Blood Is Blood

by Will Thomas

  I changed into my nightshirt and crawled into bed. Then it all caved in upon me.

  It was the look of horror Rebecca gave me when I shot those men, as if I were a creature no better than the ruffians who had burst into her house. Now she would never speak to me again. I’d wanted Rebecca for so long, only to lose her now. She seemed tailor-made for me. I was entranced within a few minutes of our meeting and was in love within a day. There was a quote I’d had in my mind from Far from the Madding Crowd, my favorite book by Thomas Hardy. His character, Gabriel Oak, says to young Bathsheba Everdene, “Whenever you look up, there I shall be—and whenever I look up, there will be you.” There was something so peaceful in that sentiment. I longed for it. Alas, all that was over now.

  There was a rasp beside me and a bright light that made me jump. Caleb Barker had pulled up a chair to my bed silently and was applying a vesta to his hand-rolled cigarette.

  “Here’s Mr. Thomas Llewelyn feeling sorry for himself,” he said, blowing smoke in my face.

  “Men cannot do that, even in the privacy of their own bedroom?”

  “It’s been my experience that women go all over peculiar when someone is shot. It’s in their nature to rush to someone’s aid, to show solace and caring. You can imagine how upsetting it must be to have the one doing the shooting be yours.”

  I sat up and scratched my head. “What would you know about women’s natures?”

  “Experience over four continents. No, five! I was in Australia for a week once.”

  “Not respectable women,” I countered.

  “Of course not. Would a respectable woman associate with a cowboy detective?”

  “I suppose not,” I said. “Ever been married?”

  “Once, for about a week. I don’t care for staying on one piece of land for too long. Turned out she wanted a garden and chickens. Chickens, by God! Nasty creatures.”

  I stopped to ponder the matter, Caleb Barker being domesticated.

  “Tell me,” he asked. “When do you carry a pistol?”

  “Only when I fear for my life or your brother’s.”

  “How often is that? How often have you carried it?”

  “Hundreds of times, I suppose,” I said.

  “And how often have you used it?”

  “Rarely. Three or four times, at most.”

  “You carried it to protect yourself. That’s its purpose.”

  “That is correct.”

  “And you used it to protect Mrs. Cowan.”

  “I did.”

  “Then you used it for the purpose for which it was intended. You don’t carry it around as jewelry, do you? An ornament?”

  “Of course not,” I agreed. “It’s heavy and cumbersome.”

  He smoothed his thick mustache with his hand and tweaked one corner. “Is Mrs. Cowan aware that you sometimes carry a pistol, and need to?”

  “I suppose she is,” I answered. “We’ve never discussed it.”

  “You do realize that most peacekeepers are unmarried.”

  “Yes, I realize that. Mrs. Ashleigh is similarly troubled.”

  “Where I come from, most every man carries a pistol on his hip, well displayed, and believe me, Thomas, I’ve protected myself more than just three or four times. The U.S. west of the Mississippi isn’t civilized, like London.”

  “So, what’s your prescription, Doctor, for a woman who has just seen you shoot someone?”

  “Show some brass. Act like it didn’t happen. Don’t apologize until you feel the need to. Don’t bring flowers. Don’t appear frightened. She has a decision to make, and you won’t win her over by going on about how sorry you are. A woman prefers a man who is confident.”

  “I hadn’t considered that.”

  “And when she talks, listen, by god. She feels she has important things to say. Maybe she does and maybe she doesn’t, but listen anyway. Like I said, she has a decision to make. Can she stand to be the wife of a man who’s in your line of work? What do you call it again?”

  “Private enquiry agent.”

  “As you say. From what I hear, she is a fine little lady. Possibly too fine for the likes of you. Be prepared to be refused.”

  “Have you had experience in this, as well?”

  “No, I’ve never been up this alley before.”

  “Yet you feel comfortable dispensing advice.”

  He smiled. The man smiled far more than his brother. I did not completely trust it. It came to him too easily.

