Fatal Enquiry (11 page)

“What do you suppose will happen to Poole?”

I knew the atmosphere at Scotland Yard. While it had the appearance of male camaraderie, in reality, it was every man for himself. Inspectors chaff each other and engage in bluff banter, but in fact, it was a fierce competition; each man responsible for creating a list of informants and bullying subordinates into helping him. One only helped a superior in order to ride his coattails to a better position, and an inspector who disgraced himself was immediately attacked from all sides: from his superiors, anxious to distance themselves from any scandal, and from subordinates, eager for his position.

The Guv leaned back against the seat cushion, his one visible eye closed, considering the question. “I don’t know what will happen, but without a doubt, Terry is finding himself in a good bit of trouble on our account.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Eventually, our cab slowed in Glasshouse Street, but rolled by the entrance to the Café Royal, which I had assumed would be our destination. The café is the unofficial headquarters of Mr. Pollock Forbes, who is himself unofficial, being the head of a Masonic organization wielding great power within the government, and a history stretching back to the Crusades. Barker and I were coming to beg favors. Across the street in Shaftesbury Avenue, I could see the building where Cyrus Barker had recently leased a room to begin his Antagonistics classes again. He had been planning the defensive fighting classes for several weeks, yet another disruption in our lives. The cab came to a halt at the Guv’s command, in front of a white, nondescript door, and we alighted. Barker proceeded to pick the lock while I covered him and stared down anyone nearby who looked too inquisitive. For a secret society, the door opened too readily to his hand, I think. Barker tapped me on the shoulder and we slipped through.

Inside was a large, airy chamber of white marble, dominated by a staircase of the same material that appeared completely unsupported. There were no handrails and nothing underneath to support the structure visibly. I supposed it was some kind of engineering marvel. Overhead, the ceiling was carved in gilt arcane symbols, some recognizable to me, others not. With a start, I realized Barker had broken into the establishment’s Masonic temple. It ruffled my plain Methodist feathers just to be there.

“Find Pollock,” Barker ordered, and I pushed through the door into an outer hall which skirted the dining room, trying not to draw attention to myself from the waiters bustling by in their long aprons. Entering the room, I passed among the elegant diners enjoying one of the most popular restaurants in London, until I finally spotted Forbes at a table near the front entrance, sipping a cup of mocha while scrutinizing the move of his opponent at dominoes. The young Scotsman had no official office anywhere, but conducted important matters over this frivolous game in plain sight of everyone. He caught my eye and waved, and I nodded in the direction of the temple before making my way through the tables again. Reluctantly, I stepped back into the cool marble chamber which, for all its elegance and symbolism, resembled the interior of a mausoleum. For a moment, I fancied what it would be like to be interred inside.

“He’s coming,” I told my employer. “He’s finishing a game. It shouldn’t take long.”

“I don’t have time for games,” Barker grumbled.

“I could go back, knock over the table, and drag him in here, if you prefer,” I replied.

“That won’t be necessary. Forgive my ill humor. I’ve got a lot on my mind at the moment.”

There was a squeak of the outer door and a feel of pressure changing in the hermetically sealed room as Pollock Forbes entered. He has a reputation as a genial young man, but for once, he showed his edge.

“Cyrus, this is most irregular,” he complained. “You know Mr. Llewelyn is not a member. You’re breaking protocol.”

“I’m sorry, Pollock, special circumstances warrant. I didn’t want the lad in the street revealing my presence to all and sundry.”

“That’s quite a costume you’re wearing today. I suppose I should be glad you didn’t come through the dining room. I hear you’re in a spot of trouble.”

“I am,” Barker admitted. “The banks have frozen my assets, and my home and offices are no longer safe. Sebastian Nightwine is in town, which cannot be a coincidence. Oh, and Scotland Yard is hunting me. I understand there is a price on my head. Did you know Scotland Yard suspects me in the murder of Lord Clayton?”

“I understand there was an eyewitness who claims he saw the two of you argue two nights ago. It was Clayton’s son, Gerald.”

