Barker 05 - Black Hand

by Thomas, Will

  “One blow to the heart dead-on. He’s one of the Sicilian dockworkers, by his clothes. Mr. Gallenga would approve, though the fellow seems to have opened your cheek.”

  “I’ve got another man tied up behind the sofa, sir,” I said.

  “Have you, then?” he asked in wonder. “Good work, lad. You’ve outdone yourself tonight. I’ve got two of my own. Mrs. Ashleigh will be pleased, though not, I suppose, by the sight of her conservatory glass.”

  “Not my doing, sir,” I said. “It was the Sicilian.”

  “A good thing, too, for both our sakes.”

  Barker helped me back into the relative safety of the house. I was shivering and the front of my shirt was covered in blood. Mrs. Ashleigh came down the grand staircase sans pistols, and hurried over to me, touching my shoulder.

  “Oh, Thomas,” she said gravely.

  “Philippa, do you think you can sew his cheek?” the Guv asked. “I doubt we can get a physician in here before the morning. In fact, I prefer not to send a man out for one, conditions being what they are.”

  “Of course,” she said, hurrying back up the staircase, while Barker sat me down in a chair.

  “I’m all right,” I answered. “A sight better than the blighter in there.”

  “I did not expect them to actually follow us here,” Barker said. “I misjudged them, something I will not do again.”

  “Perhaps they didn’t follow us. Perhaps they followed Juno.”

  “Take my handkerchief,” he said. “Yours is sodden.”

  Beauchamp came in just then, as soaked as I, though he wore a sailor’s cap and pea jacket. He took one look at my cheek and gave a short whistle.

  “They broke in, then,” he stated.

  “Yes, but we’re alive,” the Guv said. “We’ve got three men tied up and one dead. How are your men?”

  “A few injuries. The gang that tried to break in was the Garrison boys, a family of local ne’er-do-wells that hire themselves out for crimes like this. We’re guarding six more.”

  “I imagine they were the diversion. The one Llewelyn killed in the conservatory is a Sicilian by the look of him. He’s got nothing in his pockets.”

  Beauchamp raised an eyebrow in my direction, and I tried to look as if I dispatched assassins every day. Mrs. Ashleigh returned with a bottle of alcohol, needles, and thread while the Guv poured a tumbler full of whiskey and put it in front of me. I almost preferred the needle to the whiskey.

  “Are you sure we shouldn’t wait until morning, when Doctor Bales can come?” Mrs. Ashleigh asked.

  “Best to get it over with,” Barker replied. “Drink up, lad. We haven’t got all night.”

  I tossed the burning liquid down my throat, and then my employer had the nerve to fill the glass again. I hate whiskey and vowed as I downed the second glass that I would never drink the horrid stuff again. Meanwhile, Mrs. Ashleigh was threading the needle. I gritted my teeth as it pricked the skin.

  The local inspector, or to be more precise, the inspector for the part of East Sussex from Lewes to the Channel, was named Marsden, a man approaching or retreating from sixty, who looked like a prosperous farmer or a country squire. A square of sheepskin was pinned to his tweed jacket with hooks and fishing flies nestled in it. I expected him to clash with Barker, as nearly every inspector I’d ever met before had done, but he seemed to take Barker in stride. A patient inspector, I thought. The country needed more of them.

  “I’ll take charge of the Garrison boys, if you don’t mind, Mr. Barker,” he said. “This is new ground for them. Normally, they deal in nothing more felonious than poaching and smuggling. I suppose they were hired for the work by the dead fellow there. They’d never be brash enough to enter an estate this large on their own. Did you know this person, Mr. Barker?”

  “No, sir, but we have recently been threatened by Sicilian criminals. I assume he was sent by them to oversee the operation.”

  “Did you kill him?” he asked, looking down at the body.

  “I killed him,” I spoke up. I knew Barker would try to take the blame for it. “He attacked me in the conservatory during the height of the gale. He did this to me.”

  Marsden nodded. He pushed around the shards of bloody glass until he uncovered the second blade, the first being still in the young man’s chest. “Do you always carry a dagger, Mr. …?”

