Fatal Enquiry (15 page)

“Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing here?”

“It is I, Cyrus Barker. I’ve come to find out why you’re ruining my name across London, Mr. Clayton. I’ve worked many years establishing a reputation which you have now sullied. I have come for my pound of flesh.”

Clayton filled his lungs to cry for help but before he could expel a sound the Guv was over the table and had clamped a large hand about his throat.

“Now, Clayton, be reasonable,” Barker said soothingly. “If you alert your servants or attempt to summon the constable in the lane, I shall be forced to get very unpleasant.”

Clayton’s eyes darted from Barker to me and I did my best to appear formidable. I gave him my most devilish look, and reached a hand into my inside breast pocket. What might I have in there? A clasp knife? A knuckle-duster? Actually, it was a pocket volume of Browning’s poetry, but he wasn’t to know that.

Barker pulled his hand away and patted Clayton’s chest. “That’s better. There is no reason for violence, I’m sure. Mr. Clayton, are you being blackmailed?”

“Yes,” he admitted, putting his hands to his throat where Barker’s thick fingers had just been. “Is it that obvious?”

“You do not strike me as a naturally vindictive person, and I did not give you cause during our brief exchange the other night to seek vengeance against me. There must be another factor. This person blackmailing you, is it a man or a woman?”

“It is a man, sir.”

“Let me give you a name, then. Have you ever heard of Sebastian Nightwine?”

Clayton’s brow shot up. “The very man! You seem to know everything. Is he a known blackmailer?”

“He is not, but the man is responsible for my present situation. What better way to damage my reputation than to murder the last man I spoke with, and coerce his son to say we had a public argument. What does he have on you, sir? Letters, perhaps?”

“I wish they were only letters.”

“Photographs, then? The modern age has proven a boon to blackmailers.”

“I was an ass,” Clayton blurted out.

“I suppose it happened at university. I’ve heard young men frequently make fools of themselves there.”

“You have no idea. I would give anything to take back what happened. Nothing really happened at all, but it looks bad.”

“No doubt,” Barker said, though he understood what Clayton meant no more than I.

“I was in an amateur theatrical group at Oxford,” Clayton began. “We were doing
Antigone
. After the final performance we hired a photographer to take a photograph of all the players. By the time we got round to it and the photographer was prepared, we were all rather drunk, I’m afraid. The chiton tunics we wore were already short and rather askew, and we wore heavy makeup. The result was that we looked like a bacchanal of the lowest sort. Why couldn’t we have done something like
Henry IV,
I ask you?”

Cyrus Barker frowned. He was not the kind to go in for amateur theatrics or to understand the kind of high-spirited antics that occur from time to time at a prestigious university such as Oxford or Cambridge.

“I’m not certain I follow you,” he admitted.

In response, Clayton pulled open a drawer of the desk beside him and pitched a photograph across the table as if it were a playing card. It landed faceup in front of us. The photograph was one of those studio cards with a heavy backing, in sepia tones. It featured a group of four young men seated in front of a painted backdrop representing a classical scene. The young men wore laurel wreaths and had their hair in tight curls, and wore so much rouge they could have been mistaken for women. There were but two chairs, and two of the young men were seated in the other’s laps. The costumes they wore were so short as to leave little to the imagination. I could see how it could lead one to the belief that something illicit and possibly even illegal might be going on.

“Did your father see this photograph?”

“No, thank the Lord.”

“Are there more?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. Apparently the photographer was not scrupulous and knew a good thing when he saw it. I’m sure he took several. We were so drunk I didn’t remember a single thing afterward.”

“So there was no impropriety,” Barker remarked. “Merely the impression of impropriety.”

“We were merely drunk and disorderly, sir.”

“Are you still acquainted with the other gentlemen in this photograph?”

“No. I’m not even certain I recall their names.”

“How did Mr. Nightwine approach you?”

“He came to the house after my father died, telling me to go to the police with accusations against you. I assume he purchased the lot from whoever took the pictures.”

“What did he say he would do with the other photographs? I assume they were as debauched-looking as this one?”

