Fatal Enquiry (6 page)

“I thought you were guarding Nightwine,” the Guv said, frowning at him.

“I am,” he told us. “We work in shifts. I’ve just been next door, checking in at ‘A’ Division.

“Have you heard the news?”

“He’s been busy turning away clients,” I said. “What has happened?”

“Five people are dead this morning and three more in hospital, including two constables. A residence has been placed under quarantine, and just happens to belong to Seamus O’Muircheartaigh. Someone has done for him. He’s barely hanging on to his life, and is not expected to recover.”

The Guv looked at me and gave a low whistle of surprise. “Someone is very brash to make a play at the Irishman,” he said, “if not suicidal. The man is a human cobra. What have you discovered so far?”

The inspector dug into a coat pocket for his notebook and began flipping pages, while I pulled out my own from the rolltop desk, ready to take shorthand.

“This morning, a young woman delivered a package at number 47 Old Jewry, the City, shortly after eight o’clock. That’s about all O’Muircheartaigh was able to tell us before he collapsed. There was parcel wrapping in the outer office and a sword and scabbard on the Persian rug in front of his desk.”

“Was the sword in the scabbard?” my employer asked.

“No, they were lying side by side. When our constables arrived, everyone in the office was dead or dying, without so much as a scratch on them. PCs Roche and Halston were summoned by a secretary, a Miss Callahan, now deceased. Whatever it is, a microbe or what-have-you, it got them, as well. They’re in St. Bart’s Hospital, choking out their lungs at the moment.”

“Do you have a description of the girl who delivered the package?”

“Heavily veiled, dark dress, average height. Could have been any woman in London, or even a small man in disguise.”

“Interesting,” Barker murmured in his low voice, so piercing I could feel the wood desk under my hand vibrate as I wrote.

“What kind of sword was it?” Barker went on. “Foil? Saber?”

“No, it was in your line,” Poole said. “Wide blade, not very long. Possibly Asian. The handle is copper and represents a flower of some sort.”

“Offhand, I’d say it was ricin that killed your constables, Terry, a substance produced in the manufacture of castor oil. It is fatal if inhaled. It was probably in the toe of the sheath. The drawing of the sword to view the blade released the substance into the air.”

“How do we clean it up?” Poole asked.

“Very carefully, and with a wet neckerchief covering your face. The residue will have settled on everything, and this substance doesn’t become inert. O’Muircheartaigh should be quarantined, as well. One good cough and the ricin in his lungs becomes airborne again. It’s nasty stuff.”

“This all sounds vaguely foreign,” Poole stated. “I’ve never heard of ricin before, and of course, O’Muircheartaigh is an Irish criminal. Then there’s the sword. Do you suppose it could be a rival Irish faction, working out of France, perhaps?”

Poole, an Englishman to the core, is always suspicious of anything or anyone outside his own culture. The French are not to be trusted, the Germans covet our navy, and the Russians want to wrest India from our grasp. As a Scot and a Welshman, the Guv and I have wondered about his opinions closer to home, but he is a good friend, and has saved our hides on more than one occasion.

“I’d have called O’Muircheartaigh the most dangerous man in London,” Barker stated, “but whoever made the attempt on his life this morning would more closely earn that title.”

The thought occurred to me that whoever the messenger was, he had done me a favor. The Irishman had sworn he’d kill me one day. In our second case, I had been responsible for causing an explosion which killed a woman who had been his paramour. That she was going to use the bomb she carried to harm a member of the royal family he found irrelevant.

My employer looked at Poole. “You’ve given me very little information to work with.”

“It’s all we have at the moment,” Poole said, standing. “I’ve got to get back. The Yard is hopping today. We’ll talk later.”

When he was gone, I turned to my employer.

“Do you think there’s a connection between Nightwine’s arrival and this attack upon O’Muircheartaigh?”

“I am convinced of it. Nightwine sold his criminal interests to the Irishman before he left for Asia. Seamus would be furious to hear he was coming back.”

“Not even if Nightwine declared himself reformed?”

“If you believe that, lad, you are more naïve than I think you are.”

“So, someone working for Nightwine attacked O’Muircheartaigh, attempting to bring him down first?”

