Fatal Enquiry (14 page)

As casually as possible, I went to the desk and began straightening.
The Times
for August 1879 had yellowed with age, and the information seemed out of the dim dark past. Disraeli was prime minister and an MP was complaining because the soldiers in Africa had been reduced to rags. I could not make head or tail of the Chinese book, but at the very end of it I found the treasure I was hoping for. It was a studio portrait, octavo-sized, of four men: Barker, Ho, our cook, Etienne Dummolard, and Paul Beauchamp, who maintained Barker’s boat, the
Osprey,
down in Sussex. This had been the crew of the
Osprey,
and though none would explain how, each had become rich enough in the China Seas to set up businesses of their own here in England. They all looked uncomfortable in their suits, glowering at the camera in front of a painted trompe l’oeil garden backcloth, and save for Beauchamp, all had put on weight since then. Barker was wearing the suit and the tropical hat was in his lap. I couldn’t help smiling because I deduced why the photograph had been taken. It must have been Mrs. Ashleigh, Barker’s lady friend, who had insisted upon it.

“What are you smiling at?” the Guv demanded.

I was caught. I really should learn to control my emotions, the way Barker does. Ruefully, I surrendered the photograph to him. He looked at it, grunted again, and tucked it into his pocket.

“The
kong,
” he said.

“Kong?”

“It means ‘four.’ A quartet. I don’t recall who first called us that.”

“Friends forever,” I said. “Even unto death.”

“Something like that. But even that can change. Nothing stays the same forever, you know. Once, we—”

The Guv hesitated.

“Once you what?”

“Nothing,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s not important anymore.”

He was intractable. Brother Andrew’s death had taken all the wind from his sails. I’d never seen him so defeated. The worst part of it was that his mood was infectious.

The desk drawer which I hoped would provide me with answers to my questions proved to be empty, so instead, I set to work cleaning off surfaces and airing out the room. I opened all the windows and shook out the sheet, happy for something to do. Outside, the larks, sparrows, and robins were singing their collective chorus. The sky was overcast, as gray as a strip of lead, but the clouds were content to keep the rain to themselves. I shook out the rug and swept the floor like I did when I was a child, too young to go down into the mines. I’d helped my mother with the younger children while my father and elder brothers dug coal with pickaxes until they were black as Zulu warriors. My grandfather came and walked me to school. He and my mother were convinced I would become something someday. All their hopes rested on me, and now, here I was, living in an anonymous chamber in the worst part of Lambeth, being pursued like the criminal I was.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Cyrus Barker spent the entire day brooding in his hammock. I’m not sure if brooding is a distinctly Scottish trait, but it certainly was one of his. He lay there as if encased in a giant chrysalis, not moving for hours, not even speaking save to ask for strong tea every now and again. Apart from the tea, he refused all nourishment. I found I could not even draw him into a conversation on the merits and memories of our late friend. His responses were little more than grunts. It made for a very long day.

He wasn’t speaking but I hoped he was thinking, trying to work out an answer for our increasingly dire predicament. We were running out of money. I began to look around to see what items in the flat could be pawned: the tropical suit, obviously, and perhaps the desk. All I needed was the word, but he never gave it. He merely swayed in that hammock of his and brooded.

Hungry as I was, I tried to get the Guv to share the provisions I had purchased. As night fell, I had no choice but to eat them myself. He had seriously begun to worry me.

The next morning found him up and out of his hammock. The worst of his grief appeared to have passed, though it would take more than one day to get over the loss of so good and necessary a man as the Reverend Andrew McClain. At least my employer was on two feet again. Perhaps now the case could move forward.

“Thomas, do you recall what I once said was the difference between a private enquiry agent and a detective?”

“A detective is not above breaking the law to achieve his own ends. Stealing into people’s houses, for example.”

“We may be forced to break that rule today.”

“Oh,” I said, not bothering to hide the disappointment in my voice.

“There is no other way. I must talk to Gerald Clayton. Desperate times require desperate measures.”

