by Will Thomas
By then the unfortunate had reached us, practically bowling into us. Barker had removed his long coat, and threw it around her shoulders. Then he stood between her and Mr. Kito, who still held a pistol in his hand. The woman seized my arm, and I could feel that she was trembling.
The Guv stood and regarded Kito, and Kito regarded him back. Obviously he recognized us. Perhaps he had already worked out that we had set a trap for him. He was debating whether shooting Barker, or indeed, all of us, would enable him to escape. He hesitated, which was all the time Barker required to pull a pistol from his pocket.
Everything seemed to slow down for a moment. Kito was holding out his pistol in our general direction. My employer was raising his arm in response. The streetwalker had her arms around me now, clearly frightened. Then from nowhere and everywhere came a second report.
Cyrus Barker had not had time to raise his British-made Colt revolver to the proper height, and anyway, the shot did not sound as if it had come from a pistol. It spun Kito around and threw him against the rail of the bridge. For a moment I feared he would fall, but he steadied himself, and fell to his knees. His shirt was slick with claret-colored blood.
Confidently, Barker walked toward him, presuming that whoever shot Kito must be an ally, and would not shoot him. He was nearing the spot where Kito crouched, and I thought it was over. But at what cost? One of London’s finest had paid the ultimate price for his service. The Met had lost what I assumed was an exemplary officer.
In fact, it was not over at all. When Barker was no more than five feet away, Kito sprang up and tried to dive over the side of the bridge.
A bystander reached over the side and caught him by the boot. His arm was already straining, but he was a burly fellow. He swung Kito out a foot or two and brought him back again, so that the bodyguard’s head thumped against the side of the bridge.
“Some help here would be appreciated!” Inspector Dunn called.
Barker was the first to reach him, and they pulled the limp form back over the railing.
“You cut it rather fine,” the Guv said to him.
“Oi!” the woman beside me cried and clutched the fragments of her clothing. “I didn’t ask for this! Nobody said he’d be like this!”
“Give her another fiver, lad.”
“I think a trip to Scotland Yard is in order,” Dunn said.
“Not another one!” I complained.
“Perhaps a change of venue is in order,” Barker said. “I suggest The Grapes for a pint of stout, at my expense. If you agree, I shall tell you everything I know, as I promised Detective Chief Inspector Poole I would.”
Dunn looked at him as if wondering whether he could trust us. It was a consideration.
“Done,” he said.
True to his word, Barker told him everything. Well, within reason.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I didn’t want to go to work the next day. I hadn’t had enough sleep since the Japanese embassy case had begun. I vaguely remember dreaming an assassin was chasing me about the house, lopping off parts of me as I ran. That morning I felt deflated and irritable. However, I was not actually ill, so I had no excuse for staying home, and anyway, he would say the only cure for whatever ailed me was going to work. One couldn’t argue with that.
Despite a bout of nausea, I drank two stout cups of coffee, which was enough to wake up a bull elephant. Our chef, Dummolard, likes his coffee strong. He was peevish that I refused his eggs. Chances were even that he would sulk for a week.
Going out into the garden, I found it drowsy with the summer heat. Dragonflies hummed over our pond, avoiding the frogs on the lily pads. The small windmill, which looked out of place in the garden, pumped water up from an underground stream.
Cyrus Barker was seated on the floor in the center of his gazebo. His limbs were crossed, his shoes beside him, and his hands rested in his lap. I couldn’t tell if he was meditating or merely thinking. Harm lay beside him, drowsing in the sunlight that came through the low slats. I didn’t want to disturb him, but my mere presence was enough. He gave a sigh and stood, pushing down on the sides of his feet until he was upright.
“Good morning, Thomas.”
“Sir.”
“Are you ready for work?”
“As you see.”
“Come then,” he said.
Between the Metropolitan Tabernacle and the Elephant and Castle public house, we found a hansom cab and climbed aboard. The ride did not settle my stomach.
“Did you sleep well, sir?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You look deep in thought this morning,” I said.
“There is much to think about.”
He leaned back in our cab and crossed his arms, which always halves the space inside the cab, pinning me to the side window. It was a sacrifice I was willing to make if he was able to work out who had killed the ambassador soon.
“I certainly would not call this mission a success, from their point of view,” he said.
“Could the killer possibly be Lord Diosy? It is his house, after all.”
“What possible motive could he have, lad?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps the bodyguards were pinching the soap from the water closets.”
His mustache curled, almost into a smile. “You do talk rot, sometimes.”
We reached Whitehall and were soon ensconced in our offices. Barker put his feet up on the corner of his desk facing the bow window and stared for half an hour without moving. As for me, I began taking notes on everything that had transpired, along with a timeline of events.
This all reflected badly on Her Majesty’s government, which in a way reflected poorly on all of us as British citizens. These were guests in our country and they were dropping like skittle pins. The gentle ambassador, a treasure to his country, lay cold and dead, packed in ice, ready to be sent back home. Diplomatic bodyguards were dying one by one. From whom were they protecting the delegation? What secret was worth dying for? The Guv and I were both deep in thought when Trelawney Campbell-Ffinch entered our chambers.
