The Hellfire Conspiracy

10

After lunch, the rain had not let up, and cabs being hard to find, we took an omnibus to the City where we then joined the Great Eastern Line to Bethnal Green. We employed our umbrellas until we reached the environs of the Charity Organization Society, but then Barker has always stated that rain is an enquiry agent’s friend. It deters crime and empties the streets. Who knows how many crimes are postponed in London due to inclement weather?

I was disinclined to go into the charity, but it turned out that was not what brought Barker here. He was looking at an empty warehouse across the street with boarded-up windows and an estate agent’s sign upon the door.

“It looks suitable enough for our purposes, at least from the outside,” he said. “We can look out over the rooftops for suspicious activity.”

“Why do you think we will get any fresh information here, sir? Wouldn’t Miacca have left the area?”

“My instinct tells me he’s still here somewhere. I suspect he feeds on the misery he engenders.”

“Is this what you meant by a fresh perspective?”

“It is. Don’t think this shall be like Claridge’s, however. We shall live under Spartan conditions. We shall hide ourselves and watch in shifts, and when the moment is right, pounce upon our prey.”

Barker was talking as the rain beat upon our umbrellas, and I heard a cab approaching in just enough time to step back before getting splashed. It was then that I saw him, nestled in the cab out of the wet, comfortable and arrogant as ever, a face out of my past. The Guv had said something would turn up if we came back to Bethnal Green, and he was correct, as usual.

That face drew me down the street effortlessly, as if I’d been chained to the axle of the cab. It pulled me past my employer with a mumbled apology and down to Cambridge Road. I splashed through the gutter, soaking my trousers and shoes, heedless of which direction the rain was blowing. I followed the cab until it stopped at the foot of the street and then jumped into an entranceway while its occupant paid the cabman.

“Well, who is it?” Barker demanded. He was standing on the pavement next to me, holding his umbrella furled, ready for anything. He didn’t look angry that I’d bolted, merely curious, as if the case had taken a turn he had not anticipated, which perhaps it had.

“It is Palmister Clay, sir,” I said, then poked my head around the corner. Clay was just going in to one of the buildings with a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

“Clay?” Barker said, going through a list of names in his head.

“He’s the fellow who put me in prison.”

“Ah, the fellow you batted for at university,” the Guv stated, docketing him into a specific slot. “And just what do you intend to do?”

“Why, confront him, of course.”

“Is that wise?”

“I owe him a beating. That blackguard killed my wife!”

“As I recall, she died of consumption.”

“Yes, but he kept me from buying the medicine and beat me up while his two mates held me down. And he had me arrested!”

I was talking to Barker, but in front of my eyes all the memories of that terrible time were flashing by. I remembered the feel of Clay’s fist in my stomach and the iron taste of blood. Most of all, I remembered the vision of Jenny, my Jenny, wasting away in a verminous bed, with the dark circles under her eyes and red stains on her handkerchief.

“It is in the past, lad,” Barker stated. “We have no reason to confront him in this case.”

“But, sir,” I said, “this is obviously not his usual neighborhood, and he appears to be taking flowers to someone.”

“In Bethnal Green?” Barker asked, tapping his chin with the handle of his umbrella. “He married last year, you know. The announcement was in The Times. ”

“Yes, I saw it, and I do not believe he and his bride have set up housekeeping in Cambridge Road. He’s got himself a mistress one year into his marriage. That’s just the sort of caddish thing Clay would do. We should speak to him.”

“Mmm,” Barker grumbled, which in this case meant Don’t press me.

“Look, we can’t know if there’s a connection to the case until we ask,” I said. “We should question him in the interest of thoroughness.”

“Oh, very well, but you must promise me you will not issue him a challenge.”

I had wanted to do just that. In fact, I wanted to skip the entire questioning stage and punch him on that pointed chin of his. Over and over again I saw my two knuckles connecting with his jaw and him falling backward.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I promise not to challenge him.”

“Very well, let us go.”

I controlled myself, walking behind Barker, letting him lead, instead of charging the building like the Light Brigade. It was much better kept than most in the area, a mews which had been divided into flats. My employer ascertained that it wasn’t merely one house by glancing through the hall window, and he opened the outer door in that way he has, very silkily for a large man. We were faced with the problem of which flat Clay was in, but the answer came from a single petal in front of one door, as scarlet as sin. I expected Barker to give the door a solid thumping as he had done Mrs. Bellovich’s, but instead he chose a discreet knock upon the wood.

The door opened and there he was, the Honorable Palmister Clay, as sneering and officious as ever. I hated his smug good looks and air of superiority. Let Barker handle this, I thought. I put my head down, adjusting my bowler.

“Who in hell are you?” he demanded. That was Clay. He hadn’t changed a hair since our days at university.

Barker snapped one of his cards out in that way he has and passed it over, still saying nothing.

