by Will Thomas
“How far away was the shot, would you say? Where do you think it originated, in one of these trees?”
“We’ll have to investigate,” Barker answered.
Pierce knew his man when he said “ten words or less.”
“Where did the second shooter go?” the Home Office man asked.
“Another good question.”
“Why do you think he shot the first man?” I asked.
“Competition,” Barker and Pierce said in unison.
CHAPTER FOUR
I felt almost sorry for the cabman who picked us up. My hair was sopping wet, my suit and shirt soaked in blood, and I was wrapped in a blanket. However, and this is an important however, the cabman recognized Barker, who had a reputation among cabmen all over London as an excellent tipper. His greed overcame his fastidiousness and within half an hour we were home in Newington.
Once inside, I went to my rooms and stripped everything off, consigning them to the rubbish bin. Even my shoes had been sullied beyond redemption. I put on a cotton dressing gown and went outside to the bathhouse in Barker’s garden. The water in the giant tub was not yet heated, but that from the faucet was, so I nearly scalded myself washing my hair over and over on a stool nearby, getting rid of whatever was left of the poor blighter who had been killed in front of me. Then I climbed down into the pool and poured in some bath salts. I floated for half an hour until I began to feel human again.
Our butler, Mac, brought fresh towels and asked if I needed anything. I did not and so he departed. Occasionally he is not a bad fellow. Afterward I entered the house and went upstairs to change. It was a mercy that my wife was receiving visitors at our house in the City and did not have to see me in my dreadful condition. A full hour after we arrived, I came down the stair to our hall and met Barker by the door. We walked to the Elephant and Castle, where we took the Underground to Charing Cross. I assumed we were returning to our offices, but Barker passed them as if he’d never even heard of Craig’s Court. I had no idea where we were going, but I still held my tongue. When we reached Great Scotland Yard Barker turned into it. Ah, I thought. It made sense now.
“Well, well, gents,” the desk sergeant said, looking up from some paperwork he was filling out for an old woman standing in front of him. He smiled. “Hail, hail the conquering heroes. You’ve been punted upstairs. The commissioner is waiting for you. Do you know where his office is?”
“Only too well,” I muttered.
We climbed the stair. The office was on the third floor, closer to God. The door was open and there was no constable or secretary sitting at the desk.
“Is that you, Cyrus?” a voice called from within.
“Aye.”
“Bring your man with you.”
Man indeed. I was a partner now. I hadn’t come to whisk Barker’s suit.
We entered and sat. Commissioner Munro was a stocky fellow in his late fifties with a brushlike haircut and an equally bristly mustache. He had almost no neck and his head reminded me of an overturned bucket. He and Barker had an adversarial relationship going back to the days when Munro ran the covert Special Irish Branch. Their relationship had warmed a little since they had begun sharing the responsibilities for a secret society the Knights Templar, no less. Sigilum Militum Xpisti.
“Barker, you might have warned me before you put us both in danger of treason. Who was the man who was shot this morning?”
I looked from one of them to the other. What?
“His name was Joseph Bayles,” the Guv answered. “He was a patient at Colney Hatch. Some members of our society convinced him to leave voluntarily, gave him a wooden pistol, and drove him to Hyde Park. He did the rest. He is a committed anarchist, subject to delusions, generally inspired by newspaper accounts.”
“How many were involved?” Munro demanded. “You understand. The fewer who know, the better.”
“Three, including the director at the asylum, who is a member,” the Guv replied.
“That was close, Barker, too close. Don’t ever come that close again without informing me. We have an agreement.”
“Still,” he continued, “I believe we inadvertently saved the prince’s life.”
I noticed when there was trouble it was “you” and when some good came out of a situation he said “we.”
“What about the assassin?” the commissioner continued, drumming his fingers on his desk. “Where was he? Where did he go?”
“We never saw him,” Barker growled. “He came and went like a ghost.”
“Have you a client?” Munro asked.
“I do, but I have not officially taken the case.”
“Explain.”
The Guv gave him a limited description of our encounter with Jim Hercules, which caused the commissioner to raise a brow.
Munro shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His office was spare and devoid of bookshelves, which I consider essential. The room was large, however, and appointed with a table and chairs made of red mahogany. I suspected it was used for meetings and guests. Wealthy guests. Barker was one of them, come to think of it.
“The thing that concerns me,” my partner said, “is that the tsarevich will have public appearances while he is here, culminating in a procession during the royal wedding in an open carriage. It almost invites an assassin to try his luck. Something shall have to be done, but to be frank, Commissioner, I have no idea what that is, yet.”
Munro nodded, putting his hands upon his waistcoat, which could have been cut a little larger around the middle. But then the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police was not a fashion plate and probably never should be.
“Agreed. It shall have to be a joint effort between the palace, the War Office, the Foreign Office, and the Home Office. I may need to bring in the lads from Special Branch to keep an eye on the East End radicals. You know, the Socialists are poor to a man, but if they pooled their resources they could hire someone to shoot the tsarevich. The assassin might even be one of them himself.”
Barker nodded. “You might see if there is a way Thomas and I could be attached to the imperial delegation.”
