Fatal Enquiry (32 page)

I opened the trap and looked down into the cab as we sped east toward Clerkenwell.

Barker lay sprawled in the corner, his head lolling with its motion. I had lost him, my teacher, my mentor, only to find him again, to lose him to death, only to see him brought back to life. Surely that was enough for even the two of us to go through in as many days. His life was now a burning ember, the merest spark, but surely it would not go out again.

“Come on, come on, come on, come on.” I realized I was chanting under my breath, but whether I was speaking to Juno or to God I couldn’t say. If the latter, it wasn’t the most reverent prayer he’d ever heard, certainly nothing compared to one of Barker’s declamatory speeches which lasted half an hour while the Sunday joint went cold.

Finally, I was turning into the cobblestone alley with the stone archway, and Juno clattered to a stop when I set the brake, skidding the last ten feet. Good old Clerkenwell, mundane as a Sunday afternoon. I hopped from my perch to the ground and ran into the building.

“I’ve got an injured man here!” I yelled to no one in particular. Two men in morning coats came running to the cab. One of them called for a hand litter, and within two minutes, Barker was being carried inside. I followed him, but was stopped by one of the men.

“Name, sir?”

“Mine or his?”

“His.”

“Cyrus Barker. Is this going to take long?”

“Not if you answer succinctly. Age?”

“I’ve never asked him. He’s around forty, I think.”

“Is he a member of the priory?”

“I believe so, yes. I was a patient here myself last week.”

“What seems to be the trouble?”

“He was in a duel this morning and was cut by a saber in the back of the head as well as stabbed in the shoulder. Just after that, I think, he was struck by a poison dart, because he collapsed in a heap after the duel and registered no pulse. Then he was given an antidote to the poison by an injection directly into the heart. I understand the serum contained a dose of adrenaline. It brought him round in that his heart is beating but he’s not conscious and is pretty much like you see him now. Do you think you can do something for him?”

The porter or what-have-you simply stood there with his pencil poised over his notebook, not writing or doing anything, but standing with his jaw half open.

“Do something, you idiot! The man may be dying!”

The porter wheeled about and went into the room where Barker had been taken. I had intruded into his ordered world with my reanimated corpse and my talk of deadly toxins. I followed him into the room. A second man came out and pushed me out of the way to use one of those metal tubes to listen to my employer’s heart.

“It’s Cyrus Barker,” I said to him, a stocky sixty-year-old man with brown hair shot with gray and a beard white as snow, a much more confidence-inspiring sort than the one before him.

“Oh, we know Mr. Barker here,” he said. “No idea what sort of poison he was given?”

“No, sir. I’m sure it was probably exotic.”

“What physician administered the antidote?”

“No physician, sir. It was a bystander.”

“I see,” he said, as if he got this sort of emergency all the time. “And did he say most definitely that what he injected was an antidote to the poison?”

“Yes, she did,” I told him. “I gathered she had created both.”

The doctor opened Barker’s shirt and inspected the wound on the breastbone, an angry pucker of red skin.

“Wait outside in the hall,” he finally said. “We’ll do what we can.”

“I’ll see to the horse and be right back.”

I’d seen a few stables in the area before and found one that I thought would take good care of Juno. Then I walked back to that medieval alleyway which now contained a secret hospital where, right then, the Guv was strapped to a gurney, fighting for his life.

I sat in a wooden chair against a wall near the front entrance. One hour stretched into two, and two became three. I told myself this wasn’t a simple case. He’d been stabbed twice and poisoned twice, for in a way, the antidote itself was a kind of poison. Administer it to a healthy man and I’m sure it would kill him stone dead. I couldn’t expect to go in a few hours later to find the Guv sitting up and taking nourishment. The doctor, a man named Strickland, finally came out and took a seat in the chair beside me.

“We can’t do a thing for him but wait,” he explained. “Oh, we’ve sewn up his wounds, but with no idea what he’s been exposed to, it would be negligent to start giving him useless medications. We’ll administer digitalis if his heartbeat weakens. Other than that, we must let him rest.”

“Has he awakened at all?”

“No, and I don’t expect him to for a while. He’s always had an iron constitution. We’ll let him sort himself out for now and check his progress.”