“I don’t need a private enquiry agent.” He tried to close the door in our faces, but the Guv moved his boot forward, insinuating it against the frame.

“I am not soliciting custom, Mr. Clay.”

“Who is it, Palmsy?” a feminine voice said behind my old enemy. Palmsy?

A girl’s head peered around his shoulder. Not a woman’s, a girl’s. No more than thirteen, I should say, but in a frothy dressing gown, her hair up, and very adult-looking pearls in her ears. She was a child trying to act like a woman. This was the paramour his wife did not know about? My eye flicked down her arm. There was no ring on her finger. I wondered what Mrs. Clay looked like. She must be close to twice this young chit’s age.

“Nobody,” Clay told her flatly. “Get some decent clothes on, Zena.”

The girl disappeared again. Clay usually got what he wanted but not this time, I hoped. Please, please not this time.

“Get out of the hall,” he said irritably, ushering us in. So far he had not recognized me. “So, I presume you are in the employ of my wife. I’ve got plenty of money, you know. I think perhaps we can come to some sort of arrangement.”

“I don’t care about your money or your marital indiscretions, Mr. Clay. I am investigating the disappearances of several young girls in the area, girls not much younger than your lady friend.”

“How would I know anything about that?” he demanded.

“You are keeping a young woman here, not two streets from where at least one girl has disappeared. Scotland Yard would be very interested in this piece of information.”

“Oh, so that’s your game, is it? Blackmail? I might have known. How much do you intend to rook me for?”

“I have no interest in blackmail,” my employer said, unperturbed, “but I would like to know how you set up your personal arrangements here. Who introduced the two of you?”

“That’s none of your damned business, Barker.”

“How does one get set up in one of these little places, I wonder?” the Guv mused aloud. “Is it discussed at the gentlemen’s clubs or are the sons of lords approached by the disreputable lot who run these establishments? This really bears investigation.”

Clay blanched. “Look,” he said, licking his lips, “perhaps I was a bit hasty. I met Zena in Whitechapel. I fancied her and offered to put her up here.”

“I see. And her surname is…?”

“Harris, and that’s all the information you’ll get out of me. She is of legal age. I shall speak to my solicitor. I will not be harassed in this manner by a common detective.”

“I have not been harassing you, Mr. Clay. You would definitely know if I were harassing you. You know nothing of the missing girls? They were violated and strangled.”

“Look, I don’t know anything about any bloody girls. You’re wasting my valuable time. Now take your man and go!” He opened the door and waved us to leave.

“Hello, Palmsy,” I said, raising my head so that we were face-to-face.

Clay let out a curse. “Tommy Llewelyn. I might have known. I wondered what rock you’d crawled under. So, you’ve got your revenge, have you? Hired a private ’tec to catch me with a girl, and me a married man.”

“As a matter of fact, I work for Mr. Barker.”

“I assumed you’d be dead by now. Thought you might have drunk yourself into an early grave.”

“I was wondering the same about you,” I said tartly.

“Actually, I’m glad you’re alive,” he countered. He slapped me smartly across the face. “I challenge you to a fight. We never properly finished our little match.”

I was ready to begin the match right there and then, but Barker thrust a wall-like shoulder between us.

“I accept,” I snapped. “Name the time and place, and I’ll be there. This time, you won’t have two friends holding my arms.”

“Let us say nine o’clock, next Thursday evening. The German Gymnasium. Queensberry rules.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it!”

“We shall see. Well, gentlemen, unless you intend to march me down to the closest constabulary-which I assure you my father, Lord Hesketh, will have something to say about-I suggest you get off my property.”

We left the building and began to walk north to Green Street.

“I believe you promised me not to enter into a fight,” Barker finally growled.

“No, sir. I promised not to challenge him. He challenged me. I merely accepted.”

“Tell me, lad, how many times have you had a pair of boxing gloves on your hands in your life?”

I thought about that a moment. “Well, just once, actually.”

“And how old were you?”

“Eleven.”

“And what happened?”

“I was thrashed, as I recall.”

“Whereas, Mr. Clay attends the German Gymnasium regularly, from the sound of it.”

“But-” I began, but my employer interrupted.

“He is six inches taller than you, has a longer arm length, and outweighs you by almost two stone.”

“But my training, sir. I’ve been training with you for months.”

“Your training will be useless in the ring. You’ll be fighting under Queensberry rules, with your hands encased in gloves. Yours will feel like pillows, whereas his shall feel more like lead weights when they strike you.”

It finally began to sink in then. It was I who was going to be publicly humiliated. Palmister Clay really was going to get what he wanted. “Blast,” I said.

“And you’ll get no sympathy from me, lad. I warned you. You got yourself into this mess, and you’ll just have to fight your way out. Or take your drubbing like a man.”