Fatal Enquiry

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Almost immediately we were surrounded by people, some of Barker’s allies, some in Nightwine’s employ, and other citizens from the hotel or on the street, anxious, as we were, to see how this little contretemps played out. After all, it wasn’t every day that one saw a doorman slap a visitor to his hotel.

Cyrus Barker removed his hat, revealing a small, closer-fitting pair of dark spectacles than the ones he was accustomed to wearing. His mustache had begun to grow in. There was too much happening to take in all at once: Barker’s sudden appearance; Nightwine’s reaction to being struck; the doppelgänger Barker, just about to reach us; Sofia, caught between two adversaries; and a mixed circle of men who, at a single word, might start a riot. That was not even considering the shot which at any minute might snuff out my life like a candle flame.

“You’re challenging me?” Nightwine repeated, as if he weren’t sure he’d heard correctly. “That means I have the choice of weapon.”

“It does,” Barker replied. “Tomorrow before dawn. Let us say six o’clock.”

“I’ll provide the weapons, then. I choose sabers.”

“Sabers it is.”

Just then I heard the creak of a boot behind me. I turned my head as the false Barker passed by, seemingly unconcerned. I recognized him immediately now, Bully Boy Briggs in an outsized version of Barker’s clothes. Gone were his heavy side whiskers, replaced by a dark mustache and black lenses. As he walked, he twirled his metal truncheon in his hands, ready to use it if he were stopped, as unlikely as that was. So exact was the outsized gray-black leather coat to the original, it could only have been made by K and R Krause, Barker’s tailors. The last time I had seen him, my employer had fished him out of the Thames after their fight, and had inexplicably given him twenty-five pounds. Was Barker so canny that he had conceived this event so far ahead of time?

I turned my gaze back upon Sofia, wanting to see her reaction, if any, to Barker’s larger twin, but found I couldn’t. In the confusion, she had vanished, leaving an empty space at her father’s side. Nightwine still stared at Barker speculatively, as if trying to work out what trick he was trying to perform by giving away the choice of weapons. If it did prove to be some sort of trick, he could find no flaw in it.

Nightwine looked about, realizing his daughter was missing. Things had not gone as planned, yet he still believed he had the upper hand. He cleared his throat and addressed his old enemy again.

“Good, then,” he responded. “I shall see you tomorrow. Where shall we meet?”

“The southwest corner of Hampstead Heath.”

“I’ll be there.” He turned to one of his men standing at the curb. “Someone stop that vehicle.”

One of the gang members ran out into Praed Street and stopped a passing cab, startling the horse. Nightwine strode out to the cab and climbed aboard. It bowled off, leaving his subordinates to beat a disorganized retreat.

“Good evening, Thomas,” Barker said. He looked at Mac, Jenkins, and Soho Vic, who had gathered closer now that Nightwine’s men were gone. “Gentlemen, it is good to see you all here together.”

He shook each of our hands in turn, exchanging a greeting with us all. Unbuttoning the long, green coat, he stepped inside an alcove just inside the entrance, and exchanged it and the doorman’s hat for his own more familiar coat and bowler. I looked over and saw that Soho Vic was giving us all a gap-toothed grin. Mac had one as well, and even Jenkins looked pleased with himself.

“Is this a private party?” a voice called from across the street. Out of the shadows came the lean, laconic figure of Terence Poole. “Or can anyone join in?”

Barker went forward and grasped his hand. Then he turned and started walking fast, leaving us to follow him as a group.

“Did you find Mr. Psmith?” I asked, catching up with Poole.

“He found me, actually. He was quite put out to learn that the roof he had chosen to shoot you from already had someone occupying it.”

“Seems a shame to spoil a chap’s plans.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Ahead, Barker was having a discussion with Soho Vic, while behind, Mac and Jenkins compared notes. It was time to have the Persian carpets cleaned and perhaps a new painting for the outer office. We followed as Barker turned onto Edgware Road, intent upon some unknown destination, but with a brief wave in our direction, Vic kept heading east. He had mouths to feed and a ragtag army of street urchins to bed down for the night.

I’d have preferred a cab, but Barker seemed determined to enjoy the night that was settling like a deep blue mantle over London. The North Star was the first to shine overhead, while a sluggish moon hung on the horizon, trying to decide whether it was worth the effort to rise that evening. Barker turned onto Oxford Street, in the direction of Charing Cross and our chambers.

“Did you see Barker slap Nightwine in the face?” I asked Poole.

“No! Did he? Blast, I missed that. Saw the big fellow dressed as Barker, though. Who was that?”

“Briggs.”

“Jim Briggs? Last I heard, he couldn’t decide whether he was a bodyguard or a strong-arm man. I’d rather have him working for Barker than the other side. His wife’s sick, I heard, and he’s got two little ones to feed.”

“I only met him once,” I said. I didn’t explain the circumstances. I wasn’t sure where to begin.

