by Will Thomas
“It will be warm today, I think. Your train leaves the station in about ninety minutes.”
“Thank you, Mac,” I said, hobbling to the window. It was nearly six. I watched the activity in the garden in my nightshirt while drinking the coffee. There were over half a dozen Chinese men toiling with rakes and hoes and clippers.
“Shall I set out your clothes?” Mac asked solicitously. Ordinarily I thought him as solicitous as a landlord on rent day. He was enjoying seeing me in pain.
“I’ll get my own clothes, thank you,” I said.
In the four days since the bombing, the only success I could see in this case was the progress of Barker’s beard. With the thick stubble on his chin, he looked less the successful London detective and more the convict or pirate.
“That you, lad?” Barker called from his rooftop aerie as soon as I closed the door to my room behind me. He may have had no ear for music, but his hearing was keen enough. I climbed the stairs and found him, as usual, sitting in front of his fireplace, though the grate was empty and all the dormer windows open to the warm June sun.
“How did your training go last night?” he asked. He was feeding a saucer full of tea to Harm. Barker doted on that dog, who was living a life of idle leisure, while I was being sent hither and yon and being trained in lethal arts by foreign masters.
“Good, sir, but I strained my arms a little. They are sore this morning.”
“Shake them out,” he said. “Lift the Indian clubs for five minutes before you leave.”
Harm had finished the tea and was panting a little in the warm room, but for a moment, I swore that the dog was laughing at me.
“Yes, sir. How was your errand yesterday?”
“Er … it was fine, lad,” Barker said, looking a little uncomfortable.
“Learn anything new?”
“My errand did not involve the case,” he answered a trifle frostily. “Dummolard had just put on coffee, when I was downstairs a few minutes ago. You mustn’t forget your breakfast and your Indian clubs before you leave.”
Dummolard had taken over his kitchen again. He was smoking one of his short French cigarettes and transferring the contents of a pan into a waiting piecrust.
“What are you making?” I asked, pouring myself a cup of coffee. “It smells wonderful.”
“Quiche Lorraine. I shudder to think what refuse the two of you shall live on while you are gone.”
I looked over to the counter, where there were three more pie shells waiting for fillings.
“You are cooking for the restaurant here?” I asked.
“Non,” Etienne replied. “Mon capitaine has given me orders. I am to fatten him up. He wishes to gain at least half a stone by the end of the week. Meat pies, quiches, venison stews. You may be blown to bits next week, but for now, you shall eat like kings.”
I couldn’t help but feel there was a more tactful way of putting that.
9
The days ran together after that. Tuesday through Friday were all of a pattern: exercise in the morning, to counteract the soreness of my arms; the short trip to Aldershot during which time I read the books Barker had given me; training with van Rhyn in the making of explosives; the journey home; a heavy meal, watching my employer stuff food into his mouth as if his life depended on it while I wondered if it did; combative training with Maitre Vigny, during which I was thumped so often I began to feel like a drum; my much anticipated bath, accompanied by Epsom salts for the pain; then, blessed slumber.
The books were instructive. Carleton’s treatise on the Irish poor was about the rise of the factions and how stick fighting came to be the natural defense of Ireland. At its heyday in the early part of the century, whole villages used to go at each other with sticks and rocks, the way one parish will challenge another now to a cricket match. Apparently, they’d match blow for blow until sundown, when one town was declared the victor. The women pitched into the fight along with the men; and in fact, in Irish culture, they were considered equal to men.
The other book was even worse. It was the story of a group of Irish coal miners in the United States during the 1870s, who had banded together to form a union against the mine owners. The Molly Maguires had carried out assassinations, bullied its own members to keep them in line, and dynamited mine shafts and buildings. The mine owners had hired a Pinkerton agent to infiltrate the gang, and he had barely escaped with his life. Perhaps Barker thought the volume informative, but just then, it was a little too close to what we were about to do for my comfort. It was a relief to get back to the Irish legends when I was done. Cu Chulainn fighting a hideous monster was far more remote than a secret society of Irish miners beating a man to death for turning traitor.