There were circles under his eyes, and he looked even worse than I felt. He came in without a word and fell into one of our visitor’s chairs. He lit a cigarette with a shaky hand. As he puffed, he raised his right hand and pressed his palm against one eye. None of us moved a muscle for at least a minute.
“It’s quiet in here,” he noted.
Barker nodded.
“This entire embassy business is unraveling.”
“Then find one end, and follow the thread to the other.”
“That’s easier said than done. Simla.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I have been threatened by my superior, that if I don’t stop these murders, I am to be stationed in Simla. It’s burning hot in Simla in the summer.”
Barker shook his head. “Simla is up in the Himalayan foothills. It’s where the English go to escape the heat.”
“Well, anyway, I don’t want to go. I like it here in London. I’ve worked hard to stay here, developing contacts and informants.”
“Forgive us for not sympathizing,” I said. “I suppose being socked in the eye will do that for you.”
“You’ve run face-first into a brick wall, and now you want to compare notes,” Barker rumbled.
Campbell-Ffinch tapped his cigarette ash into the ashtray at his elbow. “Something like that.”
Barker turned his head toward me, while still perching his feet on the coaster.
“What were you doing for the past half hour, Thomas?”
“Setting down the events of the day and night in question, in order. A timeline.”
“Read it to us,” he said.
“The times are approximate, of course.
“August 17th. Eight o’clock A.M.: The delegation arrives at our house.
“Nine o’clock A.M.: They return to the temporary agency.
“Seven forty-five P.M.: A meeting occurs at the embassy.
&n
bsp; “Eight P.M.: The ambassador is shot.
“Eight-thirty P.M.: Mr. Barker is arrested outside the embassy and taken away.
“Eleven P.M.: I visit the embassy and am also arrested.
“Midnight: I’m escorted to see DCI Poole in Scotland Yard.
“Following day: Go to Penge, a crime in itself.”
“I was born in Penge,” Campbell-Ffinch said.
“You have my sympathies.”
“Next, our solicitor and I help to release Mr. Barker.”
“Allowed him to escape, you mean.”
“That’s it, Ffinchy old boy. Jolly us up and see where it takes you.”
“Ten A.M.: General Mononobe comes to our offices and asks us to find the ambassador’s killer.
“We are given access to the mansion. The occupants are as follows:
“Lord Diosy, owner of the house and liaison to the government.
“General Mononobe, the military ambassador.
“Admiral Edami, the naval ambassador.
“Mr. Akita, the trade minister.
“And finally, Mr. Tatsuya, the arts minister.”
“That ponce!” Campbell-Ffinch spat out with a puff of smoke. “He should study less art and more warfare.”
“And be more like you,” I said.
“Exactly.”
I decided not to waste any more sarcasm on him. He wasn’t worth the effort.
“What about the servants?” he asked. “And the bodyguards, Ohara, Kito, Mitsuo, and two others, whatever their names are.”
Leave it to the Foreign Office to arrest some poor footman just to show they were doing something and let the courts decide if he is innocent. Of course, any footman who has been in a trial would never be rehired, nor would he be employed elsewhere. For the rest of his life, the cloud of suspicion would encircle his head.
“I assume you questioned them,” my employer said.
“Apparently, all the servants had been with His Lordship for years and, of course, had no connection to any Japanese person.”
“How fares your investigation?” Barker asked.
“Were still searching for that bodyguard, Ohara. Oh, and I should mention Inspector Dunn and his constables. They were in possession of the premises when I arrived. They’re not on your list.”
“You’re suspecting Scotland Yard now?” I asked.
Barker turned to Campbell-Ffinch, which required that he put his boots on the floor again.
“What is your opinion of Dunn?”
“Not the brightest candle in the box. A good follower, but some were surprised when he achieved inspector. He’s dogged, I’ll give him that. What did you do next?”
“We questioned everybody,” the Guv said.
“So did we. What do you think of Mononobe?”
“Military. Tough old bird. But he was downstairs in a meeting when the shots were fired. All of them were.”
“No, one of them complained about the food and went upstairs early,” Campbell-Ffinch said.
“We were told all were there. Which one left early?”
“The trade fellow. What’s his name?”
“Akita. I put in. Did you question him?”
“I did,” Campbell-Ffinch said. “He’s been purchasing a great deal of supplies. Cotton, wood, coal, tar, rope. Enough to fill several ships, I should think.”
“Interesting. And the admiral?”
“He’s having a ship built. Steamship. Well, battleship, actually. And the general has been ordering artillery and munitions.”
“What about the minister of arts?” Barker asked.
“We suspect he is only there to make the mission seem innocuous. He may not even know what is going on.”
“I know what is going on: conquest and colonization, of course. The Japanese have been a downtrodden country for too long. Now, either the imperial government itself or a contingent of it is preparing for war. The people want a show of strength. And the English government, by which I mean you yourself, are in it up to your ears.”
Campbell-Ffinch rose and put his hands on his hips.
“I’ve tricked you, Barker. I’ve got you to admit you’re suspicious of our actions.”
“You haven’t tricked me at all, Trelawney. I know you do the Foreign Office’s unsavory work. As soon as I saw you in my garden, I suspected something dangerous was going to occur. But, really. Allowing a national treasure to be slain over a treaty!”
