The Hellfire Conspiracy bal-4

by Will Thomas

  Barker sat a moment, then got up and moved to his bookshelves. He opened his walnut smoking cabinet, displaying two racks of pipes.

  “Meerschaum, actually,” he said.

  “So I see.”

  “I am satisfied, Miss Potter. Consider your services engaged.”

  “Is there anything I should look for in particular?” she asked.

  “Mr. Llewelyn, have you got the list of victims with you?”

  I flipped through my notebook, glad for once that he hadn’t called me “lad” in front of Miss Potter. “Here it is, sir.”

  “Thank you. I would like to know if the girls on this list came through the C.O.S.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  “I hope your enquiry skills are as satisfactory as your manners. The socialism notwithstanding, you give me some hope for the next generation. That will be all.”

  He rose, gave a solemn nod, and then exited the way he came. He wasn’t going anywhere save the empty courtyard again, I knew. Perhaps it was all for Miss Potter’s benefit.

  “What an unusual person your employer is,” she said under her breath.

  “He is that,” I commented diplomatically.

  “He really thinks he’ll find Gwendolyn’s killer in so short a time?”

  “If he says so, I believe him. He does not make inflated promises.”

  15

  Cyrus Barker and I went to the Mile End Mission after that, where he spent his time pummeling McClain’s hanging bag while the reverend tried to tear off my head with his hook punch. Handy Andy complained the entire time about his gloves, but I doubt I would have been conscious if he hadn’t worn them. When we were done, he would not vouchsafe that I had learned anything, only that I was “coming along,” whatever that meant. I felt as if something had jarred loose in the back of my head, but I knew by now that complaining wouldn’t do any good.

  We slipped down the alley and entered the back door of the warehouse, then climbed the steps to the first floor. As expected, Mac was intent on his vigil. He had one hand propped high against the side of the window and the other on his waist. At rest he looked like a Greek statue, save the yarmulke.

  “Has anything of note happened while we were gone?” the Guv asked.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, diving into the pocket of his jacket. “Jenkins was here. I’m afraid you received another anonymous note.”

  Barker grunted and took the envelope, slitting it open with the stiletto he generally kept in a sheath up his sleeve. I realized my employer had probably been expecting one after Gwendolyn DeVere’s body was found. The note read:

  Poor Push is full of woe;

  Doesn’t quite know where to go,

  A-searching the Green with his Welsh terrier

  (The principle is the more the merrier.)

  The wee girl’s fodder for the grave.

  She should have known how to behave.

  Drink your tea and smoke your ’bacca-

  You can’t catch me!

  Mr. Miacca.

  “Welsh terrier,” I commented. When one is small, one is a target for everyone.

  “Have you any constructive comments to make, Mr. Llewelyn?”

  “No one would write ‘a-searching,’ sir. They might say it, but they would not write it. It sounds like an educated man trying to sound uneducated.”

  “Agreed. And?”

  “‘You can’t catch me.’ That’s from the old tale of the Gingerbread Man,” I pointed out.

  “Another fairy tale? We may have to get a copy of that. Continue.”

  “Well, sir, he must know you rather well. He knows you like tea and tobacco and appears to be going out of his way to inform you that he knows what’s going on. Either he is someone with whom we come into close contact, or he is remarkably well informed.”

  “Let’s have a bite,” my employer said, “and settle in. Mac, some tea, if you will be so kind.”

  Like Her Majesty, I have only the highest respect for Fortnum amp; Mason, but my kippers on flavorless wafers tasted as metallic as the tin in which they came and the tea did not successfully wash away the taste. I lay down, hoping to dream of roasted turkeys with mountains of mashed potatoes smothered in steaming gravy. One cannot order one’s dreams, however, and I dreamed something else entirely.

