The Inquiry Agent

by William King

  There was no reply. I had not really expected one. I stood there peering into the shadows, wondering what I was going to do next. If I wanted light I was going to have to put down my guns and I don’t mind admitting that at that moment I was too afraid to do so. My hands were so damp that I felt there was imminent danger of the pistols twisting free of my sweat-slick grip.

  At the same time, I felt faintly ridiculous. It was ludicrous to be so afraid in my own home. I was not Donald. I was too old for the shadows to hold any terrors for me. But the furniture bulked large in the gloom, reminding me of some huge animal waiting to spring.

  I thought I heard a noise in the other room and I froze, listening as carefully as if I were some hunter in the depths of the forest primeval. I wanted to investigate but I seemed to be having some difficulty getting my limbs to move; my mind directed them but they did not want to obey. I held my breath. Sweat soaked my clothes. I could feel a chill draught coming through the door from the hallway at my back.

  I looked around again, fearing that some intruder might be lurking behind the couch or waiting behind the doorway. I had gone beyond being afraid that Billy Tucker and his friends were lying in wait and reached a stage where I feared it might be anything, anything at all.

  My heartbeat reverberated through my body like the tolling of a great bell. I could feel it as well as hear it. It was like a dull, leaden throbbing in my veins. I felt as weak as a man recovering from the cholera and feverish too.

  I knew I should check the other rooms but I did not have any light and the thought of going into them and not being able to see almost unmanned me. I walked over to the fireplace and placed my guns on the mantle. I picked up a rush for the lantern and bent over to light it in the fire. When I stood back up, something cold and sharp pressed against my neck. Something wet trickled from the point of contact and I realised that it was my own blood.

  “Good evening, Brodie,” said a soft, triumphant voice from just behind me.

  “Good evening, Billy.”

  “What was that, Brodie? Speak up man. I can’t hear you. Anybody would think you were nervous.”

  “I said, good evening, Billy,” I enunciated very clearly and distinctly.

  “I’ve been waiting for this for a very long time. You have no idea how long, Brodie.”

  “Ever since you went to Australia, I would imagine.”

  “Ever since they put me on the hulk. I was 12 years old when they put me on those old prison ships down at Chatham. Just a young boy -- among hardened reprobates. I think you can imagine what happened then.”

  “What do you want, Billy?”

  “I want you to pay what you owe me. What you owe me and my brother. And don’t worry, Brodie, I’ll see that you do and in full.”

  “Do you want money?” I talked to buy some time. When a man has a knife at your throat and you can feel your own blood running down your neck, you’re inspired to do that

  “That would do to start with,” said Billy. He was enjoying himself now, a cat playing with a mouse. He wanted me to beg and quite frankly, I was prepared to do that, if it gave me some extra moments.

  “I have money. It’s in a bag by the door. Almost 1900 pounds in notes and bills.”

  “Where did you get that, Brodie? Have you been naughty?”

  “It’s the proceeds of a robbery, at Brighton House. I was recovering it for the rightful owner.”

  “Dave! Go to the door! See if there is a bag there!” Somebody moved out of the children’s room, a shadow that blocked the light from the doorway. I heard him move off down the corridor and then return and I saw that he was carrying my bag.

  “I’ve got the bag, Billy.”

  “Then let’s have some light and we will see if Mr Brodie here has been telling the truth. Of course, you wouldn’t lie about a thing like that would you?”

  I was hoping for a moment that Billy might let his guard down but the knife never wavered. I wondered how deep the cut was and whether I might bleed to death. In the darkness there was no way to tell.

  Dave came over and lit the rushlight. He fumbled in the bag and I heard a sharp intake of breath.

  “It’s money, Billy. A lot of money.” He let out a long loud whoop and Billy turned his head and said, “Keep it down, Dave.”

  I knew I was never going to get a better chance and I had nothing to lose -- the best I had to look forward to was Billy taking his knife to me. At least if I attacked, death would be quick.