“But isn’t Clayton’s estate likely to be well guarded? After all, a pair of dangerous criminals is at large.”

“I did not say it was going to be easy. We certainly won’t be going in the front door.”

“I’ll be surprised if we will be going in through the ground floor,” I said.

“Good man! Now you’re thinking like a detective. We shall see if we can scale the brick and climb into an upper window.”

“I far preferred it when we were private enquiry agents and had at least a certain level of dignity.”

“Desperate times,” he repeated.

The Clayton family, I understand, has a large estate in Derby, into which their London property could be dropped like a stone in a well. For London, however, the property would be considered substantial. I hazarded a guess that the Claytons had performed a service for the Tudors or William of Orange, and had been doing well ever since. Certainly they had ingratiated themselves with someone to afford the large stone structure with its elaborate gardens and statuary, set back from the world and guarded with spear-topped iron railings and at least one constable, idly tapping on the iron tracery with his truncheon as he passed by.

“I don’t like the look of those bars,” I said. “No footing for almost six feet.”

“Let us reconnoiter, and see if we can find a more secluded spot to climb. This is far too public in the light of day.”

We circled the fence-enclosed property and found that it extended all the way around, save for a gate in front and back. The back gate was lower than the fence and was neatly hidden from view by a brace of old elms on either side, set within, which could aid us as we left the property. If there was any proper way in, I reasoned, this must be it.

“I suppose we—”

“Get back!” the Guv shouted.

I jumped off the lower rung of the gate just as something struck it from the other side with great force, something large and black and hideous, that sprayed me in drool from its gaping maw.

“Bullmastiff,” Barker said, leading me down a quiet side street, as the creature began baying at us.

“My word! It’s the size of a calf. Have you ever seen such an ugly creature?”

I looked down at my suit. The monster had doused my lower limbs in strands of phlegm, making me yearn for a change of clothes, but I was not in a situation where such a thing was possible. We hurried away along a quiet street of shops.

“How much money have we got left, Thomas?”

“No more than a few shillings, sorry to say.”

“Give me one.”

Reluctantly, I handed it over, knowing I’d seen the last of it. Though a Scot, Barker has the generous nature of a rich man. He has me, as his almoner, tip cab men liberally and never expects change back from whatever he gives. It had been some time since he had been in such reduced circumstances, I was sure. He stopped at the door of a butcher shop and turned to me.

“Go across the street to that chemist’s and get a small bottle of Thompson’s Licorice Elixir,” he ordered.

He was standing at the corner with a packet from the butcher in his hands when I returned.

“I assume the meat and the Thompson’s are for that roving gargoyle back at Clayton’s,” I said, turning the bottle over and reading aloud the label pasted on the back. “‘A universal panacea for the relief of pain, irritation, diarrhea, coughs, colds, cramps, catarrh, excessive secretions, and vague aches. Efficacious in the treatment of meningitis and yellow fever. Analgesic, soporific, and antitussive.’ It sounds like the cure for everything.”

“It’s almost pure laudanum. Half the East End doses their children with it regularly,” my employer said. “It is cheaper than alcohol and the licorice syrup cuts the bitter taste of the tincture of opium.”

“What is catarrh, exactly?”

“It is an inflammation of the mucous membranes of the nose, but laudanum will not treat it successfully.”

If I have given the impression that Barker is a know-all, let me disabuse you of the notion. As an autodidact, he either knows a good deal about a subject or nothing at all. He is well versed in medicine, which I believe is due to his working and training under a certain Dr. Wong of Canton, China. Knowing him as I do, the Guv is probably more interested in using his anatomical knowledge to bring down a fellow rather than to cure his head cold. Barker opened his package and decanted the dark green liquid over the raw meat. Kneading it repeatedly before we walked back to Clayton’s estate, he made the mutton absorb a good portion of the liquid, then rewrapped it carefully and flung the package over the fence.

“Why did you rewrap it?” I asked.

“I want him to work for his reward. It will ensure that he will eat all of it and possibly even lick the wrapper. Shall we get some tea while we wait? Tell me we still have enough for a cup of tea.”

