts. It isn’t personal, but it certainly can feel that way when it is you who are locked in a cell with nothing to do but contemplate the walls and ceiling. Then one feels particularly set aside for punishment.

In the scheme of things, breaking one constable’s kneecap and cuffing him to a rail is not a capital offense. We were wrestling for the truncheon and it could just as easily have been my kneecap that was broken, or so my solicitor would maintain. They could not connect me to the greater charge leveled against Cyrus Barker of murdering Lord Clayton. However, I was worried for both of us. I wondered if Gerald Clayton had followed Barker’s advice and proposed marriage to his cousin. If not, could one witness be enough to convict Barker in court when the time came? I rather feared it might. I hate it when you know something is only meant to scare you, but it succeeds anyway. I may be a criminal, but I will never be a hardened one, I’m sure. Criminals such as the infamous Charley Peace could have done my few hours standing on his head.

The Guv warned there would be days like this. In fact, all things being equal, I am surprised I wasn’t more upset about my predicament. Were I a stockbroker or a clerk in the Admiralty, being arrested might have been the greatest tragedy of my life. As for me, it was, well, just another day at the office.

Eventually, I was taken to the interrogation room. Abberline was there ahead of me and was perusing my file.

“This makes for interesting reading,” he said. “What makes a man go from Oxford University to Oxford Prison in one fell swoop?”

“Try a sixteen-year-old wife dying of consumption and malnutrition. I don’t suppose that’s in the report, is it? Widower at eighteen?”

He was not impressed. An inspector hears everything in his position, most of it barefaced lies. If I were expecting him to break down in tears over my loss, I’d be disappointed.

“Where is Cyrus Barker?” he asked.

“I forget. It was right on the tip of my tongue and now I’ve lost it.”

“That was a neat little joint lock you got me in. I’d heard your employer was clever that way.”

“You would have known that move and the counter to it if he’d been allowed to continue the classes he taught for free in the CID building.”

Abberline nodded absently and then went on reading the file. “It says here you are arrogant.”

“Arrogant? What would I have to be arrogant about? Eight months of a university education? I have practically no possessions and am employed in a situation I am too ashamed to tell my parents about.”

“Perhaps you would make them proud again if you delivered Mr. Barker into our hands.”

“It is not Barker who is the criminal here, Inspector. It is Sebastian Nightwine. Everyone seems to have forgotten that. The world has gone topsy-turvy when a total blackguard is given a police escort and a good man driven from his offices.”

“But your employer did disturb the peace. I was there, as you recall.”

“Where? At Westminster Abbey? You weren’t exactly kneeling in reverent prayer yourself. In fact, as I recall you broke up the service with your squad of blues. You didn’t have to invade the sanctity of such a place.”

“You know it is only a matter of time until we catch Cyrus Barker. We caught you and we found your little garret in Lambeth.”

“I’m interested in learning how you knew I was at the Foreign Office,” I confessed.

“We had an anonymous tip from a good citizen.”

“Did he tell you about the garret, as well?”

“He did.”

“Anonymous. Was it a telephone call, by chance?”

“It was, if that makes a difference. What’s so funny?” Abberline suddenly asked.

“Oh, nothing. You’d have to know Barker. He’s tricked us both, I’m afraid. You see, we ran out of funds a couple of days ago. He sent me to the Foreign Office and then made a telephone call to your offices with the anonymous tip.”

“Why would he do that?”

“To see to my welfare. Either you’ll charge and release me, after which I’ll be a free man, or you’ll keep me here, where I’ll be clothed and fed. I work for him, you see, and he always sees to the needs of his subordinates over his own.”

“What about his own? He’s got no money and, if what you say is true, no roof over his head. Why would a man do that to himself?”

“Because he is tough and resourceful. If he needs anything, he’ll know how to get it. He won’t show his head until he’s quite good and ready to do so. Until then, you don’t stand a chance of finding him.”

“It appears to me that Inspector Poole has allowed your employer too much latitude in many cases. He had no business revealing official CID information to an outsider. That is what got him suspended.”