  Still, I paused for a moment. It’s no easy thing to say goodbye to your life and risk everything on one desperate move. Time slowed and I felt every breath rasping in and out of my lungs, and every heartbeat drumming in my ears.

  I brought my foot down sharply on Billy’s instep, putting all my considerable weight on it. Bones snapped and then I threw myself to one side, feeling the sharp edge of the knife drag along my neck. Billy fell backwards off balance and I kicked him on the side of his leg, sending him tumbling to the ground.

  Dave lifted something and I could see that there was a gun in his hand. He panicked and pulled the trigger. In the semi-darkness, the muzzle flash was like a lightning stroke, illuminating everything with sudden brilliance. I saw Billy writhing on the ground, grinding his teeth in agony. I saw Dave, mouth hanging slack jawed, a look of surprise written on his face. I saw the parlour of my home, transformed into a place alien and frightening, by an act of violence and the presence of strangers.

  Something shattered. Dave had hit one of the ornaments on the mantelpiece. My ear burned and I realised that he had just clipped it. The shot had gone wide and I was still alive. I struggled to regain my balance, stretching for one of my pistols, as Dave rose, drawing a knife. I grabbed the gun and turned and pointed it at him.

  “Don’t do it, Dave,” I shouted. From upstairs I heard the sound of a scream.

  A sort of frenzy overcame Dainty Dave and he threw himself forward, trying to stab me. I pulled the trigger. A cloud of black sulphurous smoke erupted from the barrel of the flintlock and Dave was suddenly thrown backwards as if punched by a giant fist. Billy struggled to rise and I brought the pistol down, smashing it into the side of his head. He fell backwards again and I grabbed the other gun. I could hear people shouting “Help! Murder! Police!” I joined in myself.

  Dave lay on the floor, whimpering, a pool of blood slowly spreading out beneath him. I found an old shirt and bandaged my neck and then slumped down in my chair by the fire, looking at the recumbent form of Billy Tucker. For long minutes I just sat there, completely bemused, trying to decide what to do. I could hear people running about outside, fleeing the building, confused. In the distance there was the sound of police rattles.

  Billy still was not finished. Cursing and growling like a madman he tried to push himself upright, propelled by the ferocious energy of his hatred. His broken foot betrayed him and he tumbled back. He saw the gun in my hand and paused for a moment. “What are you waiting for, Brodie?”

  “Was it worth it, Billy? Was it worth coming all the way from Australia for this?”

  He glared at me with such malevolence I was tempted to squeeze the trigger. “It would have been worth it if I’d killed you.”

  “You had your chance to do that Billy. You didn’t take it.”

  “I didn’t want it to be quick. I wanted you to suffer. You’d better kill me now, Brodie, while you’ve got the chance. If you don’t, I’ll come for you. This won’t be over while one of us is still breathing.”

  I could hear the sound of police rattles outside and running feet coming closer. I pointed a pistol directly at Billy’s head. The brimstone smell of gunpowder was in the air.

  He glared up at me, completely unafraid of death in a way I could do nothing but envy, and said, “I’ll see you in hell, Brodie.”

  “You don’t honestly expect me to believe this, do you, Jack?” Tom Barker leaned forward on the other side of the deal table and glared at me. We were in the large room they use for interrogations in th
e Bow Street Police Office. Two constables stood by the doorway. My statement, recorded by a clerk lay on the table in front of me. Overhead the gaslights spluttered, as if sharing Tom’s outrage.

  “I do, Tom,” I said. He gave me a mirthless grin, his expression frankly disbelieving.

  “Let me just go through this one more time. Just to see if I got it right.”

  “By all means,” I said.

  “You arranged to meet Billy Tucker and his men at your home.”

  “That is correct.”

  “You did this under the pretence of arranging to compound with them for the return of Mr Soames’s property.”

  “I did.”

  “Once you had ascertained that they were in possession of the aforesaid property, you attempted to arrest them.”

  “I tried.”

  “And they resisted your attempt.”

  “They did.”