“I would, were I in his situation,” Barker said. “Wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose I would.”

Standing, he filled his pipe and crossed to the window, where he looked out onto the courtyard. “Mark my words, Thomas. O’Muirchartaigh already knew of Nightwine’s arrival and was planning a move of his own when events overtook him.”

“Should we go into the City then?” I asked.

“Even if we tried to enter his offices, we would be stopped by the police, and I do not believe Seamus would be able to speak if we went to St. Bart’s. We should stay here until we have more information.”

I was about to venture a remark, no doubt something decisive and necessary to the investigation, when I was interrupted by the bell of the telephone set on the Guv’s desk.

I got up from my chair and lifted the receiver to my ear.

“Barker Agency,” I said.

There was a short crackle on the other end, and then the operator spoke in a monotone voice.

“Good morning. I have an incoming call for Mr. Waterstone,” he said.

“I’m sorry. You must have reached this number by mistake. There’s no one here by that name.”

“Thank you,” the operator said, and rung off promptly.

“Who was it?” Barker asked.

“Wrong number,” I stated. “He wanted someone named Waterstone.”

There was a sharp tink as Barker’s pipe hit the floor and the amber stem broke.

Before I knew it, his hands dug into my lapels and jerked me around the desk, as he dragged me toward the narrow hallway behind our chambers.

Barker stopped at a door on the right and opened it. It was a lumber room with a ladder affixed to the wall at the far end, leading to the basement. He pointed and I climbed down quickly, with him close behind.

Reaching the empty basement, he led me across to a door in the wall and plunged inside. It was a tunnel, narrow and unlit. I hadn’t gone ten feet before my shoulders came in contact with something cold and reptilian. I gasped, my mind conjuring snakes.

“Telephone cables,” my employer called out ahead of me. “We’re under the exchange.”

We scuttled along, bent double, for at least fifty yards, until we saw a faint light ahead. My employer clambered up a set of stone steps and I heard the metallic squeal of a bolt being drawn before we burst out through a trapdoor onto the embankment overlooking the Thames.

“Take the footbridge,” the Guv shouted, pointing overhead. “The sooner we are out of Whitehall, the better.”

There is a time to ask questions and a time to be silent and this was definitely the latter. We climbed the bridge and loped across it, fast enough to cover ground but slow enough not to attract attention. We passed the spot where two years earlier I had been blown into the Thames by an explosion. I had promised myself I’d never come this way again, but apparently, this was a day for breaking promises.

“We’ve got company,” Barker called back, as three constables trotted toward us from the far end of the bridge. I thought perhaps we could appeal to them for help, but instead, the Guv charged them. Though he dispatched the first easily, the second was thick enough to believe he could tackle Cyrus Barker. He threw his arms around him, locking his hands behind Barker’s back, his helmet hard against my employer’s rib cage. The Guv hesitated, choosing the right spot, possibly even the precise vertebra, and then brought his elbow down sharply. This would have been enough for most men, but the constable was tough. He doggedly held on. Barker had to drive a knee up hard into his diaphragm, lifting him off the ground, before the man finally let go and slid down onto the bridge. As I came around, the third officer was about to take a swing at my employer’s head with a heavy truncheon, so I caught his hand and swung it down, cracking the ash across his kneecap. He gave a sharp cry and fell, holding the injured limb. Tugging his whistle from his pocket, he tried to bring it to his lips, but I thumped him on the helmet with his own stick. He stopped moving and I turned to my employer, aware we’d just assaulted three civil servants.

“Secure them,” he said to me, a trifle winded, and tossed me the Hiatt master key he always kept in his waistcoat pocket.

“Don’t forget their whistles,” I said, as I dragged a constable to the side of the bridge and cuffed him to a bracket there.

“Good thinking. Now, find us a cab.”

We hailed a passing hansom at the far end of the bridge and climbed aboard. Barker sat back and immediately sank into himself in that way he has. I let him think a minute or two before speaking.

“Where are we going?” I demanded.

“The Bank of England. We need money.”

“I take it the name ‘Mr. Waterstone’ is some kind of warning. Who sent it?”

“Terence Poole.”

“What are you talking about? I know he’s a friend, but he’s threatened to arrest us a dozen times. He’s had me in lockup at least twice.”

