by Will Thomas
“I said no harm done!”
The officer smiled. “You heard the man,” he said to the crowd. “No harm done.”
Everyone looked relieved and hurried out the door before something else happened. The publican looked sulky. The constable looked genial, like a father after his daughter’s wedding. And Barker? He just looked like Barker, expressionless behind that mustache and those black spectacles.
“Good day, gentlemen,” the constable said, tugging at his helmet.
“We’ll be on our way then, Constable,” Barker said. “May I have that letter back?”
The officer handed it over, and the Guv slipped it into his pocket again.
It had been dim inside the Goat, and stepping out into the day was dazzling. Hansoms and goods vans bowled by and the street was thick with pedestrians. It was an ordinary day, at least for them. There are no ordinary days for private enquiry agents.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “I shouldn’t have trusted Grant.”
“No, it was right to find out for certain. I’m glad the theory came to light, if only to disprove it. This is far better than finding out there was a tunnel that we didn’t know about. Not every clue is helpful, but each must be investigated. I almost wish you had found it. A secret tunnel is always of interest, and as Mr. Grant pointed out, London is honeycombed with them. I really must make your friend’s acquaintance. And congratulations.”
“For what?”
“You have got yourself a Watcher.”
Watchers. It was Barker’s term for those with particular information or skills that might help us that only they could provide. Every Watcher could be relied upon to help us move a case along.
“So I have.”
“That is two during this case, in fact,” the Guv continued. “Mr. Zangwill provided the information about the Socialist League.”
My own Watchers, I thought to myself. Imagine that.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was another warm day. Soon the wealthy would begin fleeing the city for ocean breezes or cooler climes. The rest of London, and those of us there to defend them, would swelter in the heat and long for the cool of the evening. I wanted to go to Lion Street and stand in the kitchen pantry with the icebox open. It would be the coolest spot in a mile.
We had fled our steaming chambers and were standing on the Victoria Embankment in the vain hope that a breeze would come across the water. We were standing by Cleopatra’s Needle, an obelisk that was carved in this kind of weather and should be accustomed to it.
“Do you think your friend Mr. Zangwill could provide information on Miss Marx of the Socialist League?”
“I should say so,” I answered. “The man’s been half in love with her for a while.”
“Oh, really?” Barker said, smiling. “Your friend is a little Lothario, eh?”
“He falls in love at the drop of a hat, but it never works out well. Generally, he loves women who are far too good-looking. Israel is very intelligent, as you’ve seen, but he shall never be a matinee idol. He’s a modern-day Hans Christian Andersen.”
Barker looked at me blankly. The immense number of things he knows is balanced by the sheer number of things he doesn’t.
“He was a storyteller from Denmark,” I explained. “He was in love with Jenny Lind, among others. Do you recall Amy Levy?”
“That was the friend of Miss Potter in one of our old cases, as I recall. You told me she was a poetess.”
“She was prone to melancholy and killed herself. Israel was cast down about that for a long time. He’s a sensitive fellow, you know.”
“Back to Miss Marx. Can Mr. Zangwill help us?” Barker said, trying to sound patient, but not completely succeeding.
“We need not bother him,” I answered. “I know nearly as much as Israel even without going to her meetings. She’s something of a marvel. She’s a distinguished actress. Israel and I saw her in A Doll’s House and Hedda Gabler. She’s also a translator of novels and plays: Madame Bovary. An Enemy of the People—most of Ibsen’s works, in fact. She writes monthly articles for Morris’s Commonweal magazine, the mouthpiece of the Socialist League. And I’ve heard she used to play under her father Karl’s desk while he wrote Das Kapital. She has the mind of an economist, as well. William Morris brought his illustrious name to the organization, but she has done all the work.”
“You sound enamored of her, lad, and you a married man.”
“Oh, no,” I said, laughing. “She’s too good at everything. It’s intimidating.”
“I should like to meet this person,” Barker continued. “Tell me, does she strike you as a person who might hire an assassin?”
