To Kingdom Come (32 page)

W
HERE WAS I? OH, YES, TWENTY FEET DEEP, JUST
free of that infernal coat, and about to fill my lungs full of vile Thames water instead of air. It was then that I felt a rough but familiar hand seize my collar and begin to pull me upward. Somehow, Barker was beside me. He dragged me up to the surface, and we both took in great lungfuls of air. I had complained about the dank, fetid reek of the river dozens of times before, but just then it seemed the sweetest air in the world. I was alive, soaked like a water rat, and choking for breath, but alive for all that.

“Hold still,” the Guv ordered. “Stop thrashing about.”

No longer having the strength to struggle, I stopped moving while Barker reached over my shoulder and took hold of the lapels of my waistcoat, pulling me along through the water on my back. My employer was a strong swimmer and towed me as easily as if I were made of cork, while I sputtered and coughed, trying to expel the foul water from my lungs.

As I floated there, my thoughts scudding along like clouds on a blustering day, I eventually made out the sound of oars.
Someone had alerted the suicide station under Waterloo Bridge, and they had launched a rowboat.

“Over here!” Barker cried. The next I knew, I was being pulled roughly over a gunwale, the hard wood scraping across my stomach, and was left sputtering like a fish in the bottom of the rowboat. A constable threw a blanket over me and rubbed me down with all the gentle tenderness of a turnkey. He made up for it by handing me a steaming mug of tea, leaving me to sort out my erratic thoughts while the others hauled in Barker.

In the boat, to the steady sound of the oars plunking in the water, my mind began to coalesce. Maire O’Casey. The bomb she had carried had exploded, obliterating her on the bridge from which we were slowly drawing away. Maire had taken me in completely, had even taunted my ignorance on the bridge. I’d been a fool. I’d thought her a gentle girl, the kind I would wish to see again if only I could figure out how she could accept my being the spy who turned her brother in. Now there was no need. She’d been leading the faction the entire time, and now she was dead. I felt an emotional mantle settle over me just then, chilling my heart, a mixture of cynicism, world-weariness, and grief. Better I’d been left at the bottom of the river. Had I been able to piece this together then, I might not have struggled so fiercely to be free from the embrace of my lead-lined coat.

When we reached the police pier, I saw the silhouettes of Juno, our cab, and Jacob Maccabee atop his perch against a gas lamp. They must have followed our progress on the water and outdistanced us handily on land. Barker and one of the river constables took me under the arms and helped me onto the dock, where I stood shivering and looking out across the oily surface of the Thames. The constable was tugging at me, and with a start I realized he was merely trying to take the mug of tea. I let go, and Barker bundled me into the cab. I was to go home while Barker worked through the night, giving statements to Scotland Yard
and the Home Office, attempting to pacify Inspector Munro and seeing that all our bombs were carted away to be destroyed by Her Majesty’s Horse Guards, whose barracks were but a few streets away.

As I sat bundled in the blanket, cradled in the embrace of the hansom, I reflected on the fact that this was the second time my case ended in injury and my being driven home in this very cab. I listened to the steady clip-clopping of Juno’s metal shoes upon the cobblestones. My disjointed thoughts were that surely somewhere there was a position for a failed scholar, a clerking position, perhaps, or one in a quiet library somewhere, something nice and safe, and free of infernal devices and bridges. Yes, in some nice village that had no bridges at all.

There is generally a feeling of satisfaction when one returns from a journey of some duration, but I felt numb as I stumbled out of the cab and into our home in the Newington. At the time, I thought there was nothing that could ever make me feel better again. I had not reckoned on Harm.

The dog came charging in from the back library, his black fur rippling. He skidded across the wooden floor and bunched up the rug in front of me with his momentum. He jumped up and tapped me with his paws. He went up on two back legs and danced in a circle, his tongue lolling. He barked and howled his clarion cry, informing the district that the conquering hero had returned.

“Harm, you idiot,” I said, scratching him behind the ears. I had to admit, it did feel good to be home. After a hot soak in the bathhouse in Barker’s garden, I went upstairs to change into proper clothes. Even I was appalled at how ghastly I looked in the mirror. My eyes were black, my nose as swollen as a prize-fighter’s, and my Thames-befouled hair made me look like the worst dregs off the East India docks. After Mac had brought up a ewer of steaming water, I shaved and beat back my hair with a comb, promising myself a good haircut in the morning.