  “I always feel comfortable giving advice,” he said. “I enjoy giving it, and watching fools brought low when they choose to ignore it.”

  He puffed on the last of his cigarette and stamped it out on the floor. I shot him a look of disbelief.

  “A fag end on Mac’s floor?”

  “I’ve been torturing your butler since I arrived. He has practically nothing to do here, he is so well organized. I thought I’d give him something to do. I’ve been leaving cigarette ash all over the house.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, Mac is gone.”

  “He’ll be back. He cares too much about this place and his position here. Oh, he’ll sulk for a while, but he’ll come back. When he does, my dear brother, who already regrets sacking him, will welcome him back with open arms.”

  “Your brother has never welcomed anyone with open arms.”

  “I see that. He sure didn’t welcome me. However, I doubt the clocks will run with Maccabee gone, especially with Cyrus forced to stay abed. I take it he is not a man who cares to lie about.”

  “Not in the slightest,” I said.

  “Perhaps he will appreciate what the boy does around here.”

  “How did you learn so much about Mac in so short a time?” I asked.

  He pointed to his face with two fingers.

  “Eyes,” he said. “Observation and ratiocination. I’ve got a fresh pair of peepers here, and training. I could tell right off your butler understands what he’s about.”

  I hated to admit it, but Caleb was correct. For all our squabbling, I couldn’t imagine a life without Jacob Maccabee.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  There is a schedule of sorts in Lion Street each morning, and it begins with Mac coming into my room and drawing the blinds. All creation began with Mac drawing the blinds, but now he was not here to let in the sun, to air the house, to beeswax the floors, or to sigh over what an oaf I was. Without Jacob Maccabee, there was no one to hold me to a times table, to get me up and out the door by a certain hour. I reached for my watch and opened it. It was fifty minutes after seven. On normal days we arrived by seven thirty. We didn’t have normal days anymore.

  I had blown out a man’s brains as easily as if I had swatted a fly with a rolled-up edition of the Sporting News. Rebecca had been there to see it all. Once seen, such things cannot be unseen. Jack Hobson, for all his faults, had been a living, breathing human being until I blew a steel bullet through his skull. One second he was alive thinking thoughts, making plans, and the next all thought ceased, and for a brief moment he was literally dead on his feet. Then he fell, right there on my fiancée’s marble hall floor, brains and all.

  There seemed no reason to get out of bed that morning, to wriggle my way into a suit of clothes, or comb my hair, and act as if nothing had happened. Something had happened all right, something momentous, and it was possible nothing would ever be the same again.

  I struggled from under the counterpane and donned my slippers and dressing gown and went downstairs to see if everyone was about. The house seemed deathly quiet. I heard the oddly comforting sound of Barker snoring in the front room. Most days he is up at five, toiling in his garden like a farmer. Here he was sleeping past eight o’clock. No doubt his body was full of tincture of opium. Two ounces left him flat upon his back.

  Harm came waddling down the hall to me, looking perturbed. The whites of his eyes were showing, as if they were straining harder than usual to start out of his head. He sniffed something on the floor, and t
hen sneezed because of it. Coming closer, he twitched his tail, as if he were making an effort to be civil under the circumstances. Mac was gone and we were here, and the schedule had gone right out the window into the koi pond with the copper pot. It was enough to give a dog apoplexy.

  I wandered into the kitchen and found our guest in attendance, and our cook, Etienne Dummolard, gone. Mrs. Ashleigh was sitting in front of the remains of an omelet, holding a delicate cup of coffee in her hand. My immediate concern was my state of toilet. I would have withdrawn, but her eye caught me from her peripheral vision.

  “Good morning, Thomas,” she said, staring into the back garden. The glaziers had come and installed a new and very expensive pane of glass.

  “Morning, ma’am.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your loss. I cannot assure you that Rebecca will come round in time for your wedding.”

  “If ever,” I said.

  “As you say, if ever.”

  “I don’t know why I supposed my luck would be any different now than it has been for the last twenty-six years, ma’am.”