“I would not put it past her. In one play, she performed Hedda Gabler, the character who shot her husband for his brutishness. It was…” I stopped as a thought occurred to me. “Oh my word. ‘La Sylphide’ in French is feminine. Do you suppose our assassin is a woman?”
Barker considered the matter, crossing his arms. “It does not take brute strength to pull a trigger. In fact, the pistol is a great leveler, I find.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Especially as far as murder is concerned.”
“You are the wordsmith, Thomas. Tell me, what exactly is a sylphide?”
“It is a spirit of the air, a creature untethered to the land, a fairy of sorts. I believe it is Greek in origin.”
The Guv stared at the river before him, his mind working. “Spirit of the air. Air rifle. Someone shooting down on his or her victims from a height. From a distance. Yes, it all fits together rather well.”
“That doesn’t mean it is Eleanor Marx.”
“No, lad,” he replied. “But it doesn’t mean it isn’t.”
* * *
Eleanor Marx lived in Sydenham, far south of commercial London, not far from where Prince Albert’s Crystal Palace stood. It was a leafy suburban neighborhood bordering on the bucolic to those of us familiar with the hustle and bustle of Whitehall. Miss Marx’s house was an attractive redbrick home with a large white bow window. As we arrived, I seized the knocker first and rapped. When Barker does so, it sounds like an assault upon the house.
A very proper-looking maid answered the door and looked at us primly down her nose. She did not approve of our appearance, I think. We did not pass muster.
“Yes?” she said, but it was more of a challenge.
Barker presented her with his card, but she seemed no more impressed.
“I’ll see if Miss is taking visitors today,” she said, closing the door in our faces. Barker looked at me and shook his head as if he found our treatment amusing. I decided to be philosophical as well. There did not appear to be any men about and suddenly a pair of toughs appear at the door uninvited. I wouldn’t have invited the Guv in myself under such circumstances.
The door opened again and the maid said, “Come this way, please,” in a tone that showed that what she was doing was altogether beneath the dignity of her office and she was only trying to please “Miss.” We were led through a tastefully arranged house that was decorated with a mix of Regency and Art Nouveau. At the end of a hall was a sort of study that made me think of William Morris. Not because it was messy, which it wasn’t, but because, like his, her room was designed to be used for a number of purposes. She wrote manifestos here, translated books from various languages, memorized lines from a play, and wrote speeches.
As we entered, Eleanor Marx stood in the center of the room holding the card between her fingers. She was taller than I expected her to be and quite a handsome woman.
“Which of you is Cyrus Barker?” she asked.
“I am he, miss,” the Guv said, bowing.
“And what may I do for you?”
“We have a few questions to put to you, if we may,” he replied. “We’ve already spoken with Mr. Morris.”
“Dear old Morris,” she murmured. “How is the dear?”
“Gouty,” I said.
“Yes,” she answered, nodding. “He suffers so. May I cal
l for tea?”
“Not on our account, Miss Marx,” Barker replied. “This is my associate, Mr. Llewelyn. He saw you perform in A Doll’s House.”
“Did he?” she asked, raising a brow. “Imagine that. You have questions for me, then? About what?”
“No doubt you are aware of the recent attack upon Prince George in Kensington,” he said. “We are working in conjunction with the Home Office to hunt the individuals responsible for the attack.”
“And the trail led you to my door?” she asked.
“Aye, but merely to find information. Mr. Morris suggested that there has been a growing division in the Socialist League in the past few years between the Socialist and anarchist factions.”
“Has he?” she said. “Well, Mr. Morris is mistaken. There is no division in our organizations. We are unified toward a common goal. They are our brothers and sisters in the fight against capitalist oppression. I assume you are looking for the anarchist Kazimir Chernov.”
“His name is on our list, but we are not hunting him especially. We do wish to speak with him, but he is one among others.”
“I shall not turn him over to the calloused hands of Scotland Yard.”
“Miss Marx,” I said. “We are not from Scotland Yard.”
“Worse, then. Were you not seen speaking to Pyotr Rachkovsky the other day? Your appearance is unmistakable.”
