Anatomy of Evil (16 page)

“That smells wonderful, Mac,” I said. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

“Not at all, Mr. Llewelyn. Just a few things I threw together at the last minute.”

I knew better. He likes a compliment from time to time and is not likely to get it from Barker, who is often turning over a case in his head.

We dined and then I took a short nap before it was time to dress. My closet, thanks to my employer, was full. There were knee-length morning coats for visiting wealthy clients before lunch, cutaway jackets and sack suits for everyday wear, and evening kit for going out at night. Then I had a suit much like my everyday one, only more formal. The buttons were silver, the waistcoat filigreed, and the lapels satin. I had only worn this suit once that I recalled, when visiting a baron.

Mac bustled in from upstairs, with his talc whisk broom in his hand. He frowned at me. Something was amiss, but then, it always was when standing next to an Adonis. I am not tall enough, my chin is not prominent enough, when compared to perfection.

“What’s wrong now?” I asked.

“Your hair. It could do with a trim. I wouldn’t want it to prove a distraction to Her Majesty.”

“We’re not going to see the Queen, Mac, merely her secretary.”

“You might pass her in the halls.”

“If I did, I doubt she would be concerned with my hair.”

To Mac’s way of thinking, Her Majesty, Victoria Regina, was the arbiter of all things and must and should think exactly like Mac himself. I, on the other hand, suspected she had more important matters to consider.

“I’m fine,” I told him. “It’s too much.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“I’m sure, Mac. Thank you.”

“Very well,” he answered. And sniffed. I hate it when he sniffs. He took the brush to my suit a little more vigorously than I would have liked. Then he opened my wardrobe, took my top hat out of its box and set it precisely on my head, down upon my nest of curls, because of course I was incapable of setting it precisely thereupon. No one could except Mac, and perhaps Queen Victoria, but it would be beneath her.

“Choose a proper stick,” he warned. “Black with a silver ball.”

It occurred to me then why moving temporarily to the East End had been so liberating. I could dress as I like. In fact, at Scotland Yard, neatness was practically frowned upon.

Then Barker came down the stair from Mount Zion, shining like Moses himself. His many buttons gleamed, as did his silk top hat. He had freshly brilliantined his hair. He looked resplendent.

Afraid that too much movement might spoil the cut of our suits, Mac even went into Newington Causeway and summoned a cab. Knowing him, he probably turned down one or two before finding just the right one. One cannot be too careful in these matters.

We were on our way then, and for once I was nervous. I knew we weren’t going to visit the Queen, but who was this Ponsonby cove and what would he think of Cyrus Barker? It’s a funny thing about the Guv. He’s got all of us—Mac, me, Etienne, Jenkins, even Mrs. Ashleigh—fussing over him, making certain he puts his best foot forward. I don’t believe he ever once worries about anything himself.

Buckingham Palace began as a town house owned by the Duke of Buckingham. Not many people know that. Then George III visited there, fancied the place, and bought it for the missus.

For a time, it was known as the Queen’s Castle. It was expanded, then expanded again until it was imposing even by Westminster standards, where the Abbey and the Houses of Parliament stand. It was built to keep small Welsh coalminers’ sons like me out. What if I didn’t genuflect low enough? I hadn’t practiced my bows. What if I said the wrong word or couldn’t say anything at all? What’s the worst that could happen? They didn’t really behead people at the whim of the sovereign, or of her private secretary. Or did they?

After a brief discussion with the guards at the front gate, we were ushered into the grounds and bowled down the drive to the palace itself. It resembles nothing so much as a large block of marble. There’s not a turret or a tower to be found. This sort of design would not do in Bavaria or Paris, but the English prefer function over form. As long as it repelled cannonballs and class insurrection, it would do fine.

We stepped through the doors and were met by a man who might have been a butler or a retainer, or even some sort of security. He looked at Barker gravely and took our hats. After the Guv explained our purpose, we were led down carpeted halls and past paintings that were larger than I. My heart began to beat in my breast. Try not to trip, Thomas, you prat.