“He’s lying. Clayton and I spoke amicably and parted the best of friends.”

“A knife was found on Lord Clayton’s body, along with one of your sharpened coins.”

“Anyone can leave behind a knife. It proves nothing.”

“I’m sorry, Cyrus, but it was not an anonymous weapon. It was a dagger about nine inches long and had your name and crest imprinted on the blade, a rampant lion.”

The Guv suddenly launched himself off the marble bench and began pacing about the room. Forbes and I looked at each other, startled. Coming up to a wall, he smote it with the palm of his hand, producing another echo in the chamber.

“It is my own fault,” he growled. “When Nightwine was in London two years ago, I pressed a knife blade into his front door as a warning. Evidently, he took it with him as a souvenir.”

“That wasn’t very wise,” Forbes said. “Is that the only knife you’ve ever given away?”

“I’m not in the habit of giving them as gifts, if that is what you mean. It was a warning, and now he has used it against me. I should have known better than to let my emotions get the best of me.”

“What can I do for you?” Pollock Forbes asked, always practical. “How are you fixed?”

“We’ll make do,” my employer said. I was certain he hadn’t the slightest idea how little money was in his wallet, which was just under five pounds. What he meant was that whatever situation in which we found ourselves, we would make do.

“Do you need a place to stay? I’ve got a few rooms outside of London where I can tuck you away.”

“No, thank you. I don’t wish to put you in the position where you can be blamed for helping me.”

The remark or the feelings behind it set Forbes coughing. He was slowly losing a battle with tuberculosis. He sat down on a bench, choking into a handkerchief, and when the spasm was over, stuffed the silk into his breast pocket until he needed it again. Since I had known him he had stopped wearing white shirts, which collected the fine spray of bloody droplets. The one he wore now was a dark gray.

“What do you need, then?” he asked weakly.

“Information. Inspector Poole told me Nightwine’s been given diplomatic status. I want to know why and how, and by whom. What is he here for beyond causing me trouble? He arrived from Calcutta two days ago aboard the SS
Rangoon
.”

“Have you any idea where he was before that?”

“He tends to travel about a good deal, but his favorite location is along the border between Nepal and Tibet. His father explored the area years ago.”

“His father was Sir Elias Nightwine, the explorer?”

“Aye,” Barker said. “Sir Elias tutored him himself and took him along on his expeditions. You’ll recall he was an extreme social Darwinist and raised his son on the principle of survival of the fittest. Some might say he raised a monster with no interest or compassion for anyone except himself.”

“Expeditions,” Pollock repeated. He never committed anything to paper, but stored everything in that well-ordered brain of his.

“You recall something?” Barker asked.

“I’ve got a fellow in the Foreign Office. There was a meeting there yesterday, very sub rosa. He was not allowed to attend but took a pencil to a notepad, scribbling to see what had been written on the sheet before it. Someone had written ‘Shambhala Expedition.’ That’s in Tibet, isn’t it?”

“It is, as I recall. It’s some sort of mythical city.”

“Does it have any significance in relation to Nightwine?”

“It might. Tibet has always held a strange fascination for Sebastian. Foreigners are forbidden to set so much as a foot in the country, which makes him want to go there all the more. I think his sudden arrival and this meeting is too much of a coincidence. If you would, concentrate your efforts in learning about this so-called expedition.”

“I was going to, anyway. It sounds intriguing.”

“Knowing Nightwine, there is intrigue and to spare.”

Forbes frowned. “You called him Sebastian a minute ago. Do you know each other?”

Barker’s mouth went grim. “Too well, if anything.”

“I’ll ask around for you, then,” Forbes said. “While you’re here, may I at least feed the two of you? There’s no telling when your next meal will be. We keep a table by the kitchen for bailiffs. Some of our regulars are, alas, insolvent, generally writers and painters. I assure you the food is no different at that table than at any other here.”

I was certain Barker would refuse. He always had in the past. We had come here at least once a month in the two years I’d worked for him, and yet never had I tasted anything but the coffee mocha. To my surprise Barker accepted, perhaps only to spite me.