  “You’re being maudlin,” Philippa said.

  “I think I’ve earned that right.”

  I crossed and poured myself coffee from the pot on the Aga.

  “Etienne has been here,” I said.

  “Yes, and he left as soon as he saw the changes.”

  “He doesn’t like changes, does Etienne?”

  “Non.”

  I rarely got Mrs. Ashleigh to myself, but after seven years we had grown less reserved around each other. She had sense and offered good advice. She was the kind of woman that I hoped Rebecca would become in fifteen years.

  “How are you, Thomas?”

  “Beastly. I reacted, just as Mr. Barker trained me. I shot two men at once. The Guv would have been proud of my marksmanship. He’s always after me to practice. I needn’t worry about needing skill with a revolver anymore. But it cost me the hand of the woman I love.”

  “You don’t know that yet, Thomas,” Philippa said.

  “You should have seen her eyes, ma’am.”

  “I’m sure, were Cyrus to kill someone in front of me, I’d be equally dismayed.”

  “Even after years of being together?”

  I needed to be careful when describing their relationship. They were neither married nor unmarried. They were not affianced. She was not a mistress. I didn’t know what they were, and I supposed neither did anyone else. She had many social engagements in Sussex. I wondered how her friends described her relationship with a rough-hewn enquiry agent.

  “Yes, I’d be dismayed. But I wouldn’t leave him. However, Rebecca has not known you as long, and is not prepared for this.”

  “Mrs. Ashleigh, you are not reassuring me.”

  “Thomas, how long have you known me?”

  “It must be six, maybe seven years now,” I said.

  “I think it high time you call me Philippa.”

  “M-ma’am, I don’t think I can now.”

  She smiled. Her teeth were perfect, a rare thing in England.

  “You must. I have asked. As a gentleman you cannot refuse.”

  She was correct.

  “Very well … Philippa.”

  “That’s better. What do you intend to do about Rebecca?”

  “I thought I would try to see her in a day or so, and find out how she felt about what occurred. The wedding will be postponed for a month or two, but…”

  Our guest reached up and pinched the bridge of her nose.

  “It’s a wonder men get anything done, Thomas. Leave this to me. I’ll do what I can, but I make no promises. Perhaps she’ll take pity on a scapegrace like you.”

  “You don’t think letting her contemplate a day or so—”

  She shook her head.

  “Her family shall retrench. They never found you suitable. Two days from now and they will have convinced her.”

  “But I have duties today. Mr. Barker will have orders.”

  “Thomas, go. Change. Don’t shave; it shall make you look desperate. She’ll complain, but she’ll like that. Give her all the control.”

  I stared into my coffee and didn’t move.

  “You’re frightened, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “Philippa, I am quaking in my boots.”

  “Excellent. It will enhance your plea. Go tonight after work. Give me time to think.”

  I walked through the hall to the front door and turned toward my employer, who had awakened. His crisp hair was now disarranged and he was frowning. Everything was going to hell.

  “I’m sorry I am late this morning, sir.”

  “That is understandable, given the events of last night. Keep me informed of your progress. Mac will answer the telephone if it rings.”

  “Sir, Mac is gone. You sacked him.”

  Barker had a fit of temper. I’d seen it building since last night.

  “Damn and blast! One would think that a man who had worked for me for ten years would understand when I was merely venting my spleen.”

  He was going to go on, but there was a sudden knock at the door, almost beside my head. We looked at each other, wondering what would happen now. I opened it to find Captain Yeager on the other side, accompanied by two large marines armed with rifles.

  “Mr. Llewelyn,” he said.

  “As you see. Come in,” I said. “This is my employer, Mr. Barker. Mr. Barker, this is Captain Yeager of the U.S. Marine Corps.”

  My employer nodded. “What can I do for you and the U.S. government?”

  “Sir, Mr. Llewelyn has been seen in the company of Caleb Barker on several occasions.”

  “True,” I said.

  “He promised to notify us when your brother returned.”