The fellow eventually came to a door, knocked on it and entered. I would have been inclined to stay outside until invited in, but my employer went through immediately, so I followed. The room was large; part of it was given over to comfortable furnishings and a large fireplace, but part contained a large desk, a filing cabinet, and various chairs of the Chippendale variety. A man was just rising to his feet. Had this been a play and I was casting for the role of Queen’s Private Secretary, I’d have hired him on the spot. He was between fifty and sixty, with a salt-and-pepper beard, and looked thin and elegant. At first he looked taken aback, which was understandable.

“You are Cyrus Barker, whom Robert Anderson recommended?” he asked.

“I am, sir. This is my assistant, Thomas Llewelyn.”

“Won’t you have a seat, gentlemen? We have much to discuss.”

My employer is not one to let another control the conversation. He spoke while in the act of lowering himself into the chair.

“I assume Her Majesty has been informed of the recent Whitechapel murders.”

“Oh, yes, she knows. She has been beside herself over the matter. Thrice in my hearing she has used the phrase ‘murdered in our beds.’ She is of the opinion that Scotland Yard is sitting on its hands. I must admit I happen to agree with her.”

“Of course you do, Sir Henry. You are not a police officer. But you are a military man. You understand the logistics involved in patrolling a city. These murders are occurring at night in the darkest part of Whitechapel. The darkness is so intense that a constable could pass by the killer standing in the shadow and not even see him. Had there been better lighting in the lowest sections of London, this would not have started, let alone continued. This killer works in total darkness and thrives upon it.”

“But come, gentlemen. Two gruesome murders.”

“I will admit that no one anticipated a second killing. All the patrols came in to Whitechapel to lend assistance. They assumed he would scurry back to his burrow, wherever it is, or that we would apprehend him. Instead, he attacked like a fox among the chickens. He is bold. By the heavens, he is bold!”

“The fact that he is bold will not assuage Her Majesty’s fears. If Commissioner Warren cannot safeguard the population, it may be necessary to bring in another man. The Home Office is of the opinion that it was a mistake not to have chosen from within the ranks of the Metropolitan.”

“We are well aware of the Home Office’s opinions of the matter. This killer will be caught, I assure you of that. It is inevitable. Whitechapel is flooded with officers and they are learning the streets and the people. New facts and new suspects are considered each day. We have the most modern police department in the world. They use the Bertillon system of detection. He cannot stay hidden forever. He is but one man. A madman, of course, and madmen move erratically, but one man all the same. We understand that our reputation is on the line.”

“It was said in the halls of Parliament recently that perhaps they’ve been sinking too much money into Scotland Yard. Better to shut it down, set it up in some other part of London with new methods and better training.”

A smile spread across Barker’s face, the kind that goes with thoughts of vengeance.

“Led by James Munro, I’ll be bound.”

“The name has been suggested,” Ponsonby admitted.

“No doubt. One cannot whitewash a turkey and call it a swan, Sir Henry. Munro is trained in all the same methods you now consider obsolete. Meanwhile, Commissioner Warren, who, to state the obvious, was trained in the same strategies you yourself studied, is now facing censure. It appears you are arguing on the wrong side.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Ponsonby said. He opened a file on the desk and closed it again. “How is it that a private enquiry agent speaks so highly of his chief rival?”

Barker leaned back and glanced at the ceiling, which was full of cherubs and heraldry. “I find it a comfort that I must scratch a living working unusual cases because most crimes are solved by the Yard. Sometimes the sheer volume they solve means they don’t have much time for unusual and more cerebral crimes, which are my meat and drink, but one cannot argue with their success. The S
û
ret
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, the New York Police Department, and the Tokyo Keishicho can only hope for such a record.”

“You are being squandered, Mr. Barker. They need you in the House of Commons when an increase in funding is required. The file the Home Office provided tells me you need not scratch out a living at all, that you are a wealthy man. Why not sit back and take your ease?”

“We all must work, Sir Henry. Skills grow rusty if one doesn’t use them. And even women such as Mary Nichols and Annie Chapman, living on the very edge of society, should be able to do so without being butchered.”