  “Violently.”

  “Very violently.”

  “Dave Smedley pulled a firelock and took a shot at you.”

  “I was lucky he didn’t blow my head off.” I indicated my ear.

  “That remains to be seen, Jack. You might regret that he didn’t, if you’re lying to me.”

  “I hear you, Tom.”

  “You returned fire and shot Smedley, fatally wounding him.”

  “It was not my intention to do so. He bled to death while we were taking him into custody”

  “Christ Jesus, I hope I never meet the man you do intend harm, for the one’s you don’t intend to kill all seem to end up dead anyway.”

  “I did not want it to go that way.”

  “Whatever you say, Jack… and it was about this time Billy Tucker took a swipe at you with his knife.”

  I pointed to the blood-soaked bandage around my neck. “That’s correct, Tom.”

  “Somehow, you managed to overpower Billy, despite your injuries, and held him at gunpoint until the constables arrived. You then assisted them to take Billy into custody while they provided you with medical assistance. Have I missed anything, Jack?”

  “You missed out the third man.” I needed that part to cover Soames’s missing money.

  “Oh yes, how could I have forgotten him? The mysterious third man whose face you never made out, who fled when the shooting started, carrying a bag. Are you sure you can’t give me any better description?”

  “I’m afraid not, Tom.”

  “Nothing at all. Was he short? Was he tall? Fat? Thin? Did he have whiskers?”

  “He was about medium height. He didn’t have whiskers. He had brown eyes.”

  “I don’t think I would get much of a response if I put that description in the Hue and Cry, do you, Jack?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Maybe I should put another advert in it. Wanted: a Scottish man, over 6 feet tall, weighing just over 15 stone, scar on his right cheek, dark complexion, dark hair. We are seeking this man for wasting police time and making false statements. What do you think of that?”

  “You might get a response.”

  “You know what I think, Jack?”

  “I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

  “I think you were up to your old Jonathan Wild tricks again. I think the deal went wrong. I think there was a falling out among thieves. I think you killed one of them and wounded another and the third was probably lucky to escape with his life. What do you think of that theory?”

  “It’s an interesting story. It is simply wrong.”

  “Do you think you’re really going to get away with this, Jack?”

  “Get away with what?”

  “All this bloodletting, all this crime.”

  “What crime? I caught two wanted criminals in possession of stolen goods. I turned them over to the police like a good citizen. Where’s the crime in that?”

  “That’s not what Billy Tucker says.”

  “Whose word that you going to take -- a returned transportee who you suspect of housebreaking or a man formerly employed by Her Majesty’s Government as a thief taker. Whose word do you think a judge will take?”

  “You’ve got all this worked out, haven’t you, Jack?”

  “Look at it this way, Tom. A vicious criminal found in possession of stolen goods is going back to Australia, one less of them for you to worry about. An honest citizen has got his property back. A desperate rogue who was prepared to blow my brains out is dead, killed by me in self defence, perfectly within the law. How bad an outcome is this from your point of view? Do you really want to muddy the waters? Do you really want Billy Tucker to go free on a technicality?”

  “That’s an interesting way of looking at it, Jack. We’ll just have to see what a judge thinks.”

  “Yes, we will. Am I free to go?”

  “Maybe when you’ve seen the judge you can take it all over to Renton Nicholson’s place. It’ll make a fine skit for the Judge and Jury Club.”

  “Am I free to go?”

  “Yes you are.”

  “What about Mr Soames’s papers?”

  “We’ll hang onto them for the moment. He’ll have to come in and identify them for us anyway. I hope he doesn’t mind the fact that you got blood on them.”

  “It wasn’t me, it was Dave Smedley.”

  “Get out of my sight, Jack.”

  Friday, April 30th, 1841

  “This is all quite unsatisfactory, Mr Brodie,” said Miss Amanda Mayhew. She did not look very pleased.

  “In what way, Miss? Your uncle’s papers were recovered. The ringleader of the criminals is on his way to Australia. One of the men who molested you has paid the ultimate price. What more can you want?”