“I was,” Barker admitted. “We speak to people. This is what we do. I am no more a crony of the Russian secret police because I spoke with them than I am a translator because I speak with you.”
“In fact,” I interjected, “Mr. Rachkovsky had a difference of opinion with us that resulted in some damages to our chambers.”
“And yet I see no sign of it upon your faces.”
Barker gave a low smile. “The day a Scot canna down a simple Russian would be a day of mourning in auld Edinburgh. The gentlemen were of little consequence.”
“You’re a strange man, Mr. Barker. I don’t know whether to take what you say seriously. Surely you do not expect me, the leader of the Socialist League, to turn over one of my members to you? I don’t even know what a ‘private enquiry agent’ is. I don’t know you, yet you want me to produce Mr. Chernov, as if he were hiding behind my apron.”
“We demand nothing, Miss Marx,” Barker replied. “This is England. We are not Cossacks. Our aim is to verify his innocence if possible, and get on with our enquiry. Should he indeed be behind your apron, then produce him that we may be on our way.”
She put her hands on her hips and frowned. The woman was formidable.
“Hand him over to you?”
“I don’t want you to hand him over,” the Guv replied. “A civil conversation with the man is all I ask. You may be present. It can be in this very room if you wish. I’ll not hide plainclothes detectives in the bushes. I’m trying to keep the prince and the tsarevich from being assassinated.”
“But they are nothing,” she answered with contempt in her voice. “Less than nothing. Pampered members of the aristocracy, being trained to oppress others out of a sense of entitlement. There is no difference between the prince inside his palace, drinking champagne from a golden goblet, and the man outside tending his royal garden.”
“I agree with you, Miss Marx, but as human beings, neither young man deserves to have his skulls punctured by an assassin’s bullet. Aristocrats are no better, madam, but they are no less.”
The two of them stood and stared at each other.
“Would you care to sit down?” she asked. “And do you still refuse tea?”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, taking a seat opposite our hostess. “Miss Marx, Mr. Llewelyn tells me that you possess a nimble mind. Let us play a little game, if you will humor me. An intellectual exercise. I shall build up a case against you, spontaneously, and then you shall tear it down again. Will you play?”
She looked at him, trying to decide, and finally nodded.
“Miss Marx, your organization is composed, in large part, of men and women who fled the pogroms in Russia. The tsarevich, who represents the tsar of the future, has arrived here on this soil. Prince George, also a future leader of his country, is in London as well, whose wedding costs would have been better spent feeding the poor or providing medicine for the infirmed. The Okhrana has been informed that an assassin has been hired to kill Nicholas. There is no available information about this assassin save an odd name, La Sylphide.”
“The Sylph,” she murmured.
“Aye,” Barker continued. “Mr. Llewelyn and I were hypothesizing no more than an hour ago that this assassin might be a woman. The moniker is feminine. Any woman can lift a loaded pistol and pull a trigger, particularly if she has been properly trained.
“In Hedda Gabler,” I said, “you gave a very realistic performance of a woman who shoots her husband due to his terrible behavior. You handled a pistol very well, Miss Marx. I wondered if you might own a revolver yourself.”
She had reclined on a black velvet fainting couch and now watched us both with some degree of fascination. Her dress was of a vibrant blue. She hugged a cushion to her breast, but laid it aside and sat up.
“Mr. Barker, surely you can do better than this,” she said. “Your reasoning is flimsy, connected with a tissue of coincidence and conjecture. You create a straw man, or rather, a straw woman, then try to connect her to me. I don’t know who she is, but I assure you I am not stalking London to kill a visiting royal. Royals are ridiculous, and from what I have heard so far, he is not going to improve the bloodline.”
“Continue,” the Guv said.
“Just because I have played a woman who shoots her husband does not mean I contemplate killing the tsarevich myself or even paying someone to kill him for me,” she replied. “The young man is already living in a country on the verge of revolution. I needn’t do anything. He will meet an assassin soon enough. It will soon be the twentieth century. That boy staying in Kensington Palace has done nothing yet, but the anarchists would hang him, shoot him, or throw a bomb under his carriage, as they did to his grandfather. He represents something, the poor thing.