  “Llewelyn. Only since this case began.”

  “Blood being on both knives, and him being here to break into the house, I’m prepared to consider this self-defense and not arrest you. I’ll take the boys with me and question them thoroughly. Would you be good enough to call at the constabulary later, sir?”

  “I’ll be there,” Barker stated.

  “Then I’ll not detain you further. Do you think Mrs. Ashleigh will mind if we borrow a trap? It’s a bit of a walk back to Lewes.”

  The vehicle was soon fitted out and Marsden left in his own gig while the constables and prisoners filled the other to overflowing.

  “I’d have taken the blame, lad,” the Guv murmured.

  “I am responsible for my own actions, thank you, sir,” I said.

  Breakfast was a makeshift affair in the kitchen. A large farm table was laden with scones, crumpets, rolls, ham slices, eggs, kippers, tea, and coffee. There was no want of good food down here. Beauchamp’s men entered in shifts, jesting with one another while filling gilded plates worth a week’s salary. The storm and the danger had passed.

  Beauchamp entered last and looked about. He passed the Guv and said a word or two in his ear. Both nodded and went their way. My cheek felt stiff and sore. I contented myself with eggs and coffee, carrying the plate into the dining room, where Mrs. Ashleigh was seated.

  “Finally, a bit of excitement last night,” she said, putting a brave face on it. “Things are generally deadly dull around here.”

  “I regret your broken panes, Philippa,” Barker said, sitting down beside her.

  “I’ve sent for a glazier. The problem is easily remedied, though if such nightly diversions become a habit, I should consider some reinforced ironwork. I suppose it is rather silly to have only two glass doors between the outside world and all my favorite things.”

  Around noon, we rode into Lewes on Juno and a chestnut Thoroughbred gelding. Barker did not look as comfortable on horseback as he did at the helm of the Osprey, but he did not complain. He looked relieved, however, when we alighted in front of the constabulary.

  Inside, Barker shook Marsden’s hand and soon each of us was seated in a swaybacked chair with a cup of tea the size of a soup bowl.

  “The lads confessed right off,” Marsden said. “The Sicilian’s name was Venucchi, and he told them he was working for a man in London. The plan was to create a diversion while Venucchi broke in. They received fifty pounds for the work.”

  “Did he say what would become of us?” my employer asked.

  “Venucchi told them he had his instructions, but he didn’t say what they were.”

  “Did you ask them when he arrived?”

  “Oh, we talked about a lot of things. The Sicilian arrived three days ago.”

  The Guv turned his head my way, looking at me. Venucchi had arrived before we had. He could have attacked while we were still in London. It also meant the Sicilians already suspected that Barker wouldn’t back down when given the note. In the silence, there was a crackling sound. It was Barker’s hand squeezing the armrest of his chair.

  “Are we free to return to London, Inspector?” my employer asked.

  “I have no objections,” Marsden said. “It’s been a rare treat for something to happen down here, but t’will be nice to go back to judging marrows at the county fair and tracking down stolen public house signs. Mr. Barker, I know I cannot tell you not to come back. Mrs. Ashleigh is an important part of our community and you’ve been coming to see her for many years. I ask only, as a favor to me, that you do not bring your work with you. And don’t bring this mad killer along with you next time, or
I’ll arrest him for sure.”

  It took me a moment to realize he was referring to me. A mad killer? Me? I didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered.

  I’m not sure how long Barker had originally intended us to stay, but obviously he had decided to return to London. I overheard our hostess trying to convince the Guv to linger another day or two, but he insisted we get back. The fact that Venucchi had been here before us was more than he could stand. I could tell it by the set of his square jaw.

  At Seaford I carried Harm’s wicker carrier onto the train and left Barker and Mrs. Ashleigh to say their private goodbyes. When he entered the carriage the Guv tried to act nonchalant, as if he was above sentimentalities. I rather envied his having someone, but at the same time I saw all too clearly how much danger his work brought into the lives of those around him.