  “There’s the matter of £400,” she said. Her lips became very thin and she looked at me coldly. In the background the clock ticked as loudly as ever.

  “Yes, Miss, I must apologise for that. Under your instructions I was merely attempting to apprehend three armed men and almost got my throat cut. I should have paid more attention to your money.”

  I rubbed my bandaged throat meaningfully. She looked at it and then at my bruised face and looked away.

  “I don’t think we should pay him, Uncle,” said Amanda Mayhew, a trifle mean-spiritedly I thought. Her uncle looked as if he was going to agree so I said.

  “Mr Soames, I’m afraid that some of the letters may still be in the hands of those men. They might have read them.”

  He looked at me and his face went pale.

  “What is that supposed to mean, Mr Brodie?” Amanda demanded.

  “Amanda, my dear, please leave the room.”

  “I will not, Uncle.” He pulled himself up from his chair and roared, “Yes, you will, this very instant, or I will have Mr Brodie carry you out.”

  She froze in shock, then turned on her heel and stormed out. The door slammed loudly behind her.

  “She doesn’t know, does she?” I said.

  “Know what, Mr Brodie?”

  “That you are not her uncle, that you are her father.”

  “I think you are a scoundrel, sir.”

  “You’re probably right. I suspect myself of it often enough.”

  “You read those letters, didn’t you?”

  “I’m afraid so. You really loved Amanda’s mother, didn’t you?” It was hard to picture this fat old man as ever having been consumed with passion, but he had not always been that way, and I knew for a certainty that he had been capable of the passion.

  He nodded. “More than anything else in my life. Madly, indiscreetly.”

  “And she loved you.”

  “Very much.”

  “But she was married to your half-brother.” Bart had not put two and two together but then again why should he have. He had merely skimmed the letters and assumed they were the last legacy of a conventional romance. Compared to some of the things I have learned during my career, it was not a very shocking secret, but the old man looked utterly crestfallen and ashamed. I suppose you get that way when you brood on old secre
ts long enough.

  “My brother eventually found out after Amanda was born and did away with her and then himself. People thought it was an accident. But I knew otherwise. What is it you want, Mr Brodie? I do not want any taint of scandal to attach itself to Amanda. She loved her parents and she is mentally…delicate. The truth would be too much for her. I don’t care about myself but…”

  “I want to be paid, Mr Soames. I want what we agreed upon. That is all.”

  “You already have over £400, Mr Brodie.”

  “Believe it or not, I don’t. The other thief really has it.”

  “Very well, Mr Brodie. How much?” He sounded resigned to any amount of extortion.

  “I believe we agreed to the sum of £50, Mr Soames.” I did not quite have the gall to ask for the bonus for the apprehension of the criminals.

  “And you will return the missing letters?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. Consider them insurance against any backsliding on Miss Mayhew’s part.”

  “You are not a nice man, Mr Brodie.”

  “You have my word that no living soul will ever read them for as long as I am left unmolested by the law.”

  Amanda burst back in. She was in a fine rage. “I will not be spoken to in that manner, Uncle,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, my dear, I truly am but I don’t think we can really criticise Mr Brodie for his actions. After all, he merely lost what I was originally prepared to pay anyway. And he did bring back most of what was stolen. We are almost 1500 pounds better off due to his actions and I think we owe him some thanks. He caught those murderous villains and justice has been seen to be done. And he put his life at risk in order to do it.”

  Miss Mayhew clenched her small hands into fists and looked at the ceiling for a moment then let out a long sigh. “Yes, you’re right, uncle. I owe you an apology Mr Brodie and I owe you my thanks for what you have done on our behalf. I have been overwrought ever since those men invaded my home and I hope you will take this into account when you consider my behaviour.”

  I could tell that she did not really believe what she was saying but it would have been ungracious for her to speak otherwise. I looked around the room and all the beautiful things it contained, of which she was not the least beautiful, and I felt a last little pang of envy.