Fatal Enquiry

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

It was all too soon when Jacob Maccabee was poking about in my room and preparing to open the curtains. When he did, however, it was still as black as Barker’s spectacles outside.

“What o’clock is it?” I moaned.

“Four-thirty. You know the two of you must be there at six.”

“Mmmph,” I said.

I got up, threw water in my face, and decided it was still too damaged to shave. Instead, I dressed and tried to batter the short curls that were already sprouting with a pair of handleless brushes the Guv had given me for Hogmanay. In the hallway, I was turning onto the stair when the aroma of fresh coffee assailed my nostrils. I took the stairs two at a time and burst into the kitchen.

“Etienne!” I cried.

“Toast,” he muttered back at me.

“I beg your pardon?”

He took the short cigarette out of his mouth and spat on the flagstone. “The man goes to ’eez death and all he wants is toast and tea.”

“Perhaps his stomach is unsettled.”

“He has no stomach. Just a block of granite. I don’t know why I bother. He would eat bangers and mash for a month entire.”

“I could eat something,” I said.

“But you do not go to your death.”

“Actually, I thought about that in the middle of the night. If Barker dies, it would be two against one. They have no reason to leave a living witness behind to identify them.”

Dummolard snorted as if the thought of my death were rather droll, like something out of a Zola novel.

“Very well. What will you have?”

“Have you got truffles?”

“Un petit peu.”

“And bacon?”

“You would put truffles and the truffle-finder together in the same dish?”

“The pig is beyond caring. A condemned man’s last wish?”

“Spare me the sentiment. Next you will be crying into my omelette.” He turned and took down a copper pot from the wirework overhead.

Outside, Barker was in shirtsleeves conferring with the gardeners, who were repairing the damage that had been done during his absence. Some of his rare penjing trees had gone without water and were in danger of dying. The gardeners had paper lanterns on tall poles, but even then there was a line of silvery-pink on the eastern horizon. The sun would soon be coming up. What would the day bring?

First things first, I told myself, pouring coffee. Etienne understands coffee like no one else in England. His press is even better than the one at the Barbados, my favorite coffeehouse in St. Michael’s Alley. It awakened one as fast as a bucket of cold water, without the ill effects.

After my omelette, which I ate slowly because Etienne considers eating quickly the grossest of insults, I went outside to see Barker. He actually went so far as to put a hand on my shoulder.

“The oldest penjing may live,” he said. “We had to prune it back drastically, and we lost two others, but this one and five more shall live.”

“I’m glad to hear it, sir. Perhaps you can start with a cutting from Kew Gardens or something.”

“I thought that myself, lad. Are you nearly ready?”

“Just need to get my hat and coat, sir.”

“Would you stop for a moment in my room?”

“Of course.”

I followed him up two flights of stairs to his garret room. The dawn was just lighting up the red walls. Barker sat down at his desk, which was covered with various envelopes; ominous-looking envelopes.

“Oh, no, sir,” I muttered.

“Better safe than sorry. My life is in God’s hands now. Here is my will, the deeds of the house and office, my bank statements. Everything that is necessary in the event of my demise.”

“You’re not going to die, sir. You’re going to live. I insist upon it.”

“I’m gambling, lad. He is still twice the swordsman I am. He can triumph yet. You do realize in the event that I die, they might-”

“Yes, I realize that, sir,” I interrupted.

“Do you wish to write a will? Mac and I shall witness it.”

“Sir, I own nothing. A shelf of books worth a few pounds that Jacob is welcome to.”

“Don’t you want to leave a message to someone? Anyone?”

“Who really cares, sir? My family is shed of me. I really am all alone in the world now. It’s probably best.”

“Let us try to keep you alive, anyway, lad, if only for Philippa’s sake. She’s awfully fond of you, you know.”

“Glad to hear somebody is, sir.”

“Let’s go, then.”

“‘Into the valley of Death rode the six hundred.’”

“Will I have to listen to you recite poetry all the way to Hampstead Heath?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Who was that, Browning?”

“It was Tennyson.”

“Still living?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mmmph.”

Barker believes that all poets should have the decency to be dead at least a century or two. I feel the same way about politicians.

We walked to the stable a half mile away, past a milkman with his tall pails. I had the feeling I sometimes get from a fever that I was unconnected with reality. I could end up that day as dead as the Reverend McClain, yet somehow it didn’t bother me. More correctly, it didn’t interest me. It all seemed vaguely academic.