“And yes, Mr. Barker, I was trained to use a pistol,” she continued. “I insisted upon learning how to use one. There is nothing in theater that I despise more than an actor who has not taken the trouble to learn something that his or her character is supposed to do. I could shoot Nicholas myself but I choose not to. It is not the way to win hearts. It makes us an enemy, taking on a fledgling tsar. It makes us bullies. That will not bring people to our cause. I would argue, therefore, Mr. Barker, that we are the last ones in London who want the tsarevich killed, because no matter who has been hired to kill him, we shall receive the lion’s share of the blame.”
Barker nodded. “Very good, madam. You argue well. Tell me, do you fear for your people? Do you feel as I do that something shall happen in the next few days?”
She stared at him solemnly. “Mr. Barker, I believe I do. I have not slept in two days. Perhaps I should send the members of the League away, to Liverpool or Manchester, I thought, but I decided not to. If a bullet took down a royal or a foreign dignitary, it will be viewed as an attempt to provide an alibi. Wouldn’t it be ironic if the assassin were paid his thirty pieces of silver, while our ragged members receive the blame?”
“A churchgoer, ma’am?” I asked.
She laughed. Her voice was a rich alto, perfect for the stage. “A figure of speech. One must speak in terms that one’s audience understands.”
“Tell me, Miss Marx,” Barker continued, “is it that you fear your flock will be blamed for something they did not do, or that among them there is one who will fix the blame on all of you?”
Eleanor Marx regarded the Guv. “I cannot answer that, sir. If I say no, then I am a fool. If I say yes, but it were not so, then I have become jaded and should pass the reins to someone else.”
She rose a palm to her eye and her shoulders slumped. “I am so tired, gentlemen. Are we done with t
he questions?”
“Come, Thomas,” my partner said. “Let the woman rest. Thank you for seeing us, Miss Marx.”
We rose and nodded and were seen out the front door by the prim maid.
On the way along the stone path to the street I said to the Guv, “She is an actress. A professional. There is no way to say whether she is lying or telling the truth.”
“She argues well, but she made a fatal mistake, lad. I said that there was an assassin. I never said that someone had been hired to kill the tsarevich. ‘Save me, Lord, from lying lips and deceitful tongues.’ Psalms 120:2.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
I heard the outer door of our office open and a brush of fabric sweep along the floor. It made me stop writing, although I did not look up from my paper.
“Hello, Miss F.,” Jenkins said a trifle loudly.
She turned with another rustle and would have disappeared if the Guv hadn’t called her back.
“Miss Fletcher!”
Sarah Fletcher entered our chambers. I tried not to stare. She was dressed like a Salvation Army matron with a blue bonnet, a tightly corseted dress of the same color, and a small red shield pinned to her bosom. It was an actual uniform. Ah, I thought to myself. Very good, Miss Fletcher. A Salvation Army worker would be the only genteel woman brave enough to travel easily in the Tower Hamlets of the East End.
“Mr. Barker.”
“Come in,” he said, waving her to a visitor’s chair. “Would you care for some tea?”
“Thank you, no,” she said, perching on the very edge of the chair.
Barker turned to me and explained her presence. “I asked Miss Fletcher to watch Jim Hercules, and see what he is about.”
“Has he given you any cause to suspect him of something?”
“No,” he answered. “I am merely being thorough. Report, please, miss.”
She folded her hands over her reticule and spoke. “Mr. Hercules left Kensington Palace at approximately ten o’clock this morning. He had a shave and haircut near Dover Street, then went into a tobacconist and purchased a small cigar, no larger than a cigarette. He lit it in front of the door. He looked in shopwindows, and was particularly interested in a display of ties and pocket handkerchiefs, then he went into a public house for either a late breakfast or an early lunch. Then he hailed a cab. I followed.”