To Kingdom Come (21 page)

“Mr. Penrith has expressed an interest in seeing the docks. We shall take a walk and perhaps see a little more of the city. Would it inconvenience you if we dine out?”

“Not at all, sir. As you wish it.”

“Thank you. You are very kind to a pair of refugees. Come, Thomas.”

My employer seized his ivory-inlaid cane and made his way out the back door and through to the next street while I followed. My duties as assistant to a prominent enquiry agent seemed to involve following Barker, never knowing where he was going or in what situation we would find ourselves once we got there. I was the apprentice, and he the master, but we were also each other’s safeguard, there to help each other out of any possible scrape. Of course, so far, Barker had done all the helping.

We did actually go to the docks. I’ve never been one of those people who has romantic notions of the sea and ships. The life, when it isn’t banal, with its thousand tasks to be done constantly, is often brutal and dangerous. The sea is a cold mistress, and she doesn’t care a fig what happens to you. I had to remind myself, however, that my employer had grown up on it, rising from dockhand through the ranks on various ships until he was captain of his own, the
Osprey.
I didn’t know a belaying pin from a bo’sun’s whistle, but it had significance to him, significance and a degree of comfort. When we reached Liverpool Quay and looked out upon the forest of masts and the bustle of men loading and unloading, I let him have his head and remained silent for a while, knowing that he had come here to think.

Half an hour later, we stood at a railing overlooking the ships, and my employer had not moved for fifteen minutes. I’d used the time reflecting on the enigma that is Cyrus Barker. Perhaps it was a makeup of his constitution, but, though he had surrounded himself with a number of friends and acquaintances—not to mention an assistant who lived in his very house—he was a very solitary individual. Sometimes, I wondered if I were an irritation to him, as I am inclined to blather. At least, for once, I knew to keep my mouth shut.

Slowly, he turned and clasped his hands behind him, as a ship’s
captain would, and I pictured him in command of his own vessel.

“We have accomplished several things so far,” he said, as if in the middle of a conversation with himself. “We have located the faction, joined them, and gained their confidence. We’ve destroyed their supply of dynamite. Soon it will be time to gather the materials for the second attempt upon London. How do you feel about making our own nitroglycerin?”

“It certainly would impress the faction, but where would we get the materials? We would need a lot to make thirty bombs, as Dunleavy described.”

“England is too tightly controlled for such large quantities. As he said, we may have to go as far as Paris for supplies. The fellow still puzzles me. After all this time with him, I still do not countenance that this plan is his. I think we should search his hotel room.”

“Is it really necessary?” I dared ask. “I mean, we’d be going to a lot of risk, possibly for nothing.”

“We might come up with empty hands, but we also might find something of value.”

“If we can get in,” I countered.

“Get in?” the Guv scoffed. “A simple matter.”

It was indeed a simple matter, as Barker said. After a quick meal at a tea shop, we found ourselves in the hallway at the Midland Hotel, where he removed a skeleton key, or “betty” as he called it, from his pocket and inserted it in the keyhole. After an agonizingly long moment in which no one appeared in the hall, we heard the soft click of the lock, opened the door, and stepped inside.

“How did you know he wasn’t here?” I asked, thinking it was a mercy Barker had not been a criminal. What other little contrivances did he carry about in his pockets?

“I asked him what he had planned for today. He’s got a meeting with a Liberal Liverpool MP, trying to make him more sensitive
to the Irish cause and to convince him to throw in the odd shilling.”

Number 314 was a suite, with fresh flowers on the table. There was a pile of papers on the table that attracted Barker’s immediate interest. He crossed to it and began looking through a stack of messages.

“Tailor’s bill. Creditor. Creditor. Oh, dear. Dunleavy appears to be in a spot of financial trouble. Start looking but keep everything neat. I want to know with whom Alfred Dunleavy is communicating. Surely a fellow as disorganized as this must have left some sort of evidence behind.”

We began to search. While Barker went through the papers slowly, I opened drawers, peered under the bed, rifled luggage, and searched among his toiletries. I discovered several things about the colonel. He had a fondness for Cuban cigars, his boots were made in a place called Chattanooga, and he used Parker’s hair tonic. If any of these bits of information were helpful in answering some of Barker’s questions, our quest would be successful, but unfortunately, they were not.

Barker suddenly seized me by the collar and dragged me swiftly to the window. He pushed me behind one curtain, and took his place behind the other. We heard the door open and footsteps enter the room. Dunleavy had returned unexpectedly.

What would happen if the colonel caught sight of us? Were he armed, he’d have us at a disadvantage. Obviously, he’d know we were spies and would pass that information to the faction. On the other hand, he couldn’t exactly march us through the lobby at gunpoint.

I was very conscious of my breathing, feeling that it seemed extremely loud in the room. I looked over at my employer, but he was no more animate than a hat stand. Perhaps this sort of thing was a matter of course to him, but for me, it was a new experience. Any minute now, I expected Dunleavy to fling back the curtain,
seize me by the lapel, and clap a pistol to my head. I knew how they treated traitors, and I had no hope that they would treat spies any better.

He didn’t see us, of course. He’d come back for something or other, and when he found it, after a few minutes’ search, he left the room again.
Confound the fellow and his lack of order,
I thought.

“Right. Let us continue the search,” Barker said, as if the near capture hadn’t happened. “What is this?”

There was a new letter laid atop the stack of bills. Barker snatched it up and read it before passing it to me. I spread it out on the table and read.