“Worse, if such a thing is possible. Nightwine said he would show them to all my father’s old cronies, men with whom I would have dealings in the future. Mr. Barker, do you think there is any way to stop them from being circulated?”

“Frankly, sir, I do not. Nightwine got hold of them because he was looking for something like this and they were on the market. There’s no telling how many copies were put out by your unscrupulous photographer. They may have been produced for sale. Luckily, it requires a good deal of effort to recognize you. I have a few suggestions.”

“Name them, please!” Clayton said, leaning forward. I had not noticed until now that he was perspiring freely.

“The first is to marry quickly. Almost anyone will do. Make a proper husband of yourself and have children as soon as possible. Avoid amateur theatrics, drinking in public, and anything involving Greek literature. Above all, deny completely that the fellow in the photograph is you, should the subject arise. There is nothing I can see here to connect you to Oxford. You were heavily made up. Your father’s associates will have merely the word of the photographer against yours. Have you anyone you can marry?”

“I have a maiden cousin without a penny—”

“Propose to her immediately! Elope with her. Settle money upon her. By God’s grace you may learn to love her.”

“But I hardly know the girl!”

“See her anyway. Don’t tell her you’ve loved her from afar. Tell her the truth. She deserves that and might take pity on you.”

“Mr. Barker,” he said dryly, “it strikes me that you would say anything to get me to recant my testimony.”

In return, Barker gave one of his cold smiles. “You are in worse trouble than I am. I have given you advice and it is not underhanded. May I take it that this cousin of yours is rather plain?”

“She’s not famous for her looks, but she’s a nice girl, if I recall.”

“Do as you think best. You have made a hash of your life so far, boy. She may be your only salvation.”

Clayton put down his drink. “Sir, I think you are correct. I don’t know why I haven’t thought of it before. But what should I do if one of my father’s associates has already seen the photographs?”

“Your only course is complete denial. You’ll not emerge unscathed. You could lose friends and associates, but if you marry and show evidence of a clean character, you’ll find new ones.”

There was a fire in the grate, and with a gesture Clayton tossed the photograph in. It began to blacken and curl.

“I’ll do it. I shall write to Elizabeth this evening and go to Bristol tomorrow to speak to her. I’ll throw myself on her mercy.”

Barker, whom I must admit had looked as if he were ready to punish the young heir for turning our lives upside down, now sat back in his chair and regarded him steadily.

“If I handle Nightwine, will you agree to recant your testimony?”

Clayton took a large mouthful of brandy and swallowed it. He mopped his face afterward with a pocket handkerchief.

“I understand how untenable my position is. I will not emerge unscathed regardless of the outcome. I have tossed away every privilege my father gave me while he was alive, but I would like to think I have retained at least a vestige of honor. Very well. If you can make Nightwine go away, I shall do as you say. I wish you luck.”

Barker reached out his hand and grasped Clayton’s. He looked my way and inclined his head toward the door. Without a word we exited the room.

In the hall we encountered a sputtering butler, but my employer paid no more attention to him than a standing hall clock. We descended the stairs, passed between two open-jawed housemaids below, and exited as we came. We didn’t have to lay down our honor after all.

Outside the dog raised his head and stared at us listlessly. Barker put out an arm and stopped me beside one of the trees. We watched as the constable passed by, still swinging his truncheon. When he was gone we took advantage of the lower branches to climb over the fence, dropping onto the verge of lawn on the other side. Dusting grass from the knees of our trousers, we were away into the anonymous reaches of darkest Bayswater.

“Sir, I was rather shocked by the advice you gave Gerald Clayton. Deny everything? You usually expect people to tell the truth.”

“You’ll recall I told him to reveal all to his wife. As far as his creditors and associates go, in this sort of situation the punishment far exceeds the crime. A rumor sticks to one like glue. Better to deny, for no amount of explaining or assuring will convince anyone. In fact, I myself am not convinced.”

“You think he—”

“Oh, the photographs may be more than he is willing to admit. It doesn’t matter what he’s done in the past, however. The question is: what shall Clayton do in the future?”