“The Okhrana would not like that, but then you just saved Nicholas and they didn’t. Let me take a meeting with them. It certainly warrants one.
“Is there anything else?” the Guv asked.
“Just stay out of trouble,” Munro said, giving us both the gimlet eye. “If you force me to toss you into a cell, you can’t be saving the boy. Remember, if the tsarevich is shot, it would cause an international incident, possibly even war. Try to be more circumspect than usual. No more treason. I cannot protect you or the Templars should that happen again or if the word gets out. Tell no one.”
“We won’t,” we agreed.
“Who did you speak to at Kensington Palace?” Munro asked, raising a brow. “Which inspector, that is?”
“It was Langton, sir,” I replied. I nearly said Plankton. The commissioner put a hand to his face.
“Ruddy hell,” he muttered.
“You have a problem with him?” Barker asked.
“He’s not the sort I want to represent the Yard in front of royals,” Munro answered. “He can club a sailor in Dockland with the best of them, but royalty is another matter. There’s no telling what he said.”
“I saw him speaking to the tsarevich,” I said.
His shoulders slumped. “I shall speak to him later. Perhaps an assignment to the marshes east of London is in order.”
I made a sound in the back of my throat. It wasn’t triumph or celebration. I merely cleared my throat, but Munro jabbed a finger in my direction.
“That’s enough out of you, Prisoner 7502. The truce between your employer and me does not extend to you. I’ve got a cell and a pillow waiting whenever you cross the line.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. Then I grumbled. Sometimes I am my own worst enemy.
“Javert, is it?” He actually chuckled. “I’ve read that book. Thomas, you are no Jean Valjean.”
Barker turned and looked at me. I was a little behind him, so he had to turn around almost completely. I sank into my chair, attempting to avoid his questioning look. Unfortunately, one cannot evade his stony gaze forever.
“Gentlemen, I will ask you again,” Munro said. “Could you wear kid gloves this time? This is a delicate matter. There is more than a royal wedding going on here. There are delicate negotiations between our two countries. There is also some speculation concerning whom the Russian heir should marry. Her Majesty has decided opinions, I understand. She has a horse in that race, if you take my meaning.”
He sat back and looked out the window at the river below, which wound snakelike along the Embankment.
“Nicholas doesn’t need another bodyguard,” he continued. “He’s got the Okhrana. However, you know this city as well as anyone. You’ve got more resources and more time than my men. We have close to a quarter of our constables at the disposal of the palace. There is a royal wedding next Thursday, and there are anarchists who are none too happy about the cost, if you haven’t been paying attention.”
“What would you have me do?” Barker asked.
“Investigate quickly, but avoid the tsarevich as much as possible. We have diplomats for that.”
Barker nodded. “We shall do our best.”
“Try not to kill anyone this time, Barker. Oh, and do your best to stay out of the bloody newspapers!”
We stood and bowed. Then we left the Yard and walked up Whitehall Street in the direction of Trafalgar Square.
“Who, pray tell, is Javert?” Barker demanded.
“He’s a character in a French book, Les Misérables, by Victor Hugo, an inspector who unjustly hounds the protagonist, Jean Valjean, throughout his life.”
My employer said nothing more, but his hands were behind his back, reminding me that he was once a ship’s captain. One wrong word and I’d be keelhauled, whatever that was.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Excuse me, sir, but did you just commit treason in the name of the agency?”
“I would not call it treason,” Barker replied.
“Was a member of the Royal Family not shot at?” I continued.
“A bang went off and there was a puff of smoke, but no projectile. It was a stage prop.”
“But in a way it was an assault upon the Duke of York. And you let a madman out with the express purpose of attempting to shoot the tsarevich, just so you could meet him. And the poor fellow died!”
“Yes, I regret that, Thomas, but there was no intent to kill him. He was let go from Colney Hatch, he shot a popgun, and he would have been returned to the asylum. Mr. Bayles was insane. Of course, I regret the death.”
“Really, sir,” I said as we stepped inside our chambers. “I don’t know how you can work with—”
We knew immediately that something was amiss. Jenkins was not in his chair. Jenkins is always in his chair. It may look like he’s doing nothing, but while we are on an enquiry he is guarding our offices, the base of all our operations.
I reached behind me and tapped the Webley tucked into my trousers in the small of my back. Barker resettled his coat, feeling the weight of his Colt. I could sense a kind of pent-up energy in the room as we stepped through the threshold into our offices.
The first thing I saw as I entered our chambers was our clerk tied to a chair with the swag from our curtain and a handkerchief stuffed in his mouth. He looked moderately miserable, but not panicked. Two men stood on either side of him and I saw he had a bruise on his cheek.
There were four other men in the room besides the bookends that propped up Jeremy Jenkins. One had the gall to sit in Barker’s chair. I didn’t recognize him, but I did one of the men standing beside Jeremy. It was Olgev, the Russian who had been unsuccessfully protecting the tsarevich in the park. Even a poet can add two and two. This was the Okhrana.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” the leader said.
“You are in my chair, sir,” the Guv replied, crossing to the center of the room by the visitor’s chair. I gripped my stick, but I was ready to pull out my pistol if required.
