The Hellfire Conspiracy

34

I was lying on my bed with my arm behind my head and a copy of Donal Grant in my hand. I wasn’t doing MacDonald justice, idly turning pages, but then he was not the sort of author to read when one is feeling down. After another ten minutes, I tossed the book down on the bed and began counting the beams in the ceiling.

“Am I interrupting, sir?”

Mac had come in. I don’t know what he puts on all the hinges in the house that all the doors open soundlessly, but it is faintly unnerving.

“I was working up a thought, but I don’t believe I have the right equipment, and it hardly seems worth the effort. What do you want, Mac?”

“There is a young lady who wishes to speak to you.”

Until I am dead, I shall always consider those to be agreeable words.

“Pretty?” I asked. For some reason, I’ve always considered Mac a fine judge of women.

“Yes, sir. Quite attractive.”

“Did she give a name? Is it Miss Potter?”

“No, sir. Your visitor is Miss Amy Levy.”

“Miss Levy?” I asked, putting my feet over the side of the bed and pulling on my first boot. “How extraordinary. I wonder what she wants. We cannot speak in the street. Show her into the garden and pick a flower for her, Mac. Recite poetry until I get there.”

Mac rolled his eyes. “Very good, sir.”

Lacing my other boot, I debated putting on a new pair of spats I’d recently purchased. Granted, I had no romantic plans for Miss Levy, considering her Israel Zangwill’s girl; and, though she seemed rather sharp at times, how often does one find a girl at one’s doorstep, delivered like a parcel? I straightened my tie before going downstairs.

Out in the garden, Miss Levy’s petite form was turned away, surveying the miniature vistas in front of her. She wore a blue-gray dress with a white collar and seemed the kind of no-nonsense woman that eschewed artifice of any kind.

“Good day, Miss Levy.”

She turned but did not smile, which was not a good sign.

“What an odd garden,” she eventually said.

“It is Oriental.”

“I know it is Oriental, Mr. Llewelyn. I am not ignorant. Tell me, does Mr. Barker enjoy torturing the trees?” She pointed to the corner where the Guv’s Pen-jing trees stood on display.

“I think he rather does,” I said, wondering if she had a reason for coming here other than to discuss Barker’s trees.

She regarded me with her dark eyes. “I came here to slap your face for breaking Beatrice’s heart, but it hardly seems worth the effort now. One hears how painful it is to be slapped, but nobody ever talks about how it hurts to slap someone. Why is that?”

“I scarce can say.”

“My word, those are the ugliest spats I’ve ever seen.”

We looked down at my boots. She was right. What had I been thinking?

“You cut me to the quick. I presume you have some information to impart, that is, if you’ve resolved one way or another whether you shall slap me.”

“I’m still mulling it over. I came here with the express purpose of doing so, but something about being here has changed my mind.”

“The garden does do that to people. Shall we go and sit in the pavilion?”

We crossed the little bridge that spans the brook and made our way up the rock steps to the pavilion where Barker spends of good deal of his time in fair weather. In the very center of it, Harm sat, mildly twitching his tail.

“And who is this?” Amy Levy asked.

“It is Harm, the guardian of the garden.”

“He did not guard against me,” she noted. “He never even left this spot.”

“He likes women. It is men he attacks. He tried to bite Israel the one time he came out here.”

“I’ve wanted to bite him myself once or twice. You are correct about the garden, by the way. It’s very peaceful out here. I can hardly believe I’m in Newington. But that is not the reason I came here. I want to tell you about Beatrice.”

I felt a tightening in my stomach. “What has happened to her?”

“She has had a nervous collapse, I’m afraid. She has given up her room and position at the Katherine Building and her volunteer work entirely and has gone back to live with her family.”

“I am heartily sorry to hear that,” I said, while inwardly a mantle of guilt fell about my shoulders. Perhaps I had been too forthright. I should have spoken to her more gently or stayed longer to see what she would do. Palmister Clay notwithstanding, I hate to inflict pain upon another human being, particularly one I genuinely liked. “Did she give any message to you for me or say anything about me?”

“That is a typical male response, Mr. Llewelyn,” Miss Levy said coldly. “This is not about you. It is about her.”

“Yes, yes, I know that. I’m sorry.”

“She began planning her departure shortly after seeing you, from what I could gather. What exactly did you say to her?”

“I-wished her happiness.”

She got up and walked across the lawn to the brook and watched it burble over the stones.

“I cannot understand it,” she finally said. “Beatrice was so far above you. You are an ex-convict, working in an unsuitable occupation with limited prospects, while she is a brilliant young woman, attractive, from an excellent family, and she cared for you. And yet, you threw her over and broke her heart. Are you mad? Whatever made you do it?”

“Are you here on her behalf? Did she send you?”

“No, she did not send me. I rejoice in the breakup. You were unsuitable for her in every way. You were a disaster. I merely wanted to look you in the eye and to find out why you ended the relationship.”

It was right there on the tip of my tongue. All I need do was spit it out, to say those few words. She loved another. It would have been so easy, particularly when faced by this angry young woman. But I couldn’t. I don’t claim to be a gentleman, but my father had taught me right from wrong; and it was wrong to reveal a young lady’s confidences, even to her friend. Barker had reinforced the notion. With his strong views on Christian behavior and his more secular quotations from Confucius on how a gentleman should act, he had influenced me more strongly than I had realized. It gave me no defense in these actions. I knew what I had to do. I must take the blame.