Something else was troubling me and I turned to my employer.

“We saw Sebastian Nightwine debark that ship with our own eyes. How could he have possibly had time to get something on Gerald Clayton? It doesn’t seem possible.”

“I was thinking that very thing myself, and that is not the only problem in this case. No one would attack O’Muircheartaigh’s house without scrupulously keeping a vigil for days to learn their routines and habits. There’s only one explanation.”

“What?” I asked.

“Nightwine has an accomplice. And, if O’Muircheartaigh’s secretary was correct, and there’s no reason to think otherwise, it is a woman.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

No one really calls it the Army Navy Club anymore, not if one considers oneself a Londoner. It is known simply as the Rag. In the last century someone had referred to a meal there as a “rag and famine affair,” and the name became part of London culture, though I understand the food has since improved. The Rag was a big stone block at number 36 Pall Mall, decorated with rococo carvings and tall elegant windows. The club was built, I understand, so that wealthy military men could come into London from their estates and find something in town more in line with their home comforts than the average coaching inn. I had never been in such an establishment before. It was as I expected, however: sea and land battles fought for space on the walls with mounted animal heads and commemorative plaques, while every table was strewn with curios and medals under glass.

The eye patch Barker sported actually worked in our favor for once. It gave him the look of an ex-military man, a former soldier or sailor, which, come to think of it, he actually was on both counts. We might have been stopped and questioned at another club, but there, looking and acting as if one fit in was enough to secure entrance.

Once inside, we made a sweep of the place, looking surreptitiously around the public rooms in search of Nightwine. I was conscious of the fact that we were two wanted men searching for a man guarded by a Scotland Yard dectective. I thought it likely Nightwine would be out somewhere or up in his room. Luck was on our side for once, and we found him seated at a table in a library, with several maps spread out across a table. His back was to us, but it was guarded by a burly detective with a sour expression and a copy of
The Sporting Times
in his hands.

Barker took a piece of club stationery and pencil from a hall table and I wrote a note on it according to instructions. It read:
Inspector Abberline requests that you telephone “A” Division immediately.
That done, I folded the note in half, put it on a salver, and slipped into the room, presenting it to the detective. As noiselessly as possible, I slipped out again.

Ten seconds later the detective pushed out the door with an irritated look on his face. As soon as he was gone, we entered the room and bolted the door behind us. Nightwine turned in his seat and regarded us quizzically, though not with any degree of alarm. Far from it, in fact. He had a revolver trained on us.

“Cyrus!” he cried, flashing those bleached-bone teeth of his. “How good to see you again. Was that you who sent my detective after a telephone call?”

“I thought it high time you and I had a conversation.”

“And you brought along Mr. Llewelyn. You see, I remembered your name this time. I like the eye patch, by the way, Cyrus. It suits an old pirate like you.”

“How is Shambhala these days?” the Guv asked.

“Ask me that in a few months.” Nightwine took a cigarette from his case and lit it. It was black with a gold tip. “I wish I knew. I’ve paid a king’s ransom for a map of its whereabouts, but I would still be executed if I crossed Tibet’s frontiers. The only way to go in is with force.”

“Gurkhas?”

“Were you told that or did you guess?”

“Neither. I deduced it. Only a Gurkha tribesman is hearty enough to fight in that temperature and those altitudes. You would arm them properly, I suppose.”

“Her Majesty’s government will provide us with the latest repeating Enfield rifles. I understand the palace guards at Lhasa carry only Chinese-made flintlocks. If it all goes according to plan it should be a massacre.”

“What will you do with the young Dalai Lama?”

“Hold him for ransom, of course. We’ll see how much gold and precious stones the country is hoarding.”

“Would you kill him?” I asked.

“If it suits my plans,” he said, as if we were discussing something as innocuous as betting on a horse. “Five Dalai Lamas have died in the past several years, mostly by poisoning. Dalai Lamas rarely reach maturity these days. They’ll simply send monks out to locate another one among the native population, like pigs hunting truffles.”