Barker had ducked into Dean Street. I had given up trying to decide where the man was going, but though I was still worn from my injuries, it was a good night for a walk in the finest city in all Christendom. All of us walked with our hands in our pockets save for the Guv, who had his folded behind him. Then I noticed him reach into his pocket and extract a key. Stepping into Shaftesbury Avenue, he unlocked the door to the empty building Barker intended to eventually turn into a school of arms. The front room was empty, but in a back room I found a small bedstead, and a shelf containing potted meat, tinned peaches, and half a loaf of bread. I had finally solved the mystery of where he had been the last six days.

I had been present when he let the property, but now I saw he had made one improvement on it. He had added a telephone set. He now seized the instrument and gave the operator a number in Belgravia.

“Abraham,” he said when the call had been put through. “This is Cyrus Barker. I regret the lateness of the hour, but I need a simple document drafted tonight. I shall compensate you for the conditions, of course. Are you able to come? Excellent. Meet me in Newington in an hour. I’ll see you then.”

He hung up. Abraham, I wondered, and then it hit me. He was talking to his solicitor, Bram Cusp, of course. It occurred to me that the only possible document the Guv required on such short notice would be a last will and testament.

Mac was incensed, but not because of the telephone call. He stood by the bed lifting the tins one by one.

“He’s been sleeping in this hovel, eating food from tins?” he demanded.

“What have you been doing with yourself, sir?” I asked our employer.

“I have been training. I knew Sebastian would choose the saber, a weapon he excels at. Therefore, I hired the best instructor in London, Captain Alfred Hutton, to train me almost continuously in the art over the past week. I rely on the fact that Nightwine has probably not picked up a blade since he left his regiment, and may be out of practice. It is a slender advantage, I’m sure, but it is the best I could find. Right now, if I know him, he is raging about London looking for a good pair of dueling swords and someone with whom to practice.”

“I would pay to see that,” I said.

“Jeremy, do you need to see your father?” my employer asked suddenly, turning to our clerk.

“He’d understand, sir, if you require my services further.”

“I think we are through for the night. Will you give him my regards?”

“I shall, Mr. B. He particularly likes to be remembered by you. I’ll be on me way then. Good night, gentlemen!”

I thought to myself that he was winnowing us, one by one.

“I should be heading on, as well,” Poole said, “unless you need something. Anything at all.”

“Nothing, thank you, Terry. Give my best to Minerva.”

“I shall.”

They shook hands, but paused in the middle. The two were saying good-bye, in case Barker did not return from the duel. How does one compress six years of friendship into one brief handshake?

“Minerva?” I asked when he was gone.

“His wife.”

“He’s married?”

Barker shook his head. “Sometimes I despair of you, lad. You’ve spoken to him a hundred times and never learned a thing about him?”

“Sorry, sir,” I said. He could crush so easily with a single word.

“Have you heard that Gerald Clayton is dead?”

“Aye, I have.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “He was on his way to propose. Now, suddenly, he has committed suicide? What happened? Did she turn him down? Did he turn to drink again and blow out his brains? I thought you had convinced him after your talk.”

“I would not care to speculate without facts,” Barker said.

“Oh, come now, just once! You’re not in a court of law. I won’t hold you responsible if your conclusions are not fully correct.”

“It is a bad habit, nevertheless.”

“It’s not a habit if it happens one time.”

“Look, we have not spoken to the girl, but I think it highly unlikely he ever had the opportunity to see his cousin. We know for certain that he recanted his testimony that morning, so that I was freed. The next we know, he is dead. Knowing Nightwine, he could not allow such an act of mutiny on Clayton’s part. It made him appear weak.”

“So he killed Clayton and made it look like suicide?”

“Just think. He purchased that photograph. It proved of no use as a threat. The only way for it to be of any practical use to Nightwine was as seeming proof that Clayton had killed himself in remorse over some veiled but unspecified deed. To those who know no better it besmirches Clayton’s name forever. To those who understand what Nightwine is capable of, it sends a message as to what will happen to anyone who thwarts him.”

“I find it hard to believe anyone could be that ruthless.”

“Ah, but you see, you were raised by parents who taught you right from wrong. Imagine having a father who taught you from the cradle that any thought for anyone’s interests but your own was reprehensible and deserving of punishment. It isn’t merely that he is a member of the aristocracy, although that is part of it. He was raised to be the new Adam of a post-Christian society.

“Let us lock up and go home to Newington,” Barker went on. “I expect a full report before Mr. Cusp arrives.”

I stepped out the door and flagged a hansom, and we went home in relative silence. Barker was remote, no doubt preoccupied with what was about to happen in the morning. Mac looked unsure whether to speak to him or not. As for me, I was whipping myself with the theory that something I had said or done had precipitated the duel. As usual, I saw through a glass darkly. I had done my best, and would learn presently whether anything I had attempted had made even the slightest difference. It was a long and silent ride back to the Surrey side of town.

