Fatal Enquiry (30 page)

“I shall, Mr. B. He particularly likes to be remembered by you. I’ll be on me way then. Good night, gentlemen!”

I thought to myself that he was winnowing us, one by one.

“I should be heading on, as well,” Poole said, “unless you need something. Anything at all.”

“Nothing, thank you, Terry. Give my best to Minerva.”

“I shall.”

They shook hands, but paused in the middle. The two were saying good-bye, in case Barker did not return from the duel. How does one compress six years of friendship into one brief handshake?

“Minerva?” I asked when he was gone.

“His wife.”

“He’s married?”

Barker shook his head. “Sometimes I despair of you, lad. You’ve spoken to him a hundred times and never learned a thing about him?”

“Sorry, sir,” I said. He could crush so easily with a single word.

“Have you heard that Gerald Clayton is dead?”

“Aye, I have.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “He was on his way to propose. Now, suddenly, he has committed suicide? What happened? Did she turn him down? Did he turn to drink again and blow out his brains? I thought you had convinced him after your talk.”

“I would not care to speculate without facts,” Barker said.

“Oh, come now, just once! You’re not in a court of law. I won’t hold you responsible if your conclusions are not fully correct.”

“It is a bad habit, nevertheless.”

“It’s not a habit if it happens one time.”

“Look, we have not spoken to the girl, but I think it highly unlikely he ever had the opportunity to see his cousin. We know for certain that he recanted his testimony that morning, so that I was freed. The next we know, he is dead. Knowing Nightwine, he could not allow such an act of mutiny on Clayton’s part. It made him appear weak.”

“So he killed Clayton and made it look like suicide?”

“Just think. He purchased that photograph. It proved of no use as a threat. The only way for it to be of any practical use to Nightwine was as seeming proof that Clayton had killed himself in remorse over some veiled but unspecified deed. To those who know no better it besmirches Clayton’s name forever. To those who understand what Nightwine is capable of, it sends a message as to what will happen to anyone who thwarts him.”

“I find it hard to believe anyone could be that ruthless.”

“Ah, but you see, you were raised by parents who taught you right from wrong. Imagine having a father who taught you from the cradle that any thought for anyone’s interests but your own was reprehensible and deserving of punishment. It isn’t merely that he is a member of the aristocracy, although that is part of it. He was raised to be the new Adam of a post-Christian society.

“Let us lock up and go home to Newington,” Barker went on. “I expect a full report before Mr. Cusp arrives.”

I stepped out the door and flagged a hansom, and we went home in relative silence. Barker was remote, no doubt preoccupied with what was about to happen in the morning. Mac looked unsure whether to speak to him or not. As for me, I was whipping myself with the theory that something I had said or done had precipitated the duel. As usual, I saw through a glass darkly. I had done my best, and would learn presently whether anything I had attempted had made even the slightest difference. It was a long and silent ride back to the Surrey side of town.

Back at home, Mac hurried around turning up the gas lamps while I stood about the hall feeling useless. The only happy one among us was Harm, whom the Guv tucked under his arm like a large black book, narrowly avoiding being bathed by the dog’s tongue. He stood there like a stone statue, while the dog’s plumed tail made circles in the air behind him.

“Let’s go into the kitchen,” he said, and I followed him inside. Putting the dog down, he took up the kettle to get water while I prepared and lit the stove. When I had a flame going, he set the kettle on it, then turned around one of the chairs at the deal table and straddled it.

“Well?” he asked.

“You want to know everything that happened since you sent me to the Foreign Office to get arrested, don’t you?”

“Precisely. And I do mean precisely.”

Soon, the kettle began to sing. Barker got up, opened a caddy of his green tea and measured the leaves into cups before pouring in the water. I preferred mine strained, but just then I’d choke on them rather than complain. He returned with the cups and took his seat again.