At the bailiff’s table one is given no choice as to the menu, but the food is plentiful and it is free, as long as one has a purpose in being there. We began with turtle soup, then turbot, beef cutlets in brown sauce with roasted potatoes, haricots verts, apples in brandy, and a salad. It was a welcome change after several meals of hard, dry rice.

“You’re eating very sparingly, sir,” I noted. “Are you feeling well?”

“Never better. I have allowed this town and its rich food to add some poundage to my frame. I think it best under my current circumstances to subtract them. It would be best,” the Guv went on, “if you did not mention our having dined here to Etienne. He and Mr. Nicholson, who owns this establishment, are the bitterest of enemies.”

I lifted a forkful of roasted apples braised in brandy and thought of Barker’s cook and his hot temper which could be kindled by the slightest spark.

“Why am I not surprised?”

Once we were outside again and walking through Soho, I turned to my employer. “May I ask you something?”

“You may,” he said cautiously. “I cannot promise I shall answer.”

“How does Forbes come by his information? Do people just tell him things, or is there some way with the full weight of his office he can force confidences from his brothers? I don’t understand how it works.”

“How could you, not being a member?” he answered. “The first thing you should understand is that police work does not pay well and offers few benefits. By joining the Freemasonry, constables receive insurance and supplemental pay if they are injured. It is more than a fraternal organization. The majority of the Metropolitan Police are members, as are Her Majesty’s Army.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Their members also include MPs, the Home Office, the clergy, and the judiciary. Often the only connection between these offices is the bond of Masonry. If one needs information and cannot not go directly to the source, one could go to Pollock and barter information, or as you would put it, go begging. We certainly had our hat in our hands today.”

“Is that why you did not ask for money?”

“Aye. He was already giving us information and food. I did not wish to be indebted to him any more than I must. If he were to ask us certain questions in exchange, I would prefer we have the freedom to say no, if we choose.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

We were walking through Leicester Square a few minutes later when Barker suddenly pointed to an alleyway so narrow it would be unnoticeable a dozen paces away. I dipped in and Barker followed, flattening himself against the wall. I did the same, realizing we were being followed. I had not noticed him turn around and look once since we left the café, so he must have used every window we passed to scan the crowd behind us. The arrival of plate glass in London had no doubt been a boon to enquiry agencies.

We waited nearly half a minute and I was beginning to think that for once Cyrus Barker was wrong, when suddenly he gave a mighty heave and a man shot past and struck the wall in front of us like a salmon pulled from a Speyside stream. He was about five and twenty and wore a gray serge suit and a silk topper over long curling hair the color of honey, which reached nearly to his shoulders. I can honestly say that if I had any professional instincts to jangle, they jangled then. I recognized a professional criminal when I saw one and stepped forward, pinning him to the wall with my forearm.

“Careful,” he said. “You’ll rend the fabric.”

“I’ll rend more than that. How long have you been following us?”

He shrugged. “Ten minutes or so. I’ve been sent to fetch you.”

“By whom?” I pressed, still pushing him against the brick.

“The Irishman.”

Barker put a hand on my shoulder and I let the dandy stand at ease. He immediately began to pick imagined specks of dust from his jacket and rearranged his clothes to his satisfaction.

“He’s still alive?” Barker rumbled.

“It would take more than a mere plague to kill him.”

“I don’t think we should place ourselves in criminal hands at this particular time, sir,” I told my employer.

“Mr. O’Muircheartaigh said you’d say something like that,” the young man stated. “He told me to say he wishes to extend the olive branch. He understands that your professional relationship has been breached, but the present situation warrants a meeting.”

“I don’t trust him,” I argued.

“Probably best,” the young man agreed.

“I’m not talking to you!” I said, pushing him against the wall again. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Psmith, with a
P
. The
P
is silent.”

“Then why bring it up?” I asked.

“I didn’t want you to think I’d made it up.”

“I do think you made it up,” I answered. I didn’t much like this mannequin and his suave manner.

“I don’t believe you,” Barker said. “Or rather, I don’t believe him.”