Back at home, Mac hurried around turning up the gas lamps while I stood about the hall feeling useless. The only happy one among us was Harm, whom the Guv tucked under his arm like a large black book, narrowly avoiding being bathed by the dog’s tongue. He stood there like a stone statue, while the dog’s plumed tail made circles in the air behind him.

“Let’s go into the kitchen,” he said, and I followed him inside. Putting the dog down, he took up the kettle to get water while I prepared and lit the stove. When I had a flame going, he set the kettle on it, then turned around one of the chairs at the deal table and straddled it.

“Well?” he asked.

“You want to know everything that happened since you sent me to the Foreign Office to get arrested, don’t you?”

“Precisely. And I do mean precisely.”

Soon, the kettle began to sing. Barker got up, opened a caddy of his green tea and measured the leaves into cups before pouring in the water. I preferred mine strained, but just then I’d choke on them rather than complain. He returned with the cups and took his seat again.

Over tea, I told him about my arrest and interrogation at Scotland Yard; my return to the office; the arrival of Sofia and, later, Mrs. Ashleigh; returning home to find Mac shattered; the visit to the British Museum; being captured and escaping; waking up in hospital; waking up in Sofia’s rooms; discovering she was the murderer; walking out and going home; and coming up with the scheme which against all odds actually worked. That took about half an hour, at the end of which, Barker stood up and went through the dining room into the parlor to look at the safe. He removed the painting, set it on the floor, then turned the tumbler and reached in.

“It’s empty, sir,” I said.

“Is it?” he rumbled, moving his hand about inside. There was a sliding sound and he began pulling out packets of notes. “There is a hidden compartment. My valuables are behind a false wall. There was not more than fifty pounds for them to find.”

“I’m glad, sir, but still. Fifty pounds! To think of that much money in the hands of the Elephant Boys makes my blood boil.”

“No matter. I shall carve it out of their hides eventually. That was clever, by the way, to think of his former residence. I confess I discounted it.”

“If only I hadn’t been so stupid as to get caught.” I felt keenly that I had done something to disappoint my employer, not to mention jeopardize the case.

“Could you tell the house was inhabited from the back gate?”

“No, sir. It did not appear to be.”

“Then you’ve done nothing to flog yourself over.”

“Was I wrong to meet Nightwine tonight and return the draft?”

“No. In fact, it gave me the opportunity to offer him the challenge I’ve been preparing.”

“What about the entry into Nightwine’s rooms?”

“That is something I want to talk to you about. Mac is not a professional, and could have been arrested. That note belonged to Nightwine. He actually earned it, much as it grieves me to say it, and you had no right to take it from him.”

The tea had not been strained but I certainly was, as through a sieve. The Guv said it with his usual finality, but for once I wasn’t going to take it meekly.

“I would offer a defense,” I said, aware of the tightness in my own voice.

He gave a ghost of a smile, but squelched it. “Proceed.”

“You weren’t here-”

“Bad beginning,” he interrupted.

“No, hear me out. You weren’t here to see the condition Mac was in after they’d terrorized him for days. I promise you if something hadn’t been done to help him achieve some sort of respect for himself he’d never be the same man again. The reason Mac is not a private enquiry agent is because you gave the position to me and I have felt his resentment ever since. You said you wished you had the maps, and I was in no condition to get them, and so I sent Mac.”

“But you did not take the maps,” he pointed out. “You took the bank draft.”

“That was Mac’s doing, but I would have done the same were I there. He couldn’t find the maps, but refused to leave empty-handed. He was resourceful, and if I may say so, I’ve never seen a man so happy to be chased by porters.”

Barker shook his head. “It was theft, lad, pure and simple.”

“But taking the maps would not have been? This is the world of low detective work, sir. Perhaps someday when this case is over, we can see about deserving to call ourselves private enquiry agents again.”

He finished his tea and scratched under his chin in thought. “Unfortunately, I can find no flaw in your logic.”

I tried not to smile myself. Had I actually carried the day? He pointed a stubby finger at me and I stifled it immediately. Suddenly, I saw a gleam behind his spectacles that I only noted when he was surprised and his eyes opened wide. What now? I wondered.

“Tobacco!” he cried, and immediately he rushed up two flights of stairs to his aerie. It had been nearly two weeks since he had himself a smoke. I followed at a more subdued pace. Barker was seated in one of his armchairs, holding a large calabash pipe stuffed full of his own tobacco, blended for him in Mincing Lane: toasted Cavendish with perique for taste and a soupçon of latakia for bite. He struck a match and surrounded himself with a halo of smoke. Then his newly grown mustache spread out in a look of pure satisfaction. He smoked silently for about ten minutes, with Harm dozing in his lap, until there was a knock upon the thistle knocker of our front door.

“That will be Abraham,” my employer said. “Go to bed, Thomas. Get some sleep. You’ll need your wits about you in the morning.”