I had brought Herr van Rhyn his schnapps, and he had trained me in several types of bomb making as well as how to acquire materials, both legally and illegally. The German showed me some of the latest work he was doing-whether for the English army or not-and on the final day, we made nitroglycerin from scratch, which process gives the bomb maker a terrible headache. I wasn’t expecting a diploma or certificate when I was done, but van Rhyn seemed satisfied with what I had learned. At the Home Office’s request, he would be under double guard and his walks curtailed until our assignment was done in case the Irish should catch on that Barker was not who he said he was and try to see if van Rhyn was still sequestered here. Before I left, he extracted a promise that I would return someday with another bottle of schnapps and a detailed account of our adventure.
As for Pierre Vigny, I have never seen a man so obsessed. To him, the world began and ended with a stick. He had gathered every reference ever written about the use of the stick, from Aaron’s rod to Napoleon’s sword cane. He’d studied primitive cultures for their use of cudgels and tried to reconstruct their techniques. The fiercer the battle between us, the more his eyes lit up and a smile grew on his face. I don’t know how good I was, but I loved the feel of the wood and felt an affinity for it that I would never feel for a dagger or my revolver. On the final day, he finished up the lesson by informing me that I had gone from the beginning to the apprentice stage. Barker was present, and I think he looked on with some degree of satisfaction.
I was the one that was dissatisfied. With all these train rides and nightly instruction, I had been removed from the actual investigation. What of Davitt and Dunleavy, and that cool fellow from Ho’s, O’Muircheartaigh? Had anything turned up on Parnell, and how close were the Special Irish Branch to finding the secret faction? Just how much had Henry the Sponge soaked up, besides five pounds’ worth of alcohol? These were the questions I put to Barker when I returned to the office a little early from my final lesson with van Rhyn, my head thumping from the chemicals I’d inhaled during the nitroglycerin-making process.
“One at a time, lad. All your questions shall be answered,” Barker said, from the recesses of his leather chair, as placid as a Tibetan lama. He didn’t have the demeanor of a man about to set out on a dangerous mission. I still didn’t know where we were going. It could be Dublin or Manchester or Paris. The faction could even be concealed in London, for all I knew.
“Are we closer to finding out the leader of the faction?” I asked casually.
Barker looked over his tented fingers. “We’ve already ruled out Rossa, Davitt, and Cusack. I’ll admit I’m not certain about O’Muircheartaigh. He is a master strategist, and he plays a subtle game, but how much Irish freedom means to him is anyone’s guess.”
“Wasn’t there another one, though?” I asked. “Another name beginning with ‘D’?”
“Very good, lad. There was. Dunleavy, the American. He’s American by birth, Irish by descent. He’s dropped from sight. Very possibly, he is our man. I’m hoping Mr. Cathcart will have turned up some information.”
Just then, Jenkins came into the room. He had very definitely begun to show signs of strain. The building was still standing, figuratively speaking, but there were cracks in the foundation. I am all for temperance, an
d I must admit that our clerk’s nightly self-pickling had concerned me in the past, since he had become something of a fixture in my life, but watching him in the throes of sobriety was almost more than I could take. I wished he would break his vow and frequent another public house until the Rising Sun reopened, for all our sakes.
He entered with the afternoon post as usual, but the orbit he made by my desk was slightly elliptical and the letters in his hand flapped like pigeons in Trafalgar Square. They came in contact with the edge, but only partially, and when he let them go, they all slid into the dustbin. Jenkins tottered off like a clockwork toy while I retrieved the post. A few minutes later he returned, bearing the same tattered business card we had seen at the beginning of the week.
“Mr. Cathcart,” Jenkins announced. The inebriate came slowly into the room, step by step, as if gravity were a tricky business and not to be taken for granted. Eventually, he came to a halt in front of Barker’s desk.
