The Black Hand

17

"So,” Philippa Ashleigh said, pouring more tea into a Wedgwood cup, “you are just as I imagined you.”

“I am?”

“I don’t know if you realize how unusual your presence here really is. He’s never brought anyone down before, not even your predecessor, Mr. Quong. I didn’t expect to meet you for another year or two at the least, if ever. He’s protective of me. I would almost say overprotective.”

I was twenty-two, adult enough to realize that everyone has the need for closeness and companionship yet young enough to shake my head in wonder at the thought of the Guv actually courting someone. I had difficulty picturing him playing the swain, with a box of chocolates, a book of poetry, and a bouquet under his arm. It was easier to picture him an ascetic monk, studying his texts at night and bringing his own body into submission with exercise. And yet, the love of his life was sitting here in front of me, pouring more tea into my cup.

“Oh, dear,” she said, arresting her hand. “Cyrus told me you prefer coffee. I’ve had some brought in specially. Shall I have Genevieve make it for you?”

“Oh, no, ma’am, the tea is perfect. I like Earl Grey. It’s so much better than green tea. One sugar please,” I said. “You know, he’s said almost nothing about you.”

“Of course,” she said, putting in two. “That’s his way, you see. He’s rather stern with his assistants. Come to think of it, he’s rather stern with everyone. It is part of his character. Even I don’t know everything about him. You know the path he built in his garden?”

“The meandering path? Yes.”

“I asked him when he was building it if that was his definition of a straight line. He replied that it was as straight as one can come to expect in life.”

“It’s a metaphor,” I said in wonder.

“Yes. Isn’t it delicious? I’ve liked that path ever since. To me it represents Cyrus’s life.”

“Or all our lives,” I pointed out. “One can attempt to make a straight path in life, but it only brings stronger forces to bear.”

“He said you were a poet. I suppose it is the Welsh in you. Anyway, I told him it was an inconvenient way to get from the back door to the gate. Do you know what he said?”

“I imagine it was something like ‘Only God can make one’s path straight.’ ”

She smiled again. “You know him better than you think. How did you come to be hired? I’d like to hear your version.”

I gave her an abbreviated account of my first meeting with Barker, making certain I mentioned that he called me “a black little fellow” to test my patience, which still rankled a bit. Perhaps she would call him to task for it, I thought.

“It’s a noble profession you’re in,” she remarked.

“Is it?” I asked. “The Guv-I mean, Mr. Barker-says we are part of the underworld.”

“Do you not provide a necessary service? When people enter your offices, they are often at their wits’ ends. Scotland Yard has turned them down and you are their final hope. Frequently, you endanger your lives to help them. I call that noble.”

“Well, yes, I suppose we do,” I admitted.

“Isn’t that better than sitting in some dusty hall of academe, trying to prove a pet theory about Dante or Chaucer?”

“I’m sure it is, but I’ve often wondered why Barker chose me in the first place.”

“Do not sell yourself short, Thomas. Cyrus has his faults, but he has always been an excellent judge of character. He needs to be, for his life often depends upon others. I’m sure this new business might have him a little rattled. It does me, I must admit. When he first told me the two of you were taking on this case, I told him he was mad, though he’s heard me say it enough to pay scant attention to it.”

“Did he tell you what happened in London, ma’am?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. He tells me everything, though it took me ages to train him to do so. You know how close-mouthed he is.”

“But he talks about me.”

“Of course he does. You work with him, live with him. He keeps no secrets from me.”

I stirred my tea. It didn’t need stirring, but I was getting up the courage to ask my next question.

“So, what is his opinion of me, do you think?”

“You’re here, are you not? That implies a certain amount of trust. He says you tend to be flippant and a trifle lazy, but then, you must realize you are being compared with an ideal that doesn’t actually exist. He commends your intelligence and classical knowledge, and says that sometimes you bring a facet of a case to his attention that he hadn’t considered. That’s rather high praise, coming from him.”

She was revealing my employer’s innermost thoughts without so much as a by-your-leave, and I was in danger of having my jaw open again. Didn’t she worry she’d reveal too much and thereby anger the Guv? No, I rather thought she didn’t. She regarded me with those cool aquamarine eyes of hers, as if nothing on this earth frightened her, least of all Mr. Cyrus Barker. I should have realized it would take more than an ordinary woman to interest him.

