by Will Thomas
Barker gave a hint of a smile. Telling a horse no when the bit is between his teeth accomplishes little.
“I spoke to Rachkovsky last night. The two of you had a serious altercation in which his nose was broken and two men were so severely injured that they were taken to a hospital. He said the two of you set upon the three of them unprovoked.”
“Baron,” Barker said, “do you believe Mr. Rachkovsky is in the habit of reporting things exactly as they happen, or does he give you the Okhrana’s version of the truth? He claimed we attacked three men, hardened agents of your secret police, just the two of us. Thomas, do you have any wounds on your person?”
“I nicked myself this morning under my chin here,” I said, “but that’s all.”
“Cheeky to the end, Mr. Llewelyn,” the Guv replied. “As you can see, I am without any sort of injury myself. If we emerged from a fight in which three men were wounded while we remain unscathed, either they are no better fighters than a women’s badminton team or they are lying. Which do you believe more likely?”
De Staal stared at him, one arm crossed over the other, cupping his chin. He was trying unsuccessfully to make out my partner. The key to understanding Cyrus Barker is to know that whether in conversation or altercation, his first step is to get one off balance.
“Let us set that aside. You are private detectives.”
“Enquiry agents,” we both said at once. It had become automatic.
“Whatever you wish to call it. I understand you have offices by Scotland Yard. How do I know you do not work for them? Or for the Home or Foreign Office? I would be a fool to allow foreign agents to get close to the future tsar of my country. In particular, two men with a propensity for violence.”
“Sir,” I replied, “I only weigh thirteen stone, and I am a published poet. What sort of violence would I inflict upon anyone?”
De Staal pointed a finger at me as if I’d been caught out. “Ha, sir! Admit it, Nicholas has asked you to teach him to shoot.”
“Yes, sir,” I admitted, “but it was not done on the strength of any marksman ability on my part. He hired me because of a remark I made and the fact that we are of a near age. He hired me on the spur of the moment for no other reason than the novelty of it. And speaking of that, how does a young man who must hold rank in the military not know how to shoot a pistol? Or am I mistaken?”
The ambassador shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“You must understand,” he said. “The tsarevich is headstrong. He plans things without permission, but rarely completes them. He is spontaneous, and being young, he does not think things through. He must be protected from himself. That is why I am here. Naturally, the tsar is concerned about his heir. We thought it best not to give him a pistol. I’m afraid there is no more polite way of saying this, gentlemen, but we must dispense with your services, such as they are. Protecting the tsarevich is no longer your concern. We appreciate what you have done and you will be compensated. We understand that you saved Nicholas’s life as well as the Duke of York’s, who was mistakenly believed to be him, and we are grateful. However, we cannot have foreign agents among our staff wandering about, listening to all that is said and done. The Okhrana are here to protect our future tsar, which I’m certain they shall do successfully.”
“No doubt, sir, no doubt,” the Guv replied. “So, to be clear, what you are saying is that we are sacked.”
“I would not use such rough terms, Mr. Barker,” de Staal stated, “but the effect is the same.”
Barker leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, studying the ambassador. I’m certain he wished he were in his large green leather chair in our offices. The ones we were using in the library were a more proper size for Rebecca.
“Alas, Baron,” the Guv continued, “I don’t expect you to understand the protocols of private enquiry work, but a person cannot order us to quit a case if he did not hire us in the first place. It isn’t done. I can refuse a case, if I so choose, or I can resign and be done with the matter. My client can ask us not to pursue actions or he can sack us. But no third party, no matter who he is, can insinuate himself into the agreement.”
De Staal looked at him, unimpressed with his argument. “What shall happen then? Shall you bring suit against the Russian government?”
“No. I will not consider my duties discharged, and shall continue as before. Or rather, we shall.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“You are a stubborn man, Mr. Barker,” the ambassador said. “I see no reason why we cannot discuss this like gentlemen. The tsarevich does not understand protocol when one visits a foreign nation.” He waited a moment, but got no reply. “Very well. I shall meet with Nicholas today. If I take you to Kensington Palace and he says he no longer requires your services, your services will be discharged.”
“Why should they be discharged?” Barker argued.
“Obviously, because the man who hired you no longer desires your services according to your precious code. That is, unless you believe we are forcing him under duress.”
I looked at the Guv. When he became a Baptist he gave up such things as cards, but as a ship’s captain, I believe, he was a dab hand at gambling.
“That is immaterial to me, Baron de Staal. He didn’t hire me to protect him. Another member of your delegation did.”
The baron leaned forward and frowned, clutching the arms of his chair. For a moment he reminded me of Napoleon. “Who, then?” he demanded.
Barker smiled. “I am not at liberty to say. Protocol, you understand. Tell me, Baron, what do you make of the assassin who shot Mr. Bayles in front of the palace?”
“What assassin?” the Russian ambassador demanded. I saw the veins in his neck begin to distend.
“La Sylphide,” I replied.
“He is a rumor,” he growled. “I don’t know who invented him. Perhaps it was the two of you.”
“That rumor blew a man’s head off his shoulders,” I pointed out.