“The treaty will be extremely lucrative to Her Majesty’s government.”
“No doubt. And thousands will die. Perhaps millions.”
“We’ll be there as advisers. We shall try to avoid bloodshed whenever possible.”
“Oh, that’s good,” I put in. “There will be less rape and murder. You can’t know how relieved I am.”
“Spare me the sanctimonious attitude, Llewelyn, you gutter rat. First of all, I freely admit that your suspicions are coming to pass, but there’s nothing you can do to stop it. Barker, now that it is confirmed and not mere suspicion, I’m afraid you are sworn to silence. It is a government secret. You are bound to respect that. Is that clear? Breathe one word and you’ll go to prison as a traitor. I don’t mean jail. I mean prison. That is, until they strain your neck. We don’t like traitors in this country.”
Barker frowned. I wondered if he had really been manipulated by a man like Campbell-Ffinch. It was insupportable.
“Do I have your word as a gentleman, Mr. Barker? I know you consider yourself such, though I cannot imagine why. Do I have your word that you will not breathe a word to another soul? This is your government speaking.”
The Guv put his hands on the desk, thinking furiously. Finally he gave out a bushel of air in a long sigh.
“You have it, sir. I promise not to breathe a word.”
“Thank you,” Campbell-Ffinch said. “I actually didn’t want to arrest you, but I could not have you revealing state secrets. I respect you, sir, at least in the ring.”
Barker did not answer. If the Foreign Office man was expecting a similar confession, he was in for a wait.
“And you, Mr. Llewelyn. Do you swear as a … Wait! You’re not a gentleman, are you? Nothing like, in fact. You’d best button your lip if you know what’s good for you.”
“Oh, yes, sir. Thankee, sir. You are too kind.”
Campbell-Ffinch came over to my chair and leaned over me. “Your cheekiness is going to get you hanged one of these days. And I’m going to have a front row seat to it.”
I let him crow. He was having his day and I was sick of it. Muzzled. That’s what we were. Sworn to secrecy by Her Majesty’s government.
“Oh, don’t take it so hard,” Campbell-Ffinch said, crossing to the bay window and looking out into our narrow court. “Your hands are tied. I let you in on what is happening. We’d have left you out of it if it weren’t for your blasted garden. You would have the one Asian garden that Kew approved of. I knew you’d kick up a fuss.”
“We were hired. By the general, no less.”
“Yes, it was his idea. It seemed a good way to keep you occupied for a few days.”
“And what about the bodyguards?” Barker asked.
“They all worked for the general. Except for the fat one. He was loyal to the old man, and took his death very seriously. He seems to have left, possibly on a boat to Japan to unburden himself about what’s going on here. Of course, he’ll be too late by then.”
He turned around and faced us, hands on his hips.
“You were surprisingly easy to manipulate, Barker. I thought you were supposed to be so clever, both in the boxing ring and out. I’d still like to take you on in the ring someday. I hope for your sake you’re more clever there than—”
The glass of the bow window on either side of him shattered. It stained his collar and he fell into a heap on the carpet. We both stared at him, nonplussed.
Carefully, Barker crouched and moved over to the window. He put a hand to Campbell-Ffinch’s throat. As he did so,
I glanced at the window and saw that a bullet had shattered the first pane and exited on the other side.
“He’ll live,” my employer pronounced. “It creased the back of his head. Chipped his skull, I’ll be bound. He’ll have a headache for a while.”
Barker peered over the window frame for perhaps a minute. Then he stood up as if daring the killer to shoot him. Finally, he went to the telephone, and gave the operator a number on the same exchange as ours.
“Hello, Terry. I think you had better come over here. Campbell-Ffinch has been shot.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Poole appeared, we were questioned, and Campbell-Ffinch, good riddance, was taken away to Charing Cross Hospital in an ambulance vehicle supplied by St. John’s Priory. I noticed Barker was not forthcoming to Poole the way he was to Dunn the night before. Then it came to me. He’d made a blasted vow to Campbell-Ffinch not to talk and he would honor it.
When Poole left, dissatisfied, and the glazier was repairing the window, I turned to Barker.
“You didn’t tell him.”
“No. I told Dunn. That should be enough.”
“Whoever shot Campbell-Ffinch must have shot Kito as well. That must make him K’ing’s man.”
“Yes. I suspect that burly fellow at the inn who barred our way. Jeremy!” he called to our clerk. “You are on call tonight.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. B.,” Jenkins said to him, trying not to look crestfallen. He was much revered at the Rising Sun public house down the street and he looked forward to his ale all day.
“No more than two pints, then home.”
Our clerk’s mood improved. He seized his hat and stepped out before our employer changed his mind.
“Anything for me, sir?” I asked.
“Quite a lot, actually. How would you like to exercise your literary talents?”
“I’d like that very much.”
“I’m going to gather together a series of facts and I’d like you to turn them into an article such as might appear in a newspaper.”
“I can do that.”
“We’ve got about half an hour.”
“Half an hour! How long is this article supposed to be?”
“No more than two columns.”
“Two columns!”