“Yes, sir. Whatever you think is best.”

“Now, Mr. Llewelyn, let us talk about you. You left this hospital under rather unusual circumstances a week ago. Is that correct? Your sister had no business taking you from this facility in such a state.”

“She wasn’t my sister, actually,” I admitted. “That was the girl I was talking about to your porter.”

The physician raised his eyebrows. “Can you explain why she felt you were better cared for outside of this hospital?”

“You’d have to ask her.”

“If she shows up again, I hope you will alert someone immediately.”

“I shall. Thank you, Doctor.”

An hour later, I thought to inform Terry Poole that our friend was in hospital and fighting for his life. Some people should know, I thought, such as Mrs. Ashleigh. I also sent word to Mac and Jenkins. Poole arrived within the hour and stood at the foot of Barker’s bed listening to him breathe.

“Any idea when he’ll wake up?” he asked.

“When he’s good and ready, or so the doctor tells me. I say, are those dark spectacles you have there in your pocket?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “Warren finally saw sense, but only after we threatened to form a labor union and strike. There were so many spectacles about the place by the end he said he’d fire the next man who wore a pair. I’ve been reinstated, but assigned to ‘K’ Division. It’s a demotion. No more chances to nip home for lunch, it looks like, not for a while, anyway.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Mrs. Poole must be disappointed.”

“She said she was just getting accustomed to my being underfoot.”

“Have you heard anything about Sofia Ilyanova?”

“She has not been seen since leaving the Albemarle.”

“What about Psmith?”

“I hope he’s long gone.”

“Keep me informed. I’m sure the Guv will want to know.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The next morning I was at the priory at eight o’clock but was still not the first to visit Cyrus Barker. When I entered his room, I found a stocky, strongly built man sitting next to the bed, with the chair drawn up so that his back was to me. Even though I couldn’t see his face, I still had no trouble recognizing him. It was Charles Haddon Spurgeon, the pastor of the Metropolitan Tabernacle, Barker’s church. I was not about to interrupt his communion with the Guv, so I took a seat out in the corridor.

The pastor came out a quarter hour later, and upon noticing me, walked over to shake my hand. He had a thick head of silvery hair and impressive jowls beneath his beard.

“Thomas,” he said to me. “I understand you have been through quite an ordeal.”

“I have, sir,” I admitted, surprised the great man knew my name. I suppose it was because of his close relationship to Cyrus Barker.

“You will let me know when he awakens, won’t you?”

“Of course.” I had to admit, I liked that word “when.”

“And when he does, tell him I won’t have him dawdling in bed. There is work to be done and he hasn’t earned a holiday just yet.”

“Yes, sir,” I answered. It took a moment to work out that it was spoken in jest.

“Take care of yourself, son,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. “And take good care of your employer.”

He turned and headed toward the entrance. A clergyman of his import must know every corridor of every hospital in the city. As he left, I took Spurgeon’s chair and sat looking at my unconscious employer. His color was better and he appeared to be in a deep sleep. I missed his stentorian voice. In fact, there were a lot of things I missed. Even being at the office, when we had time to talk about things not related to any case, or training together at night. I had taken this situation to keep from starving, not realizing that it would eventually become my whole life.

“Thomas,” a voice said, interrupting my reverie. It was Mrs. Ashleigh, with a doctor in tow. I jumped from my seat.

“Dr. Hilliard has been giving me the latest on our patient,” she said, walking to the edge of the bed. She began to remove her gloves. “Tell Thomas what you just told me.”

Dr. Hilliard, a tall, elderly man with pince-nez spectacles, nodded gravely. “The tests have been inconclusive. However, he’s suffered no setback and looks better today. There’s full hope of recovery. I was telling Mrs. Ashleigh that all we can do now is wait for him to awaken.”

“I’m pleased to hear it, sir.”

The doctor nodded and left, and Mrs. Ashleigh turned and looked me square in the eye. I could see the mettle in her that morning. She was someone to reckon with, despite her fashionable dress and delicate features.

“Thomas, you look a fright. Sit down and tell me everything that happened.”

I pulled up a stool next to her, and unburdened myself of most of what had happened since I had seen her last. It felt good to be able to say the words and know that someone actually cared. At one point, she put her hand on my arm and smiled as if she wished she could take away my pain.