“The fault was all mine, Miss Levy,” I said. “I have issues of my own not related to her. I met her in the British Museum and found her charming. She offered to help us on the case, and I was taken with her. Before I knew it, we had begun a kind of courtship, but I was not ready for such a commitment. As you said, I am totally unsuitable for her, and what would I say when standing in front of a skeptical father, asking for her hand? I simply do not fit into good society.”

Miss Levy bent down and picked up a pebble, tossing it into the brook. Then she took a slow walk about the garden, stepping across the boardwalk that skirted the pond, past the Pen-jing trees and through the standing rocks, over the bridge, and back to the pavilion. She sat down again.

“I was wrong,” she began. “About the garden, I mean. It’s not a regular garden, and it’s rather austere, but it has something about it. It looks as if it’s been here for hundreds of years.”

“Barker works hard to make it look that way. He has a team of Chinese gardeners that work for him.”

She looked me levelly in the eye. I believe she was a little nearsighted. It was unsettling.

“I was wrong about you, as well. Beatrice told me all about what happened with Joseph-well, about everything. I said you were unworthy of her and she defended you. I came, expecting you to reveal all her secrets. It’s what most men in your position would have done. I can argue very well.”

“I noticed that.”

“I hoped to trip you up. But you took the blame yourself.”

“The blame really is mine,” I told her. “I’m still getting over various issues of my own. I lost my wife not two years ago, and much has happened since. Even had Miss Potter been free from any emotional encumbrance, our relationship would have been severely handicapped at best.”

“That is…honest.”

“I would not have you admiring me under false pretenses.”

She smiled. “I have not said I admire you, Mr. Llewelyn.”

“I imagine it would take a great deal to win your admiration, Miss Levy.”

Just then I was looking at Amy Levy, and she was leaning toward me, a little too close for strict chasteness, perhaps, and I noticed something. I could detect the scent of powder. Despite the fact this young woman was being courted by my best friend in the world, for that one brief second, I desired her. I did the only proper thing: I moved to the other side of the pavilion for a respite and time to think.

“What is it?” Miss Levy asked, for she was quick and intelligent and nothing got by her much, I am certain.

“An epiphany,” I said. “Something Barker said to me earlier just fell into place. It is a private enquiry agent’s stock in trade.”

Miss Levy stood. “I should be going. I must apologize to you, Mr. Llewelyn, for misjudging you. You aren’t the opportunist I thought you were.”

I gave her a grim smile. She knew me better than she realized, but it would do no good to tell her that. I walked her to the front door and dared shake her hand, which was dry and warm.

“When next you speak with Miss Potter, tell her I inquired after her, and that I am sorry I caused her any distress. It was not my intent to upset her life.”

“I shall tell her, Mr. Llewelyn. Might I say that you are a true gentleman, one of the few I’ve met in London.”

“I thank you, Miss Levy. That is high praise, indeed. Good day.”

I found her a cab and saw her on her way, then went up to my room, feeling the irony of her last statement. A gentleman, me? I threw myself on the bed again and looked up at the beams overhead, all sixteen of them. Barker was one of the few men I knew who deserved the name.

I thought of the other meaning of “gentleman,” the landed aristocracy. No doubt they considered themselves our betters. By rights, Palmister Clay was a gentleman, but not by my definition. A gentleman does not cheat on his wife or ruin a young girl. How can a man hold his head up knowing what he was doing to these women? I wanted to go back to the German Gymnasium and punch his face all over again.

I thought a lot about it over the next few hours and the conclusion I came to was this: Man is capable of doing great harm, either in a single desperate act, or over a protracted period of time, out of neglect or selfishness or even laziness. But man can be more than a brute, and he should be. I shall even be optimistic enough to say he was designed to be more. Mind you, it is not easy, but it can be done.

I assumed that Barker would take a day or two to recover after his injury, but the next day, there we sat in our offices as if it were any other day. His short hair stood up on his head and with the red blotches on his face along his jawline and his bristling mustache half growing in again, he looked like nothing save a convict.

The Guv slid into his leather swivel chair, contemplated the stack of letters that had accumulated like snow on the side of the desk, and made a pronouncement, much as God himself did after creation.

“It is good to be back.”

“Indeed.”

Barker picked up the post and began looking through it. “There seems to have been an uncommonly large group of people in need of my services while I was recuperating,” he noted.

“With your permission, sir, I’d like to recommend a client who might take top priority.”

Barker turned his face toward me. I’d gotten his full attention.

“And who is this client?”

“It is I, sir.”

“You?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You wish to hire me?”

“I do not think I can make myself any plainer, sir. Yes, I wish to avail myself of your services. My bank account is now such that I can afford you, in a limited capacity, at least.”

He turned his head to the side in a way I’ve seen Harm do when I’d done something that puzzled him. I suppose he was wondering about the ethics of taking on his assistant as a client. Finally he shrugged. “Very well.”

“I need-”

Barker raised a hand, then gestured in front of him. “The client’s chair,” he said.

I got up from my desk and moved to the chair. It was the first time I had ever sat in it. From there, I had to say that Barker looked most imposing, even with his spiky hair.

The Guv lifted up the cigar box and opened it, offering it to me. I shook my head. He was enjoying this little masquerade.

“Very well, Mr. Llewelyn,” he said, putting down the box and resting his thick fingers on the blotter. “What can I do for you today?”

“I wish you to locate the remains of my late wife, which are probably in Oxford, though I cannot be sure. I want to give her the burial she deserves.” I reached into my pocket and took out a check, drawn of course on my private account. “This is to retain your services.”

Barker looked at the check in his hand, read it over, and looked at me. Then he put it on the far edge of the desk, nearest my own, and sat back in his chair.

“I accept.”

There was no other man in London I would trust with such a task. For that matter, there was no one else in the world.