I thought of my late wife, Jenny, who had died while I was in prison. Would she be waiting for me when I got to heaven? Would I even go there if I died? I had certainly had it in for God after she passed away. It probably wasn’t wise to get angry with the creator of heaven and earth. One would be certain to be in his hand sooner or later. I was still angry with him, but I realized now that everything wasn’t his fault. I’d made choices and mistakes of my own. Not everything he had given me had been dross or else I wouldn’t be so afraid of losing it. So far, I’d call it a draw, which is worlds better than I’d been two years before.

It is a long drive from Newington to Hampstead Heath, such a drive, in fact, that I scarce have been there five times in my entire life. It looks prosaic enough during the day with its hills covered with East End families eating packed lunches and larking about.

In the early morning, however, it appears antediluvian; its furze-covered juttings grasping at tendrils of fog and land covered in scores of wet, glistening species of plants like the tops of a South American tepui. One would hardly believe that man had set foot there, which made it the perfect place for two implacable men to attempt to hack each other to death with good Sheffield steel at six o’clock in the morning.

They were awaiting us under a tree that cut the moving fog like the bow of a ship. From a distance I could see the carriage and Nightwine off to the side in a white shirt, hacking at the fog with his sword. It would not do to appear either too eager or too afraid, so I brought Juno up to him with a steady pace. Psmith suddenly detached himself from a tree he had been leaning against.

“You’ve arrived, then,” Nightwine commented as we alighted from our vehicle. In his white shirt, tan trousers, and knee boots, he looked every bit the military man he was.

“Was there any doubt?” Barker asked as his booted feet landed on the wet grass.

“None, I suppose. You can be relied upon to do the predictable thing.”

“It is my duty to stop you from plundering Tibet. They have enough troubles as it is. Not a single Dalai Lama has reached the age of twenty in the past fifty years.”

“All the more reason to take them under our protection if they cannot run their own affairs. But we haven’t come here to discuss politics. Psmith!”

Psmith stepped forward without a word, and I could see he was wearing a light gray suit almost the color of the mist. He opened an ancient sword case, lined in tattered jade velvet, containing French sabers of surpassing beauty. Barker must have noticed it, too, but he stood before the sword case, ignoring the weapons, and looking beyond them.

“Hello, Mr. Psmith,” he said, extending his hand. Neither of them moved until it began to become ridiculous. Psmith finally glanced over at the top of the case and that seemed to settle matters. He closed the lid with ill grace and took the offered hand, which hadn’t wavered once.

“Mr. Barker,” he muttered, and then opened the case again. It had been a little thing, but then even little things added up in battle.

The Guv took out each of the swords and examined them thoroughly for straightness and quality.

“These are very good, Sebastian. How did you acquire them?”

“I bought them from an arms dealer in Bond Street at midnight last night. They belonged to a member of the king’s musketeers. I could not resist them.”

“I’ll take this one,” Barker said. “Shall we get on with it? I’ve got a man from Kew Gardens coming this afternoon to look at my penjing trees.”

“I’ve got tickets aboard a steamer bound for Istanbul,” Nightwine said, taking the remaining sword and beginning to slash at the air. “I do believe one of us will miss his appointment.”

The sun was beginning to slash at the fog as if with a sword of its own. I could feel the dew slicking my hair and weighing down my suit and shirt. All creation seemed to be wrapped in wet cotton.

Barker slapped at a fly on his neck and looked absently at his fingers.

“Êtes-vous prêt?” Nightwine asked, after the time-honored custom.

“Oui, je suis prêt.”

“En garde!”

Both men charged at once and there was a clang of bell against bell as the swords came together and then sprang apart again. My employer retreated slowly, drawing Nightwine along with him, closing the gap, but at one point he stopped and would go no further. I noted then a small spot of blood on his collar, very red in the half sunlight, left by the insect that had bit him. I waved at one near my head and waited for the next clash, which was not long in coming.

I had fenced in school and knew a good match when I saw one. In this case, all the form went to Nightwine. Beside him, Barker, in his black waistcoat and striped trousers, looked ungainly. The saber did not seem as natural in his hand as, say, a claymore might have. It looked dainty, though deadly enough for the purpose. Had he been overconfident? I wondered. Barker had often told me to choose a weapon and stay with it. One will only get into trouble if tricked into using another man’s weapon.

There was a third clash, a parry and riposte, and this time, blood was drawn. Nightwine was the first to spill claret, slipping his blade just past Barker’s ear and cutting him near the back of the head. A second bloodstain appeared on the Guv’s collar.

I stepped forward and Psmith’s thin arm crowded me back, showing me how much power was contained in that wiry frame of his.

“A wound has been delivered, gentlemen,” he announced in a public school voice, Eton, perhaps, or Rugby. “Is honor now satisfied?”

“No,” Nightwine said shortly. “It is not.”

“What would you know of honor?” Barker answered in return. “You who have none?”

