Fatal Enquiry

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I suppose one cannot have everything, although I wouldn’t mind trying it sometime. I had long intended to visit the Café Royal during the dinner hour, but not with a face that looked like a summer peach left in the sun for two weeks too long. My cheeks and chin were tinted pink as if growing a new layer of skin. Had I bumped into Mr. Whistler I’m sure he would have asked to paint a rendering of my bruised eyes, Nocturne in Purple and Puce. I kept my spectacles on, though they made the dark, elegant room look even darker. People noticed and pointed me out to their neighbors as I passed, but then, that was the point of going there in the evening, to be seen and noticed and especially discussed. Who is that fashionably dressed young man with the roughened face and the dark spectacles? Isn’t he that detective fellow mentioned in the Gazette?

I finally spotted Forbes in a corner, talking with a tall woman with an ostrich-feather band that quivered as she spoke. He was dressed in the height of nouvelle fashion, with a navy-colored shirt and a white tie tucked into a charcoal-colored waistcoat. I regarded him for a moment, almost afraid to interrupt his evening with important matters. He was a contradiction, Forbes was. On the one hand, he dealt in vital political matters and concerns from the Continent, and on the other, he had to know the latest gossip, what people wore, and who was seen with whom. To him, perhaps, it was all one larger picture and I was too close to the canvas to make it all out.

Finally, unbidden, he caught my eye during one of those casual glances he made across the room every five minutes or so. He raised a brow, but whether it was my presence there, the sight of my injured face, or he was dazzled by my tie, I couldn’t be certain. Rather than approach him, I confiscated a table for two when the last patrons left and ordered some café mocha, which is even better than the mocha at the Barbados coffeehouse in St. Michael’s Alley, and that is saying something. I sat and sipped and waited. Five minutes later, give or take a minute, Forbes deposited his lean frame in the seat across from me.

“Well,” he said, at a loss for words for once. “You’re here.”

“Yes, and before you ask, I don’t know where Barker is. Thank you, by the way, for my stay in St. John’s Priory. Had I remained in a casual ward in Charing Cross, I’d probably be dead by now.”

“You certainly didn’t stay long,” he said, as a demitasse full of mocha was set in front of him, unbidden. I’d heard that on a good day he had as many as thirty of them. “I stopped in to see you and discovered you had gone. Really, Thomas, the doctors were only trying to help you get better.”

“I was removed from the ward without my knowledge by a woman who tended my wounds.”

Pollock Forbes opened his mouth to make some comment, probably at my expense, but closed it again. He was known for his diplomacy, after all.

“Glad that you survived it,” he finally said.

“I spoke to Nightwine yesterday,” I told him, stirring the cocoa at the bottom of my cup. “He was insufferable. Surely he can be stopped somehow.”

“I don’t see how. His plan, audacious as it is, is simply too good to pass up. I mean, my God, man, we could practically own the whole of Asia by 1900! That’s earth-changing.”

“He says they’re going to make him a brigadier general.”

“It gets worse than that, Thomas. I have it on authority that he’s getting a knighthood. That’s only the start. Remember, Disraeli became Earl of Beaconsfield when he made Victoria an empress.”

“Meanwhile, Barker has a price on his head.”

“I’ve done what I could,” Forbes said. “You have no idea the prejudice against your employer at the moment. Military deserter, possible murderer. You know, he’s never given a reasonable explanation of how he acquired his wealth in China. There’s even a popular concern over his beliefs as a Baptist. It’s out of fashion, whereas Nightwine’s are more … worldly, shall we say?”

“Old-fashioned,” I repeated, thinking of Mrs. Ashleigh.

“I beg pardon?”

“Nothing. So, would you say that the conflict between the Guv and Nightwine has become common knowledge?”

Pollock Forbes shook his head like he was a schoolmaster and I a wayward pupil. “No. I’m saying you can walk into any betting establishment in London and find out that not only are there bets that one will destroy the other, either figuratively or literally, but the odds are three to one in Nightwine’s favor.”

“Is that even possible?” I asked, more to myself than him.

“Of course it is. You can be sure Nightwine has placed a wager on himself to win as well and told his friends to do the same. He’s in this to win. Every pound he makes is used to influence someone. The more irons you place in the fire the less chance the flame will go out. Do you know what Barker should be doing? Instead of disappearing, he should be showing his face any and everywhere.”

“But he’s got a price on his head,” I pointed out. “Five hundred pounds.”

“Who is stupid enough to go after Cyrus Barker? Would someone pull a gun on him, knowing how good a shot he is? Would someone dare take hold of his sleeve, knowing he’d wake up in hospital, if not the morgue?”