  * * *

  As soon as we arrived in Victoria Station, Barker freed Harm, the empty cage being sent along with our luggage later. We took a hansom to Newington, the dog perched with his little back paws on his owner’s knees and the front ones hooked over the doors of the cab, barking at anything he felt required it. The little creature always took great joy in cab rides.

  Not being satisfied with only one view, Harm moved to my side; and before I knew it I was in full custody of him. The Guv opened his newspaper like a foldable screen, successfully dividing the cab. The dog and I have a strange relationship: he considers me a servant too addlepated to intuit what he wants, while I consider him to be a burden, though one I’ve grown accustomed to. I let him share my bed and he lets me share his garden.

  London looked the same. Apparently the Mafia had not taken over in our brief absence. We had no sooner begun our journey than it began to drizzle. Harm got down from his perch immediately and attempted to burrow behind my elbow. If there is anything he detests, it is getting wet. Having buried himself in a safe place roughly behind my right kidney he sat comfortably and let me receive the occasional lashing of rain in the face.

  Finally we reached the house. I left Barker to deal with his dog, passed the fare through the trap, receiving another face full of rain for my efforts, and then we all hurried down the steps and across the pavement through the familiar front door. Home at last, I thought, and not a moment too soon, as the sky ripped open with a peal of thunder that should have been reserved for Judgment Day, and the rain set to in earnest.

  “Welcome home, gentlemen,” Mac said, handing each of us a towel. God bless the fellow—he’s a competent butler. He even draped one over the dog and rubbed his long fur. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of my cheek but did not ask me about it.

  “Thank you, Mac. How has everything been here?” Barker asked. I wondered if he was glad to be back in his bachelor’s establishment, which gave him so much more control over everything.

  Barker continued questioning Mac about the house and whether anything untoward had occurred. Meanwhile, Harm sniffed the front hallway and made his way to the back door, where his tail went down and he looked my way. I followed him down the hall and opened the door. Harm looked out into the yard and back at me. Apparently, this was one of those times when his servant wouldn’t obey. He wanted me to stop the rain.

  “Sorry, old fellow,” I told him. “You’re on your own.”

  Reluctantly, the dog stepped out into the downpour. I had assumed he would merely accomplish his task and scurry in quickly, but Harm had been away from his domain for a few days, and rain or no rain, was going to inspect it.

  “Harm!” I complained, as he waddled over the bridge. I had no wish to get soaked again merely to retrieve a wayward dog. We had played this game too many times before. I crossed over to the hallway stand while Barker and Mac chuntered on about the condition of the garden and what post had arrived, and retrieved an umbrella. This is where human intelligence won out over brute instinct. Gingerly I stepped out into the garden.

  Just then something streaked out from behind the potting shed toward Harm. I thought at first it was an animal, but as it scooped up the little creature, it rose up into the form of a man, wearing a black suit with his collar pulled up and a cap. He headed toward the gate, the poor dog’s tail hanging limp under his arm. Barker’s prized Pekingese was in the arms of a stranger.

  I am cursed with a vivid imagination, and here is what I saw in those brief seconds as the man reached the gate. I pictured Harm’s pelt, the dried skin of this rare and beloved creature, tossed carelessly over the wall for my employer’s edification, to prove to him that he was not invulnerable, that in fact, when it came to the Sicilian brotherhood, no one was.

  I yelled something; dropped my umbrella; and then ran as fast as I could, ignoring the crooked path and vaulting the narrow stream that bisected the garden. From the other side of the wall I heard Harm’s danger cry, something in between a bark and a howl. For a small dog, he has great volume. Good boy, I thought, tell Uncle Thomas which way he’s taking you.

  Reaching the back gate, I squeezed through, then looked both ways. I’d be no good to Barker’s dog if I walked into an ambush. There was no one there, but a hundred feet away, the dog thief was having a spot of trouble of his own. Harm had decided he’d had enough of such attacks upon his dignity and had sunk his teeth into his assailant’s hand. Now Chinese palace dogs don’t visibly have much in the jaw department, but I knew from experience that when he latched onto one, he could hang there until sunset. The man was actually holding the dog out by the hindquarters, trying to break its hold on his wrist.