“Oh, yes,” Nightwine said, slashing at him and meeting resistance. “Cyrus Barker and his famous sense of honor. The natural, self-made gentleman of great renown.”

Barker lunged forward, whether as a tactic or in anger over the slight I could not tell. They passed each other quickly, then turned and engaged each other in the other direction.

“I contend it is you who have no honor, sir!” Nightwine continued. “You’re nothing but a lowborn Scot!”

Barker’s blade finally found flesh, glancing past Nightwine’s elbow and slicing a groove along the bicep. Nightwine, a little more sure of his skill over his opponent, had become momentarily arrogant. Each word Nightwine said seemed to sear into my memory, but at the same time, I thrust them away for now. Words didn’t matter, not when lives are on the line.

“Forgive me for speaking plainly, Cyrus. I am your oldest and best friend, after all.”

“Save your breath to cool your porridge, Nightwine,” Barker answered. “Everything that needs to be said between us was said a long time ago. And if you’re thinking you’re leaving London any way other than in a pine box, you’d best think again.”

Nightwine charged with a growl in his throat but Barker wouldn’t be moved. The sun played on their flashing blades, too fast and bright for the eye to follow. I waited for a grunt of pain, a cry, hoping it would not be Barker from whom it issued. If there’s anything I’ve learned by now, however, it is how rarely we get what we want.

“Aargh!”

The blade point pierced the Guv’s shoulder and Barker added a third bloom of crimson to his white shirt. His blade slipped from nerveless fingers, bouncing off the hard ground with a dull ring. For a second he was unarmed and at Nightwine’s mercy. The shoulder of his sword arm had been pierced. I felt the breath drawing in through my lungs, awaiting the fatal coup de grâce. Instead, Barker kicked the sword up into the air with his foot, and caught it with his left hand. When the inevitable blade came his way, he parried it and stepped back, holding the sword high over his head.

“None of your Chinese nonsense here, Cyrus,” Nightwine taunted. “You’re on English soil now. You’re merely prolonging fate, you know.”

“That’s not water spilling down your arm,” came the reply. “I’m sure we could do this all day.”

The fight continued, becoming less civilized as it went on. They were no longer gentlemen duelists, I told myself, but gladiators. Both men were bleeding heavily and their shirts stuck to their frames. They were sweating in the moist heat, and their fencing form was long gone. Will it never end? I asked myself. How long had they fought already? Ten minutes? Twenty? Why hadn’t I thought to bring a watch?

Both men showed signs of fatigue now and were blowing like racehorses. I spared a moment to glance at Psmith, wondering if he was armed. There was no pistol visible on his skeletal frame, but another case of swords lay at his feet in the event that one was damaged. I looked back, just in time to see Barker stumble.

His boot heel struck a tree root in his way and he fell. His left heel slid across it and through the grass while his right lay straight behind him. His limbs scissored open and his sword hand came down in an attempt to correct his balance. His right shoulder passed just under Nightwine’s guard and struck him heavily in the hip. Nightwine suddenly fell across Barker’s splayed body, toppling forward. There they came to a standstill, with Nightwine curled over Barker’s prone body.

I looked at Psmith and he back at me. Then as the sun pierced the fog, it illuminated the red-hued blade rising from Sebastian Nightwine’s back. Psmith gave a low curse.

Slowly, the body atop him slid over onto its side and Cyrus Barker scrambled to his feet unsteadily. He looked down at his vanquished foe and the saber that pierced him through. His hand, his right hand, still held the hilt, I noticed. He looked at us as if aware for the first time that we were there.

Psmith stepped across and bent down to see if there was still life in his employer. He held two fingers to his throat for a few seconds, but could find no pulse and shook his head in my direction.

I turned to say something to Barker. I don’t even recall what it was, now. Before I could say a word, the Guv gave a sudden moan and a spasm. Then he fell over onto his side and lay still. I froze, unable to move, unable to comprehend, my heart in my mouth. There was no new mark on him. Nightwine’s sword had little blood on it. What in the world had happened? I flew to the body; not Barker’s, but Nightwine’s, ripped open his sleeve and found there a small engine strapped to his arm, a length of copper pipe containing a device able to shoot a small dart, tipped with poison, perhaps across a clearing into a man’s neck, one which might be mistaken as the bite of an insect. Then I jumped to my feet, and began kicking at the ribs of the dead man in my rage.

Calm, matter-of-fact in that desiccated way of his, Psmith crossed to my employer and checked his throat, as well. Then he turned to me.

“Dead as the proverbial doornail. I suggest we call this a draw.”

Then he turned and walked away into the early morning mist and was almost instantly swallowed up in it. I had never felt so lost and alone in my entire life.