“Am I?” the fellow asked. He looked about fifty years old, with a thick mustache and a spade-shaped beard. He was stocky, but hard looking. His black brows looked like they had been applied with a paintbrush.
“Get out of my chair,” Barker warned.
“You are in no position to give orders, Mr. Barker.”
Then Barker did the last thing they expected, which is always the best place to start. The toe of his boot hooked under the visitor’s chair, and he launched it over the desk. It careened off the pristine glass top, shattering it, and struck the man full in the face. He really shouldn’t have sat in Barker’s chair.
It all went mad after that. The Guv punched one of the bookends in the face. Olgev he kicked in the side of the knee, possibly breaking it.
I’d perfected a trick of my own. I slipped the brass cap of my stick through my fingers until I caught it at the very tip and then drove it into a man’s face. Then I turned and brought it down on another’s wrist. A third seized me by the shoulders, but I drove my knee up between his legs and most of the fight went out of him. That took care of the men within my reach.
I pushed aside my coat with my left hand and drew my revolver from my waistband, but as I did I heard simultaneous clicks in the room. When I looked up, everyone was pointing pistols at each other, except the man I had incapacitated, who was occupied being sick near one of the bookcases.
“Put down your gun, Mr. Barker,” the Okhrana leader said. He held a pistol, but also a handkerchief to his nose, which I’m sure had been broken.
“Get out of my chair,” my partner demanded. “I have told you twice.”
“You are in no position to give orders. It is seven against two.”
“Six,” I replied. “Your lackey there is busy soiling our carpet.”
“Lad, when I am going down,” Barker said, standing firm, “shoot our visitor between the eyes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s been a good life.”
I turned and aimed at Barker’s chair, at the head of the Okhrana, at the spot where his brows met.
“Wait!” Our visitor vacated the Guv’s seat. “It’s just a damned chair!”
“He won’t even let me sit in it,” I said.
“We didn’t come here to die or to kill anyone,” he persisted. “We only wanted to talk to you.”
“Most conversations do not begin with tying up a man’s clerk.”
“Olgev, untie the man.”
He had an odd accent. It was English strained through Russian, and then strained again through French. To be kind, I’ll call it Continental.
“You’ve broken the glass atop my desk,” the Guv said.
“You broke it yourself, Mr. Barker. I must say your priorities are strange.” He muttered something in Russian and the men put away their pistols. We did the same.
He came around the desk and sat in the other visitor’s chair.
“Jeremy,” Barker said, seating himself in his chair. “Go to the Silver Cross and bring beer.”
Our clerk’s eyes opened fully at the word.
“Yes, sir,” he answered.
“You’re sending for Scotland Yard,” the man stated.
“And ruin our new alliance?” the Guv replied. “That will hardly do. Now, whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”
“I am Pyotr Rachkovsky, the bureau chief of the Okhrana. You made us look like fools today.”
“On the contrary,” the Guv replied. “I saved the tsarevich’s life, with the aid of the Queen’s Guard and a few servants. Your men made themselves look like fools without any help from me.”
To a man, they looked at the floor.
“Idiots,” Rachkovsky said. “Go. Go sit in the lobby there, all of you.”
They slunk out like whipped puppies licking their wounds.
“We can be civilized about this, Mr. Barker. I’m glad you under
stand. I’d like to know who hired you, please.”
“No one hired me. My partner, Mr. Llewelyn, and I had just come from lunch across the street and were reluctant to return to the office on such a fine day.”
Barker stood and walked to his cabinet table. A moment later, he offered the box of cigars to Rachkovsky.
“Excuse me, sir, is that brandy there? I do not drink beer.”
I went to the table behind the Guv’s chair, under the ancient coat of arms of the Barker clan, and poured a glass. I handed it to him.
“Armagnac,” I said.
“I must say I am impressed, gentlemen. I have been too long in Paris, you see.”
“You are the bureau chief there?”
“I am, but I am not here to discuss me. The tsarevich is young. It is difficult to contain him.”
“I understand.”
“I believe you have broken my nose,” he said, dabbing it with the handkerchief.
“Regrettable,” Barker answered. “I should not need to mention it, but the third in line to England’s throne was nearly killed today. What is happening, sir? Who means to take your charge’s life?”
There was a long pause. I thought it perhaps fifteen seconds, which seems interminable in a conversation.
“There is an assassin attempting to kill the tsarevich.”
“So I assume,” the Guv replied. “Do you know anything about him?”
“He is called La Sylphide.”
“Who is he?”
“We don’t know,” Rachkovsky replied. “He comes and goes like a ghost. He has an air rifle, which we suspect he can break down and carry in pieces. We assume he is Russian. He reads and writes it.”
“Has he sent a message to you?”
“Just once,” he replied, setting his glass on the table. “Before we left Saint Petersburg, he shot out a window in the Winter Palace, simply to cause trouble, I believe. It kept Nikolai Alexandrovich secluded until we left. The boy was petulant, wanting to go out and meet his friends, but we would not allow him to go. Two weeks later, we found a hole in the new glass, in the exact same spot as the last, and a rolled length of paper inserted in the hole. It read: ‘You cannot keep him safe forever.’”