Buffalo, New York

Mr. Dunleavy,

We acknowledge your need of funds but regret to report that there may be some delay. As you know, much of our monies are divested in supporting candidates for elections, as well as in silver speculation. As soon as funds arrive, we shall send them along speedily.

Your humble servant,

Chester Finney
Secretary of American Hibernian League

Barker turned the note over in his hand. “This certainly does not ease Mr. Dunleavy’s financial woes, does it, lad? The American gives him no idea if the money shall be forthcoming in time for the faction to proceed with the bombings they have planned. This throws everything askew. Mr. Anderson has given us no instructions on what to do if the faction changes its plans. Do we hand them over to Munro and let him decide what to do about them, or continue our deception a little longer, to see how
Dunleavy and his men proceed? I have no wish for us to remain on this case indefinitely. We must cast our nets a little farther. I believe the time has come to make a more thorough search of the O’Casey house. I do not see any evidence of plans or communications here beyond this note, but there is still the possibility that O’Casey has information. I’ve already searched his room, but I don’t think we should overlook his sister’s.”

“You don’t seriously think her mixed up in all this, surely.”

“Remember what I counseled you, lad, about considering everyone a suspect until all the facts have been revealed? If she’s innocent, nothing will be found. You look through Miss O’Casey’s room first, while I distract her, and then you do the same while I inspect her brother’s quarter again.”

“Me!” I cried. “Why have me search? I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”

“No more than I, Thomas. I shall engage her in conversation, while you feign a headache and go up to the room to lie down.”

Upon our return, we found Maire O’Casey in the parlor. “Did the two of you find lunch while you were out?” she asked.

“
Ja, Fräulein,
” Barker said. “We availed ourselves of one of your Aerated Bread Company tearooms. The sea air has not been so helpful for Mr. Penrith. It has brought on one of the headaches he suffers from time to time.”

The girl gave an anxious look my way.

“It is nothing,” I muttered, raising a hand to my head. “If you will excuse me, I think I shall lie down.”

As I climbed the stairs, I heard Barker speak to Maire. “I see you have been studying your own ancient language. Is there much need for it these days?”

I found her room on the third floor. When I had first been hired as an assistant to a private enquiry agent, I had thought myself ill equipped, but since then, I have found some duties that I am suited for. I am a confirmed busybody, inordinately curious.

I began going through drawers, all the while keeping a sharp ear out for someone on the stairs. A chest contained only clothes. I looked through it swiftly. There was nothing concealed under her garments, save a lilac-scented sachet. In a small, white desk with Queen Anne legs, I found her correspondence, along with her own stationery and ink. She kept up with a few friends she had known in school. One had married and was living in Cork, and another was a servant to an English family in Londonderry. Just when I was sure that my suspicions were groundless and the most secret thing she owned were merely her undergarments, I found a small wooden box on a shelf, and it was locked.

There were hairpins on her nightstand, and almost without thinking, I bent the end of one over my thumbnail, then inserted it into the lock. After a few frantic twists, the lock sprung open. There were letters inside. I read over one feverishly, knowing I might be discovered.

Maire, it has been too many days since my eyes feasted upon your beauty. I count the hours
…

My eyes flew to the next one.

Maire, having just come from walking with you, I wanted to set down the impressions I have
…

Love letters. Unsigned and undated. Who could have written them? Well, of course, anyone could; she was a rare beauty. But who had? Was it Willie? A secret lover, perhaps, or an old flame? I scarce knew. I got to the bottom of the stack of letters and found jewelry; a coil of pearls, a diamond broach, and a pair of opal earrings. Who had given these to a poor Irish girl?

My mind gave a sudden leap. Was it Dunleavy? He was old, but such things had happened before. Was he out of pocket because he lavished jewelry on Maire?

I shouldn’t jump to conclusions,
I told myself. The jewels could have been handed down from her mother, and the letters … well, any pretty girl over twenty must have a boxful. Then, I reached the final letter and saw the inscription at the bottom. I locked the box once more, pocketed the hairpin, and left the room.

I wanted to sprint down the stairs, to fly, to slide down the banister, anything to get me down as quickly as possible, but I couldn’t attract attention. It required all I possessed to come down the steps at a sedate pace. I wandered into the parlor, still holding my head.

“I say, Miss O’Casey, I wonder if I might trouble you for a cold cloth for my head?”

“I do hope you are not catching a fever, Mr. Penrith,” the girl said, coming up and placing the back of her hand against my forehead. If I was feverish, it was more to do with the news I had to impart to Barker than any feigned illness. “A slight one, perhaps. I’ll get that cloth for you.”

She left the room and I moved over to her desk, where Barker was seated. He sensed I had something to tell him.

“Letters,” I whispered. “Love letters. A stack of them, along with jewelry. Expensive jewelry, if I am any judge. And you can’t imagine who sent them.”

“Tell me,” Barker murmured.

“Seamus O’Muircheartaigh.”

19

BARKER SUGGESTED THAT MISS O’CASEY BREW A
cup of tea for me, and while I sat and sipped, making small talk with the girl and feigning a headache, he flew up the stairs to the box and read her private correspondence. Normally, of course, doing so would be an unconscionable act, but then most girls did not receive declarations of love from dangerous criminals. Even then, talking with beautiful and wholesome Maire, I could not picture her with the hard, dry Mr. O’Muircheartaigh, who, for one thing, was almost twice her age.

I used Barker’s diversion, and asked her to show me the Gaelic book she was using, but what I really wanted to do was to talk to her about what had happened at the lighthouse. Though it had only been one kiss, I felt betrayed. Willie Yeats was one thing, but that chilling fellow I’d met at Ho’s was quite another.