  “Hey!” I cried, being the former classics scholar at Magdalen College that I am. If I’d been given sufficient time I’d have come up with a better remark, something like “I say! Put down that dog!” I’m not always good at coming up with le mot juste at le temps juste. It was successful, at least. The thief dropped the dog—or possibly the dog dropped the thief—and they parted company to their mutual satisfaction.

  Harm ran back down the lane and through the round gate to the safety of his domain, while I pulled the dagger from my sleeve, ready to do battle again. For once, I was spared. The young man took one look at the knife in my hand and the ugly, fresh scar on my cheek and ran in the other direction. I was not inclined to give chase.

  I pushed open the gate, then locked it firmly. On the little stone bridge, Cyrus Barker stood in his black macintosh and hat, holding his sturdy umbrella over the shivering dog under his arm. I trotted forward through sheets of water and followed my employer into the house.

  It had been a disorganized ruse, a feint, a light dessert to the previous night’s meal. There wasn’t even a need to speak of it when it was over. Barker and I went our separate ways, and I am happy to report I spent a rather dull evening reading Thomas Hardy. There’s a lot to be said for good, calm, dull evenings.

  20

  HOW SHALL WE START OUR DAY?” I ASKED MY employer the following morning in our offices.

  Barker drummed his fingers on the desk. “I want a meeting of the leaders on our side: Gigliotti, Hooligan, Robert Dummolard, and Ben Tillett. There may possibly be others.”

  “Mr. K’ing?”

  “I’d prefer to keep the Chinese out of this, because of Hooligan, unless I have no alternative.”

  “Where should we meet? Here?”

  “No.” Barker rose and opened his smoking cabinet. He withdrew a meerschaum and began stuffing it. “It would draw unwanted attention to us, and I doubt any of them wish to be seen so close to Scotland Yard.”

  “Where then?” I pursued.

  “Somewhere private. In fact, the most secure spot in all London. Come.”

  We took a cab into the City and then crossed over into Houndsditch, where the walled city of London once used to dispose of its dead canines. It was an ugly little place, cheek by jowl with Whitechapel. In fact, the two were like trees that had grown together so it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. All the brick here was black. I hazarded they were in fact red underneath, but there were layer
s of soot and grime shellacked to them. Even the children playing in the street sported a layer.

  “You sure you know what you’re about, Push?” the cabman asked balefully. Our advent had attracted the attention of the local poor, who stared at us with bold, ravenous eyes, and even came to the curb to watch us pass. Cabs did not come this way often.

  “Drop us at the next corner,” Barker told him. “We’ll make it worth your effort.”

  We walked down Wentworth Street, past a row of shops to let and abandoned gin palaces where flies batted about the windows. Barker came to a door that was little more than a chink between shop fronts, the narrowest door I’d seen in London, and rapped upon it with his stick so stoutly the faded blue paint fell off in flakes.

  Nothing happened for a moment, and Barker turned and surveyed the area with some interest, as if he might consider buying property there. The locals had followed us, hoping for a handout, but no sooner had he knocked upon the door than they scurried away. The door was opened by a bellicose-looking fellow in trousers and braces over a singlet, a bowler atop his head.

  “What in hell do you want?” he bellowed. “Take yourself off now, or I’ll set my dogs on you!”

  “I would speak with Mr. Soft,” Barker said calmly.

  “Never heard of him. Off with you now. I mean it.” He slammed the door in our faces.

  The Guv was not daunted in the least. He rapped on the door again with his stick, waiting until it opened a small crack.

  “I would speak,” Barker demanded, “with Mr. Soft.”

  “Didn’t you hear me the first time? I said there ain’t no Mr. Soft here, you ninny. Never was, never will be. Run along afore I wallop you proper.” He slammed the door.

  Immediately, Barker knocked on the door a third time. The man, now red faced, opened it again.