“Never for something that could impede our liberty altogether.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, feeling a cold tingle between my shoulder blades. “What sort of something?”

In answer, he merely shrugged those thick shoulders of his.

“So, right now, our offices are being stormed by Scotland Yard?” I speculated. “Poor Jenkins. They’ll probably haul him in for questioning. At least he can claim ignorance.”

“Terry wouldn’t warn me over anything short of murder. We must assume a warrant has been issued for my arrest.”

“I still don’t understand, sir. Why not stay and prove you didn’t do whatever it is you’ve been accused of?”

“If there was a way to prove my innocence immediately, Poole wouldn’t have called,” Barker said, his brows so knitted they had descended behind the twin moons of his black-lensed spectacles. “Whatever it is, it must be damning.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

I’d never been inside the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street before, though I’d passed down the street itself on several occasions. Barker holds accounts in various banks across London, but generally uses a branch of Cox and Company within Craig’s Court. I better understood why he had an account at the Bank of England when I read a plaque inside that said the establishment was founded in 1694 by a Scotsman, William Paterson. My employer prefers old established companies with which to do business, and sends his money north of Hadrian’s Wall whenever possible.

I wasn’t prepared for the vaulting marble ceilings or the cavernous echo of footsteps and voices therein. One could be excused for mistaking the bank for part of a cathedral or royal palace. In the hush of those grand walls, I was painfully aware that I had just chained three police constables to a bridge. I stood beside my employer, trying to look professional and businesslike, but inside, my nerves were ajangle.

Cyrus Barker wrote a cheque while I surveyed the room. We crossed to a long counter manned by tellers, hard-faced men with most of the color drained out of them, who looked as if they had not smiled once in their entire lives. The Guv set the paper down in front of one of them, a man so desiccated he would not have been out of place among the mummies in the British Museum. He scrutinized the slip of paper distastefully, but then I expected that. Barker’s handwriting is nearly illegible.

“I’ll be right back, sir,” the teller said. “I must get this amount approved.” He turned and passed into the room behind.

The Guv’s hand opened on the counter, as if to tap on it, and then closed again, willing patience. I cleared my throat and looked about. Everything appeared normal. People walked about sedately, discussing loans and rates. Men filled out forms, and conferred in corners. Money was accruing, and an empire was being financed.

The Guv grunted something in a low voice that I could not understand.

“I beg your pardon?” I asked, a knot suddenly forming in my stomach.

“I said, run!”

I turned and dashed toward the door just as two burly men came around the far end of the desk and gave chase. As we ran, Barker pulled a handful of sharpened coins from his pocket, which he uses to stop anything short of a bull elephant. There was a clang as he banked them off the hard marble floor behind us. One man took a coin in the shoulder. The other one received a deep cut in the cheek. The last I heard before breaking out into Threadneedle Street again was the sound of one of them falling with a groan.

From there it was only a short distance to London Bridge and the relative safety of Lambeth on the other side. Barker and I first attempted a straight line to the bridge via Gracechurch Street, but at one point, he diverted me into Lombard. It was none too soon, as a squad of constables trotted by, heading north toward the bank. The Guv pulled me into a shop that sold general sundries, looking about momentarily at domestic items that had no meaning in our lives: hairpins, bolts of fabric, and combs. After a minute or two, he pulled me out again, and we skirted a tailor’s shop. The third business along the row was a coffeehouse, and as he opened the door, I was momentarily treated to the aroma of freshly brewing beans. However, it was all I was treated to, as we crossed the main room and passed through the kitchen, whose help stared at us without even so much as a protest. We exited into a sooty alley which led into King William’s Street before finally coming to ground in an evil-smelling barber shop.

“We need our hair cut,” Barker stated.

“Not my hair!” I protested.

“Especially your hair, lad. It distinguishes you.”

The shop was worlds apart from Truefitt’s of Old Bond Street, our customary barbers. It looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the Worshipful Company of Barbers was first organized in 1308. The shaving mugs were cracked, the floor filthy, and the barbers little better than inebriants, with but a single set of proper teeth between the three of them. It came as no surprise that the shop was empty. We settled uneasily into two ancient chairs and unwashed sheets were tucked around our throats.