“So, some are betting on Barker, then.”

“Aye,” he said, reminding me that like the Guv, Forbes was a Scot. “And you can tell his supporters everywhere. Like yourself, they’re all wearing colored spectacles.”

In spite of my cut lip, I couldn’t help but smile and think of a box of spectacles I’d seen in a shop window. I had Soho Vic to thank for that.

“It’s become common knowledge, then.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he admitted. “It isn’t in the newspapers per se, though any news on Barker is quickly exploited. The odds rose significantly in his favor when he was cleared of the charges against Clayton.”

“Have you placed any bets yourself? I notice you’re not wearing the dark lenses.”

“I cannot be seen to take one side over another, if I wish to continue to do my work. If I decided to have a flutter on the side, that’s my business.”

I looked at him hard. Every Scotsman enjoys a good gamble, or so my father always said. Did Pollock bet where his pocketbook told him to, or did he go for the sentimental favorite?

Another cup arrived. Who knows what number Forbes was on? I could feel my body thrumming with the stimulant.

“Pollock,” I heard myself say. “Do you know where the Guv is?”

“You’re asking me?” he said, tapping his chest.

“Yes, I am. I need him to know something. Something very important about the case.”

“Sorry, old man. I honestly would tell you if I knew. He hasn’t confided in me or anyone else that I know about. He could have sailed to the Continent, for all I know, though I doubt it. He doesn’t like to leave London for very long.”

I drank my cup and looked at him speculatively.

“What?” he finally asked.

“I hold an awfully large piece of this puzzle, one that even Barker doesn’t have. If I die, the information would die with me.”

“Why not tell me, then? Is it because I wouldn’t tell you which way I would bet?”

“Something like that. When we were last here, he told me that while you generally helped him, your interests are mainly for the good of London itself. Or the government, or the empire. I forget precisely how he put it. In other words, he trusts you, but your main concern is not necessarily the welfare of Cyrus Barker and his agency.”

Forbes discreetly coughed into his pocket handkerchief and replaced it in his pocket again. “Quite right. Take this Tibet matter. It is so very much in the best interest of the government, I’d be a fool to say we shouldn’t do it. It doesn’t matter in the larger interests of the country who suggested it or supplied the maps.”

I nodded and sipped my coffee again.

“I’ll give you some advice,” he said. “Free of charge.”

“What’s that?”

“If Barker is destroyed, killed, I mean, you must run away as fast as you can. Go back to Wales. Farther, if possible. There’s the chance that you know too much, you see, that Barker may have confided in you. You might know, for example, where he has some money hidden. It’s not just you, either. There’s your clerk, your butler, anybody intimately connected to him. Even shopkeepers who trade with him. Nightwine won’t stop with his death. He won’t rest until the name Barker is used as an example of everything that is wrong with society. He will lie and cast aspersions until you would cut out your own tongue rather than admit that you even knew the man.”

“Would you?” I asked. “Would you deny you knew him?”

“You’re damned right I would. Believe it or not, I’m trying to do something here that’s larger and more important than the reputation of just one man. If you intend to jump on his funeral pyre, there are plenty willing to add more faggots to the flames. London loves a good spectacle.”

“That’s harsh, but honest, I suppose. And since you’ve been honest with me, I will tell you.

“If you can get this to Barker, I’d appreciate it. If not, I hope you’ll keep it to yourself. Nightwine has a daughter in town, named Sofia Ilyanova. She is responsible for the deaths of the men and women in O’Muircheartaigh’s office, Lord Clayton, probably Gerald Clayton, and even Andy McClain, too. By using her, Nightwine was able to establish an alibi for himself each time. However, she despises her father and wants to get away from him.”

“Is she the one who kidnapped you from the priory?”

“Yes, she was.”

Forbes sat for a moment, blinking. Finally, he stood and motioned me to follow. He led me to the lodge room at the back and ushered me inside. I recalled when he had censured Barker for taking me there, but I supposed a quiet place to talk was more important than standing on ceremony.

“A daughter, eh?” he said, beginning to pace. “Is she married?”

“No. She’s the result of a union in his youth with a Russian countess. The mother killed herself. He’s taken the girl all over the world. She’s an expert at poisons.”

“Do you have any idea where she is staying?”

“I know where she was last night.”

“You’re not involved with her, are you?”

“How could I be?” I countered. “She killed a close friend of mine. Mr. Barker and I are targets number one and two. However, she’s had several opportunities to kill me and didn’t take them.”

“Is she loyal to her father?”