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“He told me the first time he saw you, you were leaning against a wall at the end of a long line of applicants, with your collar up, looking dark and moody. He said he knew right then and there he’d hire you. He gets keen moments of insight sometimes. He had intended to hire someone larger than you, but when he saw you he suddenly pictured you questioning a witness or following a suspect.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Of course. He says you’re coming along, which is the most one can hope for, coming from Cyrus. He’s not the most effusive of men, as I’m sure you’ve come to realize.”

“Monosyllabic is the word I’d have used.”

“Oh, stop!” she said with a short laugh. “He says you have a devilish tongue and could use an hour a day reading Spurgeon to improve your character, but then that has nothing to do with your employment.”

“It sounds as if he’s told you everything about me.”

“He has,” she admitted. “He’s even mentioned your weakness. One bat from a girl’s eyelashes and you turn to melted butter.”

“That’s not fair!” I cried. “He never tells me anything.”

“Ah, but you’ve only known him for a year and a half, while I’ve known him for far longer. Since China.”

“How did you first meet him?”

“My husband brought him home. James was an engineer on Shameen Island in Canton and needed someone to bring in supplies. There was Cyrus in a mandarin tunic with belled sleeves, talking to James in a Scottish brogue.”

“Frankly, I have trouble picturing that,” I admitted.

“Ah, but you see, he was the son of a missionary. All the missionaries and their families dressed in the Chinese manner. After his parents died when he was eleven, blending in with the Chinese was a matter of survival.”

“How long were you in Canton?”

“For several years. My late husband was full of great plans for China’s future, but he died and left me with business interests to run. One of them was a small shipping company on the Pearl River. Your employer freighted cargo for us sometimes aboard the Osprey.”

“Well, he was a ship’s captain,” I replied.

She’d poured me another cup and was stirring her own. “Is that what he called himself? A ship’s captain?”

I nearly choked on my tea. “What do you mean-that he wasn’t?”

“Oh, no, he was a ship’s captain, I suppose, of sorts.” Here she shrugged and took a dainty sip of tea. “I mean, Blackbeard was a ship’s captain, was he not? Drake and Raleigh were ship’s captains.” She raised an expressive eyebrow, and I wondered if she was toying with me.

“Are you implying that Mr. Barker was a pirate?”

“Oh, the South China Seas can be distinctly unsavory at times. Cyrus and his crew worked in an area bordered roughly by Shanghai, Yokohama, and Sumatra, but his base was Bias Bay, near Canton.”

“And exactly what did he do there?”

“Whatever it took to survive, I suppose. He had mouths to feed and repairs to make on the Osprey. He must have been a good captain for so many of his crew to follow him back from the East.”

“And why did he come to London?” I asked.

“Because I wanted to return home after James was gone. Cyrus made himself invaluable.”

I sat quietly with my cup of tea, trying to take it all in.

“What are you thinking, Thomas?” she asked suddenly.

“I beg your pardon. I was just wondering how the congregation at the Baptist Tabernacle would react if they knew there was a former pirate in their midst.”

“There’s that flippant side Cyrus warned me of,” she said archly. “He wasn’t a pirate, exactly, more of an adventurer. Anyway, the Reverend Spurgeon already knows. I told him myself.”

“Did you really?”

“Yes, I’ve always been an admirer of his published sermons. I was the one who first took Cyrus there and helped him choose the house in Newington.”

Harm came charging into the conservatory in some distress. He leapt into my lap, nearly knocking me out of the basket chair I sat in. A moment later, a tiny white ball of fur appeared at my ankles, hopping up and down. Harm barked at the little creature frantically.

“Is that another Pekingese?” I asked.

“Yes, she’s from the litter Harm sired. Fu Ying gave her to me. Her name is Butterfly.” She scooped up the little dog and kissed her on the top of the head.

That was one more fact than my overtaxed brain could take in. The woman enjoyed shocking me. Barker, a pirate and adventurer. Barker, introduced to Spurgeon by Mrs. Ashleigh. Mrs. Ashleigh, friendly with Bok Fu Ying, my employer’s ward. It was as if I’d fallen down Lewis Carroll’s rabbit hole. Curiouser and curiouser. And it wasn’t over yet.

“I have something important to ask you,” she said, looking at me levelly. “I want you to look after Cyrus for me.”

“Me, look after Mr. Barker? Are you serious?”

“Very serious. Cyrus puts honor above everything, even his own safety. I would say especially his own safety. I want him to live a good long life. Someday … Well, that’s enough about that. Just look after him.”

“I’ll do my best, ma’am.”

“Good. Any more questions?”

“Just one. What’s behind those dark lenses the Guv wears?”

“That’s silly,” she said, nuzzling the dog. “Eyes, of course.”