  “Not true,” I argued. “I don’t believe I made a promise. I tend to shy away from promises. They only get one in trouble.”

  “Mr. Llewelyn, you are already in trouble.”

  “Captain,” Mr. Barker said, trying to sound patient. “What would you ask of us? We told him you are looking for him and that he should turn himself over to you. Neither of us can make him come. We cannot make him do anything.”

  “That man is becoming an embarrassment to the United States of America. It is high time he was on a boat bound for New York.”

  “I completely agree with you,” the Guv said. “He is rather headstrong. It is a family trait. I do not envy you your duty.”

  “Help us, then.”

  “I’m already helping you. Neither of us trusts Caleb, but come, he is my brother. What can one do?”

  “Get him safely back to where he came from, that’s what one can do. Do I need to bring the ambassador himself here? Or a man from the foreign office? Need we call the prime minister himself to settle the matter?”

  “No,” I interjected. “He might learn that I didn’t vote for him.”

  “Caleb comes and goes,” Barker said. “He lives on his own schedule and has duties to perform for the Pinkerton Agency. If I ask him to meet me, it is likely he won’t come. If I tell him to stay, well, what can one do?”

  Captain Yeager crossed his arms and looked hard at him. “Mr. Barker, I know we are merely a legation and not an actual embassy, but we can make things difficult for your agency. We provide goods and services to your country: beef and tobacco, timber and furs. I do not wish to have you arrested by Scotland Yard, but I can.”

  “I’m confined to this bed with a serious injury,” my employer replied. “I think even Scotland Yard will find that I have been in no condition to confine my brother.”

  “Yet, you sent Mr. Llewelyn with him to Paris.”

  “You make it sound like a holiday,” I said. “My employer was nearly killed and I’ve been following leads to discover who did it. Caleb came along because he also wanted his brother’s injuries avenged.”

  “Avenged how, Mr. Llewelyn?” he asked.

  “We’re not in America. There are laws here, Captain. You’ve been talkin
g to Scotland Yard.”

  “We have mutual respect. It might interest you to know that there are many who are not particularly impressed with your agency.”

  “As a rule, police forces do not get along with private agents. Or soldiers, for that matter.”

  He turned to my employer. “Sir, give up your brother and nothing will happen to your agency. Continue to harbor him, however, and we’ll make a formal charge against you. Both of you.”

  “A formal charge?” I asked. “Is that the best you can do?”

  “In public, Mr. Llewelyn. You best watch your step. London is a dangerous city.”

  The guards behind him grinned.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The sky wept the next morning, as if ashamed of some private indiscretion she dared not voice. There are a dozen types of rain in London: the wall of mist, which soaks your clothing in spite of your umbrella; the hard, vertical rain that attacks the cobblestones and anyone standing on them; the gentle rain one doesn’t mind walking about in. During one storm alone one might experience six or seven kinds of rain.

  It was a desultory rain that morning, as if it couldn’t really decide what to be, but felt apathetic to the question. I made my way to the Elephant and Castle station, and after a change or two reached Charing Cross, near our offices. Working my way out of the bowels of the earth, I stopped and watched a sleek, apple-green express getting ready to depart for Dover. Then I unfurled my umbrella before stepping up into rain again at the entrance to the Underground.

  I needed to find Miss Fletcher. She had been working for me when she was put in harm’s way and I felt responsible for her safety, even though I knew if I had spent the night in the rain searching for her, I would have failed. I should have tried, anyway.

  Now it was daylight, such as it was, and I was on the trail again. I decided to start at the East India Docks, looking for any sign of the Hobson gang. That was my plan as I splashed through the flooded streets and came upon the scene unfolding in Craig’s Court.

  The court was fully congested, a clogged artery of commerce. Despite the rain, and the difficulty of lifting an umbrella in so narrow a confine, men and even women stood peering at the back of the court, raindrops drumming on their hats. Ours is a quiet street, the odd explosion notwithstanding, and finding dozens of people here gave me a turn. What had happened now? I wondered.