“To be sure,” I agreed. “The fact that Barker generally solved most of these cases and allowed you chaps to take the credit for what you couldn’t come up with yourselves is really immaterial.”

“Your employer is a man of limited education, no background, and no experience as a police officer. He has a reputation for fighting rather than thinking his way out of a situation. His advertisements in The Times suggest a crass commercialism, and his leaching information from the department proves him to be opportunistic at best.”

I sat up in my chair, wondering how much trouble I would get into if I punched another officer.

“You could not be more wrong about him, Inspector. Cyrus Barker is a close friend of the Reverend Charles Haddon Spurgeon, who will vouch for his character. He speaks six languages that I know of, and though he is self-taught, knows a great deal on a variety of subjects. He is the best fighter in all Europe; I would stake a fortune on it. Nevertheless, he uses his physical skills as a last resort. He places advertisements in newspapers as a way to help people who are in need and occasionally receives no recompense for his services. He is wealthy enough to purchase this entire group of buildings and turn Great Scotland Yard into a garden he can overlook from his office window, but instead he gives to dozens of charities. He is highly respected by the inspectors in this building who are not Johnny-come-latelies, because he is generally willing to share information due to the fact that he gives a damn what happens in this city that he has chosen out of anywhere on the globe as his home. He is kindhearted enough to give felons like me a second chance, and if you make one more slandering remark against him, I’ll teach you a half-dozen methods he’s taught me for scientifically rendering a man unconscious.”

Abberline was not to be swayed so easily. He was a tough egg to crack. “That was quite a speech,” he commented.

“No, Inspector. It was a promise. Barker’s big enough to fend for himself, but when lesser men criticize him, it makes my blood boil. If you weren’t so pigheaded, you could learn a lot from him.”

“Terence Poole did, and look what happened to him. He’ll be lucky if he’s not sacked by the end of the month.”

“Fine if he is,” I insisted. “He can work with us. We’ll get him a new desk and double his pay.”

I was bluffing, of course. Poole would prefer to be reinstated with the police, I was sure, but Abberline was not to know that.

The inspector made no comment beyond briefly raising his eyebrows. There was a lull in conversation, while he regarded me steadily. I felt as if I were a safe and he was trying to break into me with a brace-and-bit. He turned to my file again.

“Let’s discuss the incident in Westminster Abbey,” he said after he made a notation. “You assaulted another officer.”

“When?” I asked, all innocence. I can do innocence very well.

“After the service. You began to run and he attempted to detain you. You kicked him in the stomach.”

“Oh, that wasn’t an officer. That was a member of the public.”

“I tell you, he was not a member of the public. He was Lieutenant John Wilkins, a member of our plainclothes division.”

“He didn’t identify himself as such. I can’t be arrested for assaulting a plainclothes officer.”

“Of course you can!”

“Sorry, old bean,” I said, shaking my head sadly. “I have an uncommon good solicitor, Bram Cusp, who will tell you I can’t be arrested for assaulting an officer who isn’t in uniform, unless he is bellowing at the top of his lungs that he’s an officer of the law, which I assure you he wasn’t.”

The inspector rose to his feet. He was a very serious person and unaccustomed to the level of nonsense I was shoveling his way. He left the room and did not return. Score one, I thought, for the visiting team.

I was allowed to send a message to Cusp’s office and then took a nap. A few hours later, I stepped into Great Scotland Yard Street a free man, free as far as a man can be with plainclothes detectives at his heels, and a charge pending. I was to appear early the next week at the Old Bailey for assault upon two police officers, but still, I felt blithe and bonnie as I walked round the corner and entered the offices of number 7 Craig’s Court.

“Hello, Jenkins!” I cried as I entered. “I’ve just been sprung!”

“Well, I never!” he cried, jumping up from his desk. “Where’s the Guv?”

“Heaven knows. Last I saw him, he was sending me off to get arrested. That’s all I know.”

I went over to my desk, sat down in my old, familiar chair, and put up my feet on the corner, the way Barker often did. Late afternoon sunlight shimmered in through the windows.

“God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world,” I pronounced. “Until the next bloody crisis.”