“It was probably a guard who for one reason or another refuses to come forward. Or a coconspirator meaning to shoot Prince George, who missed and killed his partner instead. Afterward, he escaped.”
“I see you have considered this,” the Guv said, sitting back.
The ambassador jumped from his chair and began to pace. “La Sylphide is a bit of fiction,” he stated. “A heavy-handed one, at that. I don’t doubt that the Duke of York was in danger, but it was more likely from one of your anarchist gangs who have been pasting placards all over London. It has nothing to do with us. There was no obvious attempt upon Nicholas’s life. I suspect you helped him back to the safety of the palace for no reason. The only man in danger was the prince.”
“And what of the cry ‘Down with the tsar!’?” I asked.
“Hearsay,” the baron replied.
“But we both heard it,” I countered.
“Perhaps, but you are not expert witnesses. In fact, your employment would be groundless if you could not supply—or invent—a villain to threaten His Imperial Highness.”
“Ambassador,” Barker said coolly. “You dismiss La Sylphide at your peril.”
“Mr. Barker, I have been an ambassador for most of my professional life. I know when I am being hoodwinked. I do not believe anyone hired you but the tsarevich and you cannot convince me otherwise. There is no point in continuing this conversation. I have many other matters to attend to. Good day, gentlemen.”
Baron de Staal stalked from the room. I imagined him putting on his tall hat and taking his stick. We heard the door slam behind him.
“I assume he’s not staying for lunch,” I said. “Etienne will sulk for a week.”
“It is a mercy he sent a chef and is not here to throw pots at the windows,” the Guv replied.
“I agree.”
“I don’t really think the baron knows much about gardening,” he continued. “He couldn’t recognize a yellow azalea.”
“No!” I said.
“We�
�re leaving in half an hour.”
“Yes, sir.”
My partner went upstairs. I heard a sound a minute later and turned back in time to see Rebecca leaning out into the hall, her hand on the banister.
“He’s gone, then?” she asked.
“The Baron? Yes,” I answered.
“He seemed a disagreeable man.”
“I would say so.”
“He all but called the two of you spies.”
“How do you know?” I asked. “Could you hear our conversation?”
“Almost as clear as a bell,” she replied.
“Did you drill a hole or something?” I asked. “I never noticed one could hear what was being said in the library. But then I wouldn’t. I’m generally the one holding conversations there.”
“You defended yourself rather well, I think,” she said, taking my arm.
“Thank you. You can hear us talking in Barker’s room and down in the library. Can you hear in the kitchen?”
“Well enough,” she admitted.
“And the back garden?”
“If the window is open.”
“Oh, yes?” I enquired. “Prove it.”
“Last night you were humming Peer Gynt in the bathhouse.”
I smiled. “Off-key?”
“No,” she answered. “It was in tune, for the most part.”
“That’s good to know.”
Rebecca frowned. “Was the conversation with the ambassador significant?”
“It opened a few areas of enquiry,” I replied as we walked to the staircase.
“Such as?” she asked.
“It would be good to know for whom we are actually working.”
CHAPTER TEN
We arrived at our offices after noon, having tried to do justice to Etienne Dummolard’s meal. When we opened the door we found Jenkins alone, buried in a crime journal. Unfortunately, he had forgotten to purchase the newspapers for the day.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I said after offering to get them myself. “Is there any newspaper you’d like me to purchase while I’m out?”
“The usual will suffice, I think,” Barker replied.
I stepped out into Craig’s Court and was turning into Whitehall Street when my hat blew off. I turned and ran after it. It was my best top hat, from James Lock and Co., a Christmas gift from Rebecca. I sprinted down the alleyway, but the wind rushes through the court at a tremendous volume and I had to run like the dickens. I could not lay hold of it until I reached the telephone exchange at the far end.
Rescuing it from the ground, I glanced at it for a moment, and there seemed to be no damage, so I clapped it on my head, trying to remember what I was doing. Newspapers. I grasped the brim and began to walk in the wind. Reaching Whitehall Street, I was aware of a whistling sound from somewhere nearby. I looked about. Whitehall can get blustery sometimes.
There was that sound again, a wheezing noise. It seemed to be coming from somewhere around me. I pulled the topper off my head. There were two neat holes in the fabric, one in front and the other in back. My hat had not blown off. It had been shot off. La Sylphide had returned and it was the second time he had missed my cranium by mere inches.
I turned and hurried back inside our offices. Jenkins was smoking a cigarette and reading the Police News, and he looked up when I returned. I crossed to Barker’s desk and sat in one of the visitor’s chairs. The Guv looked up and rose his eyebrows.
“No newspapers, Mr. Llewelyn?”
I placed the spoilt hat on his desk. He examined it as if it were some kind of relic, turning it about this way and that and then finally lifting it from the new glass that had just been installed. He inspected the trajectory of the bullet. He tried to get one of his thick fingers through the holes, but it was impossible. He set it back down on the desk and pushed it my way. He didn’t want it, nor did I. I supposed it could be re-silked, but I preferred not to place it on the counter of James Lock and Co. in such a condition. They might ban me from ever setting foot through the door again.
“Someone doesn’t like you, Mr. Llewelyn,” my partner said.