“She held a gun to his head for about five minutes, but didn’t pull the trigger. They’ve parted company, but knowing how duplicitous he is, it could have all been staged for my benefit. Her visit to the office a week earlier to hire Barker may well have been a ruse to kill him.”

“I see your difficulty,” he said.

I thought that was a bit of an understatement myself. I paid my bill before stepping out into the cool of the evening. The moon was scudding between clouds and a few stars peered out, twinkling remote and unconcerned. In Charing Cross Road, I saw a betting establishment, and though I’d never even thought to enter one before, I walked in. It was nearly deserted at that time of night. On the wall was a chalkboard, giving odds on various games. I crossed to a small window where the bookie sat.

“What are the current odds against Cyrus Barker?” I asked.

“Five to one,” he responded.

I reached into my pocket. “Ten pounds in his favor.”

“It’s your funeral, mate,” he said, trading the bill for a slip of paper.

Outside again, I hailed a cab and sat back, feeling discouraged. The advice Forbes had given me kept rattling around in my head. Get out of town. You’re not safe.

At home again, Mac opened the door and let me in. We barely exchanged words. If anything, he looked more dispirited than I. As I walked down the hall, the telephone set in the alcove jangled. Mac and I shared a look of dread as I picked up the receiver and put it to my ear.

“Barker residence,” I said.

There was a crackle at the other end of the line, and then a low voice spoke.

“Good evening, lad.”

Suddenly, Mac glued himself to my shoulder and listened in behind me.

“Sir!” I cried. “Sir, how are you? Where are you?”

“I’m safe and in good health. Let us leave it at that. I understand you were attacked by Nightwine and have been in hospital yourself.”

“He held me hostage briefly, but I managed to escape. I have so much to tell you! Nightwine’s being aided by a daughter, Sofia, about my age. She’s the one who has been committing all the murders with a parasol containing a hypodermic needle. She came to the offices last week asking for our help, claiming he forced her to kill for him.”

“Is she Russian?”

“Yes! Her family name is Ilyanova. How did you know?”

“Nightwine told me once years ago he’d been sent down from Sandhurst for seducing the daughter of a Russian count. When I first heard O’Muircheartaigh’s package had been delivered by a young woman, I speculated he had brought along an accomplice.”

“She kidnapped me from the hospital while I was drugged, sir, and nursed me back to health. Perhaps she thought you might rescue me.”

“You’re fortunate to be alive,” he said.

“Did you ever get hold of some money? Tell me you haven’t been starving yourself.”

“I’ve eaten today, thank you,” he said, which wasn’t what I had asked. “How is the agency and the house?”

“Mac is here with me, sir. A gang broke into the house and locked him in his room. They stole the cash reserve.”

“Hello, sir!” Mac shouted right by my ear.

“Good evening, Jacob. Is Harm well? The intruders have not put him off his food, have they?”

“He’s fine, sir,” Mac said, unable to resist a curl of his lip. He took no pleasure in being caretaker of his master’s dog. Mac had been held hostage, but the Guv seemed more concerned about his prized Pekingese. I felt his weight shift as he crawled off my shoulders and went back to work with a despondent air.

“Where is Nightwine’s daughter staying?” Barker asked.

“In Praed Street, sir, at a private hotel called the Albemarle.”

“How are you recovering from your injuries?”

“Healing up well enough, sir. Is there anything in particular I should be doing until your return?”

“I’m not going to risk sending you out to be injured further.”

“I look worse than I feel,” I assured him. “I’ll be right as rain in no time.”

“I was going to send you looking for Nightwine’s maps of Tibet, but you should stay home and convalesce. I won’t risk injuring you further.”

“I’m fine, sir. When shall you be coming home? Soon?”

“Soon enough, Thomas. The trap is almost prepared and set. Cheerio.”

“Trap, sir?” I asked. “What trap?” But he had rung off. In frustration, I pounded the wall in the alcove with my fist before putting the receiver back on the hook.

“‘Stay home and convalesce,’ he says. ‘I’m nae gang tae risk injurin’ ye further, laddie,’ he says.”

I eased myself down on the first step and rested my injured chin on the palm of my hand. When this case began, I’d have done anything to get out of work. Now he was giving me carte blanche to sit about reading all day, but all I wanted to do was to help bring down Nightwine.

“Blast!” I cried. If our employer had called to reassure us, he had in fact done anything but.

Outside it had begun to rain again, and thunder rumbled overhead. Harm came in from the garden, pushing open the door with his short muzzle. He regarded me with the same remote detachment his master often did.

“What are you looking at?” I demanded.

The dog snorted and waddled off, oblivious to the anxiety in the house.