  I was looking down upon the old and swaybacked, Dickensian roofs of Bethnal Green, and above them, the giant, wraithlike figure of Mr. Miacca strode about, seeking whom he would devour. For some reason, I pictured him with bleached white skin; sunken eyes; and wild, pale hair. He wore a black claw hammer coat, verminous as the grave, with Regency breeches and hose on long, spindly legs. His feet, clad in moldy buckled shoes, were the size of drays; and he was bending down, snatching up bad children and dropping them into his open jaws, as Saturn did his children. For the good little boys and girls, he left presents on their windowsills, the wrapped boxes tiny in his skeletal hands.

  I looked down at myself, and suddenly, I was eight again. Beside me, an equally young Palmister Clay was pointing at me and crying that I’d stolen his sovereign. I looked over my shoulder as Miacca’s hand came snaking toward me, its claws growing bigger and bigger until they enveloped me. He lifted me high up over the buildings until I was over his gaping maw. Then he released me and I plummeted.

  “Lad?”

  “Yes, sir?” I said, rubbing my eyes. It was dark, but by the shafts of light coming in through the window, I could see Mac loading shells into his shotgun. Apparently, clothes weren’t the only things he had packed in his trunks. “What is it?”

  “I’m not certain,” Barker stated. “There are a couple of fellows down in Green Street acting suspiciously.”

  “What are they doing?” I asked, climbing off the hard mattress in my stocking feet.

  “Merely walking, but they have passed by every twenty minutes or so since eight o’clock, and it is almost ten. They are dressed in capes and top hats. There, do you see?”

  I looked down just as a caped form turned away into Globe Road. “Shall I throw on my boots?”

  “Yes, and get your pistol. I have a feeling something is most definitely happening in the Green tonight.”

  I pulled on my boots and began to fill the chambers of my Webley. Snapping it shut, I pulled on my coat with the built-in holster that Mac had set out, and followed the two of them, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

  We caught sight of the top-hatted men walking shoulder to shoulder down Green Street. Barker raised his chin in their direction, and we followed them stealthily. Bethnal Green suddenly seemed deserted, as if every hovel, tenement, and rooming house was as empty as the street we padded down.

  The fog was pooling about our ankles, and when the river breeze shot out of an alleyway, it whistled against the sharp edges of the brick. Nothing good could come of this, I thought, already missing the relative safety of our near-empty room.

  “They’re gone,” I said. One second they had been ahead of us, and now they were not.

  “I believe they went down that alley there, sir,” Mac said.

  We approached it cautiously. It provided room for only one person to go down at a time. The alley came to a thoroughfare, though there was no sign to say which it was. We picked up our quarry on the other side and plunged into another alleyway, a wider one this time. The Guv quickened his pace, and we hurried along behind. As I’ve said before, he moves quickly for a big man.

  “They’ve gone into that court there,” Barker whispered, and we followed them into the yard. It may have been a knacker’s yard or a stable at one time. It seemed abandoned now, a cluster of anonymous building backs. We stepped out of the shadows into the center of the empty court, then heard the sudden shutting of the gate behind us. We had been neatly trapped.

  The two men stepped out of the gloom ahead and began removing their cloaks and hats. Underneath, they were mere street vermin, poorly dressed. They were in their early twenties, like me, but all resemblance ended there. One had a
long scar bisecting his face, while the other must have looked wicked the day he was born. I wasn’t sure what to do, but that didn’t stop Mac. He pulled out his shotgun and cocked it before pointing it at the duo.

  “Easy, Mac, easy,” Barker said. “These lads have only been out for a stroll so far.”

  There was a flaring off to my left and the shadows were illuminated by a vesta. I saw several menacing faces during the brief flare up, as the one in the middle lit a cigarette. Perhaps it was a trick of the light that the men looked particularly demonic in the sudden glare. I didn’t wait for permission but dug my pistol from its pocket holder. I spared a glance past Mac at the Guv. There was movement in his direction, too. Barker raised his brace of American Colts. This could quickly degenerate into gunplay. The leader got a look of resolution on his face and stepped forward along with his companions. Slowly, inexorably, they formed a circle around us which grew smaller and smaller with each step. When would they fire? It was a moment before I realized they wouldn’t. The dozen men slowly hemming us in were unarmed.