“It would appear not,” I answered. “That was my best hat and it was attached to my best head. Who wants to kill me?”
“No one is trying to kill you,” he replied. “If they were, you would be dead. If they missed, they would try again immediately. Someone is merely trying to vex you.”
“Whistling vexes me,” I said. “Shooting at me I take exception to.”
“From which direction did the bullet come?” Cyrus Barker asked.
“From across Whitehall Street, sir.”
“The angle is steeply downward. You were shot at from the roof or a window.”
I felt a chill go through me and flinched.
“Shock,” he observed. “Do you need some brandy?”
“No, sir. Thank you,” I replied. “Should I go back out and get those newspapers?”
“Wait awhile,” he said. “Or I can send Jeremy. I presume he has not angered any assassins lately. Have you, Jeremy?”
“No, Mr. B.!” our clerk called from the outer room.
“This is serious, sir,” I protested. “I was just shot at, nearly murdered. I’m a married man. There is nothing I have done that deserves this. I go to church, I say my prayers, I do unto others. Don’t cheat, don’t swear, try to be a good husband, and someone wants to blow my bloody head off anyway!”
“You are shouting, Thomas,” Barker said.
“Am I?” I asked. “The question is, why me? I’m sure there are plenty of other people in Whitehall who deserve a bullet more than I.”
“Have you done anything to anyone that would cause them to bring a hired assassin all the way from Saint Petersburg in order to frighten you?”
“Frighten me! It’s done more than frighten me!”
Barker rose, crossed to the bow window, and looked out at the traffic in Whitehall. A man had been shot doing that very thing a few years before, but the Guv seemed little concerned.
“It might be in the realm of possibility that you were the target at Kensington Palace and that some move on your part or someone else’s resulted in Mr. Bayles taking the bullet meant for you. It’s highly doubtful in a seasoned professional, but possible. Are we agreed?”
“I suppose so.”
“But on the street in Whitehall,” he continued, “were you walking at a steady pace?”
“I was,” I admitted.
“Was the street crowded?”
I shook my head. “Not particularly.”
“Were there vehicles that might have shielded you from a random shot?”
“No, I don’t believe so.”
“There you are, then,” he said, looking triumphant. “No professional assassin of any reputation misses twice in their entire career. You could scarcely avoid being killed under those conditions. Ergo, someone is trying to vex you.”
“He’s doing very well at it, too.”
“But you are perfectly safe. If you were meant to be dead, you would be dead. Isn’t that a relief? You could jump about, you could try to get shot, and it would not happen. You are, what is the expression? Safe as houses?”
“Well, that’s a relief,” I replied. “If bullets start flying all about me I need only remind myself that none is meant for me.”
“Exactly.”
“Step away from the window, then, sir,” I said to him. “Nobody claimed you are safe.”
* * *
A couple of hours later, Sarah Fletcher arrived in our chambers. As usual, she was neat as a pin, carefully coiffed and prim. She sat on the edge of her seat, her hands on her reticule, a straw boater perched on her head. Pulling a small red notebook from her bag, she opened it and looked at her notes.
“I’ve discovered the location of your ballerina, Mr. Barker,” she said, the consummate professional. “Mathilde Kschessinska is the principal dancer at the Mariinsky Theatre in Saint Petersburg. She is staying at the Metropole H
otel, trying to work out the best way to meet the tsarevich.”
“How did you come by this information?” Barker asked. I could almost hear the approval in his voice.
“I questioned some of our own dancers in London,” she replied. “Apparently, the affair is a royal secret, so everyone knows of it. In Saint Petersburg, she has actually sat on the edge of the imperial box during a performance. She is beautiful and talented and every theater in Europe wants her. Personally, I found her petulant.”
“You met her, then?” the Guv asked, surprised.
“She called for someone to do her hair and I happened to be lurking in the lobby, so I volunteered.”
“What were your other impressions of her?” he asked.
“She is pretty enough, if that matters. However, she is self-important, ambitious, vain, mercurial, and perhaps a bit frightened,” Miss Fletcher replied. “The little thing is but one-and-twenty. She doesn’t understand that mistresses cannot be tsarinas.”
“Some have, as I recall,” I noted.
Miss Fletcher shot me a glance for interrupting her narrative and then she continued. “Rumor has it the tsarevich is under orders to find a suitable royal bride and marry her as soon as possible. Poor Mathilde is not in the running, I’m afraid, and she knows it. She is staying with a grand duke who must care very deeply for her to put up with her shrill outbursts. One second she is crying and the next elated. I think it is impossible for her to conceal a single thought. However, there was only so much time I could spend dressing her hair before I got my face slapped for poking her with a hairpin when she moved. She knows me now, so I cannot follow her openly.”
“Is there any more information you can give, pertinent or otherwise?” Barker asked, tenting his fingers on his desk.
Miss Fletcher consulted her notebook, winnowing the pages. “Let us see. The literati of Saint Petersburg are watching the affair as if it were a grand opera. Each day brings new intrigue. She is here on her own, you know. She is not with a corps de ballet. She came from Paris incognito. Well, as incognito as one can be with a Russian borzoi.”