Ponsonby nodded. “I concur, as does the Queen. Understanding that these women were forced by circumstances to go outside the law in order to make their living, they nevertheless deserved such safety as the Empire can provide.”

“Is Her Majesty often concerned with being murdered in her bed?” the Guv asked.

“She has survived several attacks upon her life, as I’m sure you are aware, and the hub of the anarchist movement is currently among the Jews in the East End.”

“As are the Workers’ Unions, who hope to reform society by doing away with the monarchy,” Barker added.

“Precisely. She is more concerned with those matters than of this Whitechapel Killer actually breaking into the palace. You must understand, she is occasionally given to hyperbole.”

Sir Henry then stood and crossed the room to a window. He pushed back the tails of his coat and stared out into the grounds deep in thought. The silence seemed interminable, but was probably no more than ten seconds. I wondered for a moment if we had been dismissed. Finally, he turned about.

“I had to decide whether to bring you into my confidence, sirs, before I discussed a certain matter, which is of some delicacy. To do so, I had to convince myself that you were capable of discretion. Our normal liaison with Scotland Yard, Inspector Littlechild, I do not consider capable. I have complained on several occasions about his vulgar manner to the commissioner, but to no avail. He is not the sort of person to present to Her Majesty. This matter cannot leave this room, save when speaking to your immediate superiors, and nothing about it may be written down. There must be no file upon this subject at Scotland Yard, lest it fall into the wrong hands and become an embarrassment to the Crown. Do I make myself clear?”

“You do, sir,” Barker rumbled.

“And you, young man?” he asked, turning on me. “I include you in this silence.”

“You may rely upon our discretion, sir. We would do nothing to harm the monarchy.”

Ponsonby stared at us momentarily, as if finally convincing himself that we were worthy of his confidences, and with good reason. We were total strangers to him, and at best, I was an addendum to his file. I imagined he had no idea I was tagging along, and if he had he’d have learned things that were not in my favor, such as the fact that before I was hired as Barker’s assistant, I had done eight months in Oxford Prison for theft, or that my best friend was one of those Jewish socialist intellectuals he feared would try to bring down the government. I offered him my most trustworthy face, for all that was worth.

“Very well,” he began, slowly pacing the carpet. “The matter concerns the Duke of Clarence, the royal heir but one to the throne. He has a tutor by the name of Stephen. James K. Stephen. Brilliant fellow. Came highly recommended. He and the young duke are quite close. Albert Victor is now twenty-four, and Stephen is twenty-nine. I suppose like most royals, the duke has led a very cloistered existence. Stephen proposed to take him on an outing into Whitechapel, to visit the tenements there.”

“As his father did several years ago,” Barker said. “If memory serves.”

“Indeed, yes. His Royal Highness found it very informative. I would even say it will make him a better ruler when he ascends the throne. And though the tutor suggested the matter, it was approved by the Prince of Wales. As before, no notification would be given, and no attempt made to beautify the area or shield him from anything. He would see Whitechapel as it truly was, though I must state this was decided before the recent killings there. They went late last month. They were given no escort to draw attention to them, but they were discreetly followed by the Home Office, as a matter of course.”

“He is the royal heir, after all,” I said.

“Precisely. Unfortunately, the two managed to somehow evade the Home Office an hour or two later in the worst part of the district, before turning up again in Commercial Street. There was a minor flap when they returned, but they and the driver of the vehicle all claimed they had simply traveled about the streets and did nothing more dangerous than to pass through one or two of the worst tenements heavily swathed in scarves so as to not be recognized. However, the Home Office became suspicious of Stephen and looked deeply into his background, interviewing his acquaintances past and present. They came to me with what they found. I was not pleased with the information they had acquired.”

“What did they find?” Barker asked.

“James Stephen is a sodomite. The Home Office now suspects that during the missing hour they were in a private residence which caters to such … activities. The heir is impressionable, and Stephen has very winning ways. We fear that the two have become—that Stephen has introduced the duke to these practices. The Home Office now informs us that they have gone out at least once more to Whitechapel without notifying us. In order to separate him from such influences, we have sent Albert Victor to Balmoral.”