  “Stop or I shall shoot!” Jacob Maccabee called out, but his voice wasn’t as commanding as he could have hoped. They ignored him and continued to come forward. Another few seconds and the barrel of my pistol would be flat against one of their chests.

  “Sir?” Mac asked tensely.

  “Steady,” Barker growled. “Fire on my word.”

  Mac prepared to blow the fellows in front of us to pieces, but some code of honor told me it wasn’t right. These chaps were unarmed. Theoretically, we were in command. In another step they would be close enough to lay hands on our weapons, at which point what would happen would be anyone’s guess.

  “Stop, blast you!” Mac cried. As one, they complied, standing shoulder to shoulder, hemming us in. My mind began formulating a plan. I would swing out my right arm and catch the first fellow in the throat with the butt of my pistol. Then I would pull him into his fellow, jump over both of them, and with any luck, catch a third full in the stomach with the heel of my boot.

  “Lad, no,” Barker said, divining my thoughts. He slid his pistols back into their holsters inside his coat. “Stand down.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mac, break open your piece.”

  Reluctantly our butler eased the hammer down and breached his weapon. I slid my pistol back into its holster.

  We stood there immobile, all fifteen of us. The tension was so high, I had to say something or bust.

  “Anyone fancy a waltz?”

  There was a low chuckle from the group, but it was interrupted by the creak of the gate as it opened again. We heard the jingle of harness and the clopping of iron-shod hooves on paving stone. A brougham pulled in and stopped. One of the men near us went to it and opened the door. A set of collapsible steps unfolded, and a man stepped down to the ground. He was about fifty years of age, in expensive clothes, and knee-length boots, with a nose a Roman senator would envy and a well-tended set of side-whiskers. He was every inch the aristocrat, as blue-blooded as any name in Burke’s Peerage.

  “Thank you,” the man said to his subordinate as he crossed the yard and entered the circle through the gap. He gave Mac and me a cursory glance, then his eyes fastened upon my employer. The Guv crossed his arms and waited upon events. He seemed as unruffled as if he were in Hampstead Heath.

  “Barker, I would have a word with you,” he said.

  “I wish to know with whom I am having concourse,” the Guv replied.

  “‘Concourse,’ is it?” the man asked. “You are not the dullard I took you to be.”

  “State your business,” Barker growled. “And tell your hirelings to step back a little. I like to have room about me when I talk. If I am not given it, I shall take it.”

  The man made a gesture and the circle about us enlarged a little. Mac and I breathed easier.

  “Never mind about my business for now. Let us discuss yours. You are after a murderer, I understand.”

  “That is correct.”

  “And you are working with the Charity Organization Society. You know Octavia Hill and her monstrous regiment of socialist women. You’ve been seen speaking with William Stead, and I understand you are a close associate of the Reverend McClain.”

  “So far, all of your assertions are correct.”

  “Are you a socialist?”

  Barker gave a yawn, patting it down with the back of his hand. “Are you keeping me from my bed merely to discuss politics?”

  “You have not answered.”

  “I do not feel compelled to answer your questions, sir.”

  “Come, Barker, it’s a simple question. Are you a socialist, or aren’t you?”

  “No, sir, I am not. I am a Conservative, not a Fabian.”

  “Yet you associate with them.”

  “I have been hired to find a child’s murderer. I will associate with whomever helps me find him.”

  The man got a tight smile on his face. “You have no clue what this is about, do you?”

  “Enlighten me,” Barker murmured.

  “Stead has vowed to see that the age of consent is raised from thirteen to sixteen. I represent a consortium of men who will not allow that to occur.”

  “And why would they interest themselves in such an issue, sir?” Barker continued.

  “That is not your concern. Perhaps the girl was a sacrifice made by the socialists in order to bring attention to the so-called white slave trade.”

  “Do you know this for a fact, or do you merely suspect it, sir?”

  “A blind man could see it. Are you blind behind those black spectacles?”

  “I am not, I assure you,” Barker said. “Have you any more to recommend to me?”

  “Only that the men I represent are very powerful and will not be pleased if the vote should be entered and passed.”