“I prescribe a good long rest for you.” Then, looking at Barker, she said more wistfully, “For both of you.”

She stayed at his side for more than an hour, saying nothing, but holding his thick, meaty hand between her own. I thought it the best medicine he could possibly have.

After she left, a steady trickle of people came throughout the day to sit by Barker’s bed: Etienne, Mac, and even Jenkins. Around five o’clock, Pollock Forbes came to the bedside and asked for another retelling of the story. It was the first time I’d ever seen him outside the confines of the Café Royal.

“He looks well,” Forbes noted. “Any sign of movement?’

“None so far.”

“Are we taking good care of him?”

“We?” I asked. “I always read the Knights Templar and the Knights Hospitaller were enemies after the Crusades.” While nominally a Freemason, Forbes helmed a group comprised of the remnants of the Knights Templar.

“We were, for a century or two. But that was a very long time ago.”

“I see.”

“This year we shall inaugurate an ambulance service in London,” Forbes said.

“And what, pray, is an ambulance?”

“It is a vehicle for transporting sick or injured people to hospitals. The service will be offered by subscription, something your employer should take advantage of.”

“Excellent!” I said. “I’m glad to hear it. I shall agitate the Guv to subscribe. You wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to transport a man his size in a hansom cab. I was thinking of trading it permanently for a dog cart.”

“I’ve got some other news for you,” Forbes said. “The murder charge against your employer has been dropped. Before he died, Gerald Clayton made a statement to Scotland Yard, exonerating Barker. The warrant for his arrest has been withdrawn, though don’t expect it to be heralded in the newspapers.”

“What about the assault charges?”

“I thought it best to not interfere on that score. It’s no more than a slap on the wrist and a fine. It will soothe the ruffled feathers of Warren and the Police Commission, particularly since the charges against you were dropped.”

“Did you do that?” I asked.

“I put in a good word for you. I thought you might not want another blot on your record.”

“It’s blotty enough as it is, thank you.”

“I must say, your police record made for some interesting reading.”

“You saw it? Is there any document in London you cannot lay hands on?”

“I don’t know,” he said, smiling. “I haven’t tried. It’s best not to press one’s luck.”

“Thank you for everything you have done for us, Pollock,” I said. “I know you must have gone to a great deal of trouble.”

“Only as far as Commissioner Warren was concerned. He was hoping the arrest of the dangerous criminal Cyrus Barker would secure his position for a year or two.”

“Why should he have what the prime minister cannot even claim?”

“Mind you, the duel is still hush-hush. The fact that it took place in Hampstead Heath is known to less than a dozen people. I’d like to keep it that way.”

“So you can trade on the information later?” I asked.

“You catch on. About now, the Foreign Office must be wondering what became of their Colonel Nightwine. His bank draft was not cashed and his room at the Army Navy Club is not occupied. I believe I’ll let them wonder about it for a few days more.”

“Poor chaps,” I said. “They nearly had a new empire in their grasp. I feel sorry for them.”

“Don’t,” he counseled. “They’re rats to the core.”

“Anderson’s all right.”

“He’s not really one of them. He merely shares space in their building. Between you and me, he’s too good for his situation. I’d like to see him moved up someday soon.”

“Is that what you do, go from soirée to meeting to late-night supper, trading favors and making suggestions?”

“Your employer can save the world in his way. I’ll do it in mine. How many people have you told about Miss Ilyanova and her murderous parasol?”

“Three, perhaps four. Only those in Barker’s closest circle.”

“No more, please,” he said, as if he were speaking to a child or a simpleton. I’d like to think I was neither.

“Why not?” I challenged. “It’s the truth.”

“You’re an adult now, Thomas. One cannot go about indiscriminately telling the truth. It must be doled out in bits and pieces or no one shall ever believe it. If what you say is true, this girl Sofia has killed more people than almost any soldier presently in England. Don’t get me wrong; I believe you, but think about it for a moment. What does that bode for the future? A woman who can kill better than a man? You do realize she was here for over two weeks, strode about in broad daylight, killing close to a dozen people, and yet no one recalls her or so much as suspected her. Scotland Yard and the Foreign Office hadn’t a clue.”