“Just barely, I’m afraid. It won’t kill the dog, will it?”

“No, it will merely put him into a sound sleep for most of the day.”

We found a tea shop, where I regretfully parted with our last few pence. The buns newly pulled from the oven smelled especially good and the cakes on the counter made my eyes water.

“Stone-broke?” Barker asked, regarding me.

“Not so much as a farthing,” I said. “Unless you count the Chinese coins in my pocket.”

“I used the last of my pennies at the Bank of England, I’m afraid. It’s maddening. I’ve got money secreted away in half a dozen places in London and I cannot get to any of them. Still, I’ve been in worse situations in my life than this, or at least as bad.”

I drained the teapot, adding extra sugar to my cup for the energy it would bring.

“How will we make it through the day without money, sir?”

“God will provide. Mark my words. By midnight tonight, you’ll go to bed with a full belly. Fair enough?”

“If you say so.”

“Doubting Thomas. Your mother named you well. Let us see about a dog, shall we?”

When we returned to the Clayton estate, the bullmastiff lay prone in the corner of the lawn, its limbs sprawled and its tongue lolling from its mouth. It was not completely unconscious, but when we climbed over the gate and crossed the lawn, it gave no protest beyond a cough and a shake of its head. We walked around him, a black spot upon the green, and made our way across the lawn. Before we reached the house, we passed an ancient-looking edifice that was something in between a mausoleum and a temple. Its roof had crumbled and it was overgrown with ivy, and yet I recognized it for what it was, a folly, recently built to give the property an aesthetically pleasing air of age and sanctity. I was starving and this family was throwing its money away on buildings with no purpose.
Folly indeed,
I thought.

“That is where Lord Clayton’s body was found. Rather a private spot, don’t you think?” the Guv asked.

“I do. It is the perfect spot for a rendezvous of some sort. If it is a woman, she might have had a confederate nearby to kill Clayton.”

“That is certainly one interpretation.”

The door at the side of the house, for all its wrought-iron hardware, proved to be unlocked. Barker eased it open and stepped inside, but I hesitated on the threshold. This was it, I told myself, the day we set aside our hard-won reputations. Beyond this, we could lay no claim to dignity, either for ourselves or our work. We had truly become part of the Underworld. I stepped inside and stood beside my employer.

“What…” I whispered, but he put up his hand for silence. He had gone motionless in that way he has, as if turned to stone. He listened and felt the atmosphere, the temperature, possibly even the barometric pressure of the house, soaking it in through his pores.

“There is no one on this floor, unless they are seated, but someone is above our heads. In a house this size, one can expect a butler, a valet, a housekeeper, cook, upstairs and downstairs maid, perhaps a footman or two. We’ll have to walk a gauntlet to get to Clayton.”

“What is our purpose, exactly, in speaking to him?” I asked in a low voice. “You’ll never convince him to change his mind.”

“We’ll see about that. If someone is squeezing him from one side, let us squeeze from the other. It shouldn’t take much, I should think. When I met him, he did not strike me as a fellow with much personal resolve.”

There was a sticky moment when a maid bustled past and we hid in an alcove, but eventually, we made our way upstairs to the first floor. I thought perhaps Barker knew where he was going, but we were forced to open and close doors until we finally found Gerald Clayton sitting before a fire in a faded leather armchair, sipping from a large snifter of brandy though it was not yet noon. Clayton’s eyes were closed and it was difficult to tell how much he had swallowed already. Barker eased himself into the chair across from him and I stood behind, resting a forearm on the top of the chair.

“Good morning, Mr. Clayton,” Barker stated in a low voice. “What have you to say for yourself?”

It was worth the price of admission to watch the man jump and spill his drink, even if it meant ruining a decent Persian rug. My first thought upon encountering Gerald Clayton was that he must have been a great disappointment to his father. He was a vision of dissipated youth, with waxy skin and protuberant eyes, his hair lank and oily-looking. There were two stacks of papers in front of him he had been working his way through. No doubt it had to do with his father’s death and recent inheritance.