  “You give me too much credit, sir. I am but an enquiry agent; I cannot control the processes of the House of Commons. I thank you for the information, however, and shall consider it thoroughly.”

  The man reached into his pocket, pulled out a small sack of coins, and tossed it into one of the gang member’s hands. The men could not help but give a short cry of savage joy. No doubt they would be drunk as lords soon, despite the hour. Closing time is variable when there is money to be made.

  The man turned and, without a look back, climbed into his vehicle and rattled off. The gang followed, looking for the nearest public house. In two minutes, we had the courtyard all to ourselves.

  “I believe that gang is the Ratcliff Highway Boys, but I’ve got to find out who that gentleman is,” Barker stated.

  “Oh, I know who he is, sir,” I told him. “That is Lord Hesketh, Palmister Clay’s father. I’m surprised he didn’t recognize me. It was his money that put me in prison.”

  16

  “Anychance for some coffee?” I ASKED MAC after we came back.

  “You drink too much of that brew,” he answered.

  “Would you rather I fell asleep at my post?”

  He made the coffee, though not without a few sighs. Then he and Barker lay down back to back. Hearing Barker’s spectacles being set on the floor, I took two steps toward him and then heard Mac cough. There was no chance of finally seeing the Guv without his spectacles, not with his watchdog guarding him.

  I drank the coffee and watched Green Street from the window. Mac had set up a notebook and logged various people as they came and went, presumably from Barker’s descriptions of them. The Guv had continued to record people through the evening. For once, I had the easier work; there wasn’t much to write down. The night watchman made his early rounds and the constable walked his beat, swinging his truncheon more out of boredom than swagger. The night soil cart came through and the waste of hundreds of horses were shoveled into it, as if it were a precious thing. A few inebriates were escorted home, and the homeless, forbidden to loiter or sleep in doorways, were herded along by the police like tired sheep. I grew bored with looking thro
ugh the grimy window and made my way up the ladder to the roof. It was balmy outside that evening, and I could smell the river on the wind. Pigeons cooed in the corners of the roof, not discomfited in the least by my presence. I sat on the ledge, watched the street, and thought.

  What I thought of was Jenny Ashby, or rather, Jenny Llewelyn, though she had that name but a short time in this life. It was as if out of some sort of self-preservation I had shut her up in a wardrobe somewhere and seeing Palmister Clay had opened it again. My Jenny, my own sweet girl. I recalled the way the wind caught the curls by her ears and the sun lit them up and turned them red. I remembered the pattern of freckles across her upturned nose as if she were standing in front of me and the warm, soft blue of her eyes, like cornflowers, like the entire June sky reflected therein. I’d been tricked into marrying her, perhaps, but if she were there just now, I’d have married her all over again. Beatrice Potter was a beauty and a great catch for any man in the whole of England, but I would have traded the entire world for just one more afternoon with Jenny.

  I’d never have that afternoon, however. Palmister Clay had robbed me of those final months. It washed over me again, like a bucket of scalding water, the deep anger that I felt for that man.

  She was gone from me, buried in an unmarked grave somewhere in Oxford, a pauper’s grave. At least, that’s what a solicitor had told me. Where did she lie, my wife, my dearly departed? How did one look for an unmarked grave? I had not the least idea how to begin.

  All this being alone was making me maudlin. I removed my jacket and did a few stretches on the roof the way Barker had taught me. At least it kept me awake. The hours slowly passed. By the light of the gas lamps, I saw the night watchman and the constables continue their rounds. How did they stand the boredom? I knew I should go mad in such a situation.

  Eventually, there was a change in the step of the constables below. They began knocking on doors, waking the residents for their daily work. There was money to be made in this, Barker had told me once, as much as four pence a week per residence. No need for a timepiece when someone else can watch the time for you. The constables and the night watchmen were in competition. I watched them hurry through the streets, knocking steadily on doors, then, before I knew it, Mac was at my elbow, with a fresh cup of coffee. It was six in the morning and I had finished my shift.