“Your Honor.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Cathcart,” Barker said. “Have you anything to report?”
“I have. I’ve become such a fixture at the Crooked Harp that they’ve given me the run of the place. I was fortunate enough to even get a glance into the register. Several rooms were hired collectively for three days leading up to the night of the thirty-first. No names were written down, and for once the Irish were rather close lipped, but I overheard a sobriquet that might have some meaning for you. Someone said, “‘Flashing Alfred’s boys shall be back in town soon.’”
“Flashing Alfred, eh?” Barker asked. “I see. Anything else?”
“Well, sir, another fellow said, ‘That’s a mercy,’ and everyone laughed. Might that be of use to you?”
“It most certainly would. I wonder if you might be interested in prolonging this assignment a few weeks longer, if you have not been otherwise engaged. You would not be reporting to me directly, but Mr. Jenkins here shall take down any words you overhear for my benefit.”
“That would depend,” the Sponge stated. “Are you working upon a case involving the explosion at Scotland Yard, if I may ask?”
“I am, and you may.”
“One of the best public houses in London was damaged in that explosion. I do not take kindly to people thinking they can blow up institutions like the Rising Sun merely because they happen to be standing adjacent to something as inconsequential as Scotland Yard.”
“Hear, hear,” Jenkins put in. Henry Cathcart gave him a grave bow.
“I thought I recognized one of the gentleman patrons of that establishment. How was it you yourself were not injured in the explosion?”
“My old man was taken poorly that night with pleurisy,” our clerk responded. “I had to cut my evening short.”
“And the Sun was the worse for your absence, I am sure. Still, it was fortunate that you left when you did. Yes, Mr. Barker, I shall continue our agreement for the rest of the month or until such time as you dispense with my services and settle our account. I shall, of course, require lubrication, to grease the wheels of commerce, as it were.”
“Certainly,” Barker stated. “Would you like it all up front now?”
“I fear not, sir. I often find my pockets gone through in the mornings. It is a drawback of my profession. Perhaps if I were to drop by a couple of days a week and could speak with your esteemed clerk.”
“I would consider it an honor,” Jenkins piped up. Really, I thought. These two tosspots are forming a mutual admiration society right here in our office.
“Very well. Thank you for your services, Mr. Cathcart,” Barker said. “So far, they have been most insightful.”
Summoning his dignity, Cathcart turned and walked ponderously out of our chambers.
“Could you make heads or tails out of that?” I asked, when the Sponge had gone.
“Of course. Flashing Alfred is Colonel Dunleavy. He earned the nickname in the battle of Antietam, when he led his troops into battle, both pistols blazing and the reins of his horse between his teeth. According to Le Caron, he has a wonderful set of teeth, of which he is quite vain, and it was said he blinded the Union side with their brightness. Obviously, he is leading a faction that was already here during the bombing and shall return again. I think these could be the lads we’re searching for.”
“And the reply. What’s that about?” I asked.
“It was meant as a joke or pun, Thomas. Mercy. The faction is hiding in Merseyside, Liverpool, which has the largest Irish population in England.”
“So that’s where they are,” I said. “It’s just a ferry’s ride due west to Dublin.”
“Precisely. With the London and North Western Railway’s express, they could be out of the area entirely within a couple of hours and even out of the country, if they wished. I would imagine, however, that they would have found the last step to be unnecessary. There are plenty in Liverpool who are sympathetic to Irish Home Rule, enough to hide them away.”
“So, what do we do with the information, sir?”
“We’re going to Liverpool, and we’re going to track down Dunleavy and his faction. We’ll offer our services as bomb makers,” Barker said, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands over his expanding waistline. He had already put on several pounds.
“Making real bombs, sir?”
“Real enough, though I hope they will be disarmed by the time we hand them over.”
“As simple as that?”
“Simple enough. Not easy, mind you, but simple.”