Over tea, I told him about my arrest and interrogation at Scotland Yard; my return to the office; the arrival of Sofia and, later, Mrs. Ashleigh; returning home to find Mac shattered; the visit to the British Museum; being captured and escaping; waking up in hospital; waking up in Sofia’s rooms; discovering she was the murderer; walking out and going home; and coming up with the scheme which against all odds actually worked. That took about half an hour, at the end of which, Barker stood up and went through the dining room into the parlor to look at the safe. He removed the painting, set it on the floor, then turned the tumbler and reached in.

“It’s empty, sir,” I said.

“Is it?” he rumbled, moving his hand about inside. There was a sliding sound and he began pulling out packets of notes. “There is a hidden compartment. My valuables are behind a false wall. There was not more than fifty pounds for them to find.”

“I’m glad, sir, but still. Fifty pounds! To think of that much money in the hands of the Elephant Boys makes my blood boil.”

“No matter. I shall carve it out of their hides eventually. That was clever, by the way, to think of his former residence. I confess I discounted it.”

“If only I hadn’t been so stupid as to get caught.” I felt keenly that I had done something to disappoint my employer, not to mention jeopardize the case.

“Could you tell the house was inhabited from the back gate?”

“No, sir. It did not appear to be.”

“Then you’ve done nothing to flog yourself over.”

“Was I wrong to meet Nightwine tonight and return the draft?”

“No. In fact, it gave me the opportunity to offer him the challenge I’ve been preparing.”

“What about the entry into Nightwine’s rooms?”

“That is something I want to talk to you about. Mac is not a professional, and could have been arrested. That note belonged to Nightwine. He actually earned it, much as it grieves me to say it, and you had no right to take it from him.”

The tea had not been strained but I certainly was, as through a sieve. The Guv said it with his usual finality, but for once I wasn’t going to take it meekly.

“I would offer a defense,” I said, aware of the tightness in my own voice.

He gave a ghost of a smile, but squelched it. “Proceed.”

“You weren’t here—”

“Bad beginning,” he interrupted.

“No, hear me out. You weren’t here to see the condition Mac was in after they’d terrorized him for days. I promise you if something hadn’t been done to help him achieve some sort of respect for himself he’d never be the same man again. The reason Mac is not a private enquiry agent is because you gave the position to me and I have felt his resentment ever since. You said you wished you had the maps, and I was in no condition to get them, and so I sent Mac.”

“But you did not take the maps,” he pointed out. “You took the bank draft.”

“That was Mac’s doing, but I would have done the same were I there. He couldn’t find the maps, but refused to leave empty-handed. He was resourceful, and if I may say so, I’ve never seen a man so happy to be chased by porters.”

Barker shook his head. “It was theft, lad, pure and simple.”

“But taking the maps would not have been? This is the world of low detective work, sir. Perhaps someday when this case is over, we can see about deserving to call ourselves private enquiry agents again.”

He finished his tea and scratched under his chin in thought. “Unfortunately, I can find no flaw in your logic.”

I tried not to smile myself. Had I actually carried the day? He pointed a stubby finger at me and I stifled it immediately. Suddenly, I saw a gleam behind his spectacles that I only noted when he was surprised and his eyes opened wide. What now? I wondered.

“Tobacco!” he cried, and immediately he rushed up two flights of stairs to his aerie. It had been nearly two weeks since he had himself a smoke. I followed at a more subdued pace. Barker was seated in one of his armchairs, holding a large calabash pipe stuffed full of his own tobacco, blended for him in Mincing Lane: toasted Cavendish with perique for taste and a soupçon of latakia for bite. He struck a match and surrounded himself with a halo of smoke. Then his newly grown mustache spread out in a look of pure satisfaction. He smoked silently for about ten minutes, with Harm dozing in his lap, until there was a knock upon the thistle knocker of our front door.

“That will be Abraham,” my employer said. “Go to bed, Thomas. Get some sleep. You’ll need your wits about you in the morning.”

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.