“How shall we convince them of who we are?”
“We shall answer that question a little closer to the time. For now, it is vital that we move on to Liverpool. Before we leave, I’d like to speak to the cabman whose horse I shot the day of the bombing. I believe he may have caught a glimpse of the bomber.”
Later that afternoon, we found ourselves at Charing Cross Hospital, to see the one witness to the bombing of Scotland Yard. He wasn’t a young fellow, and his head and arm were encased in plaster. His face was a mess of lacerations and abrasions, and the plaster skullcap occluded one eye and covered his ear. The arm and head, I hazarded a guess, had been broken when he’d fallen backward off his perch.
“How are you feeling, sir?” Barker asked, after the porter had returned to his station.
“Take more’n this to do in John Farris,” the cabman said.
“Mr. Farris, I am an enquiry agent and have come here to ask you a few questions. Did you bring a fare to Whitehall?”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“Where did you pick him up, and where did he ask to be dropped?”
“I picked him up in Seven Dials, and he asked to be dropped off in Whitehall. Didn’t say his exact destination, just told me to stop when we was near the Yard. He paid me off, including a tip. I was in the process of turning my cab around when the explosion happened about a minute later.”
“Could you describe the fellow?”
“Not real well, sir. The problem with hansoms is a fellow can come out of nowhere and hop into your cab before you get a good peep at him, and the only glance you’ll get is a bird’s-eye view down the trap, which is to say you’ll see his hat and shoulders and not much else. He were rather like this fellow here,” he said, addressing me, “only pale complected, like. He was young, and had an accent but was trying to hide it, I think. Didn’t sound real natural, if you ken my meaning, but he didn’t talk between ‘Take me to Whitehall, my good man,’ and ‘Thank you. You may stop here.’ Could have been Irish, but could have been almost anything.”
“How was he dressed, this youth?”
“Long coat, tannish color, and a brown bowler. Dark trousers and shoes. Middle class, I thought, or a poor one, trying to ape his betters.”
“I’ll bet you’ve answered these questions a hundred times.”
“Two hundred,” the man wheezed.
“Is there anything else you can recall?”
“No, sir. That’s the lot.”
“
Thank you, then. We’ll let you rest. If I may ask it, I would like this conversation to remain a secret.”
“As you wish, Mr. Barker, sir.”
Barker stopped and turned back to the supine figure on the bed.
“You know me?”
The fellow gave a brief cackle. “A cabman, not knowing the best tipper in London? I knowed you the moment you walked in. Mum’s the word, Guv’nor. Ain’t a policeman or reporter alive that’d make me peach on you.”
Barker reached out and offered a hand to the injured man. The man raised his own, and my employer grasped it firmly.
“I want you to know something before I go. I put your horse down myself. I was there at her side. There was no way to save her. Her injuries were simply too severe. If I thought she had a chance of surviving, even out of harness, I would have waited, but there wasn’t. She was crazed and injured, and it was a kind-ness.” He turned to me. “Come, Llewelyn. This gentleman deserves his rest.”
We left the old cabman to his solitary grieving.
10
I finished packing my clothing into the disreputable pasteboard suitcase I’d owned since before Barker had first hired me. Within an hour, we’d be at Euston Station, the London and North Western Railway terminus, on our way to Liverpool. I felt uneasy, as if I were about to go into battle. The chances I would get killed today were slight, I told myself. I wouldn’t allow myself yet to think of tomorrow.
I came down the stairs and set my suitcase by the door. I hadn’t seen Mac since he’d opened the curtains that morning. In fact, the place was as quiet as a tomb. I went into the dining room, where Dummolard was laying out breakfast. He had outdone himself, creating a country hunt breakfast for Barker and me.
I sat down and helped myself to the coffee but thought it best to wait for my employer. As I was taking my first sip, I heard the click of the door of Mac’s private domain in the hall, and Barker suddenly came into the dining room.