When I went downstairs a half hour later, Mac had set out a supper consisting of cold goose liver pie, salad, and Stilton, finishing off with port and walnuts. It was a far more civilized meal than the colcannon and peas I’d eaten during the case, but I ate like an automaton, despite Dummolard’s expertise. Afterward, I went upstairs.

Mac came up to collect my filthy clothing and took pity on me yet again. He lit a fire in the grate and sat me down in front of it before leaving. Harm whined until I let him crawl into my lap.

It was building, I knew it. I’ve always been one of those who see a man crying as a sign of weakness, but then, I’d just blown up a woman I cared for. One must make allowances. One minute, I was stroking Harm’s fur abstractedly and the next, I was sobbing into it. Pekingese are very proud and vain creatures, and normally I would have expected him to object to his coat getting wet; but like Mac, he, too, took pity. He put up with my storm of emotion until it passed as quickly as it had come. I let out a shuddering sigh and finally let the dog go, watching as he scuttled quickly from the room.

Changing into nightclothes, I crawled into bed, though it was just barely nine o’clock. One would think that the events of the past evening would have kept me awake, tossing and turning, reliving them again and again. Instead, I fell into a profound sleep, as if trying to make up for all I’d lost over the past few weeks.

Sometimes when a bad event occurs—the death of someone one cares about, for example—there is a period just when one is waking up before one remembers. One has a general feeling of well-being, a cheery optimism. The day is full of myriad choices. Then the terrible memory returns, and one’s entire world comes crashing down about one’s ears. At least, that was my experience the
next morning. I didn’t know which hurt more, that she was dead or that she’d played me for a fool.

Mac was busy opening curtains and greeting my morning. I don’t know why he did it, since I was not the master of the house, but a hired employee. Perhaps Barker had asked him to do so. As usual, Mac disguised whatever feelings he might have about me in a professional manner, solicitous but remote.

“I trust you slept well.”

“Very well, thank you,” I replied automatically. My mind was back on the Charing Cross Railway Bridge.

“Mr. Barker requests your presence in his room at your earliest convenience.”

Dressing was not too complicated, and it took only a few moments to run a brush through my thick hair, but during the night my nose and eyes had swollen even more. Barker could not help but comment on it.

“Quite a brace you have, there,” he commented over his tea. “You look as if you just went ten rounds with the great Mendoza himself in his prime.”

“You wanted to see me, sir?” I asked, helping myself to the contents of the silver coffeepot, which Mac had obviously brought up for me. Dummolard had provided currant scones.

“I thought we might discuss the case,” Barker said. “Let me begin by admitting a mistake. I should have gone after Miss O’Casey myself.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to shoot her.”

Barker poured another thimbleful of tea into his handleless cup. “Oh, that could not be helped, lad. If you hadn’t shot her, I would have. She wasn’t going to be allowed to get off that bridge with one of our bombs. If your conscience is bothering you, let me state that I have my doubts as to whether you triggered the explosion at all. The actual time of the explosion was very near.”

“I’m sure I shot the bag, sir.”

“How’s your shoulder?”

“It’s fine.” Actually, there was an ugly purple bruise, with a reddish ring about it.

“I’m sorry you went over the railing, Thomas. I tried to get to you, and my hand was no more than a foot away, but you flew past me too quickly. It was good that you were wearing that coat. It saved your life. I shall have another made for you, and buy a new Webley to go with it.”

I sat down and idly began to pick apart one of the scones. Barker was buoyant, and why shouldn’t he be? His case was completed successfully, and in the very face of Inspector Munro. I, on the other hand, felt like a complete failure, and a murderer as well.

“Are you feeling sorry for Miss O’Casey and the faction?” he asked. “Don’t. Remember, they would have killed us without mercy had they discovered who we were. And if you were swayed by Miss O’Casey’s words on the bridge, remember she was still using you, hoping to get you to join their side, but she despised you. When she saw you were of no use to her, she had no qualms about dispatching you. She was a brilliant leader, a strategist, and as ruthless as she needed to be.”

I put my hand to my face, then instantly regretted the gesture. “I’m confused,” I admitted.

“I thought you might be. Now that the case is finished, I shall go over it with you. Let us start at the beginning.”

Had it really been only four weeks ago?

“Very well,” I said. “Why did you offer your services in the first place? As everyone has pointed out, you’re an enquiry agent, not a spy.”

“Scotland Yard is good at what it does—keeping the peace, investigating crimes, and patrolling the city—and I have the greatest respect for the organization, but this operation was beyond their scope. The Special Irish Branch, under Inspector Munro, has
made great strides since it was formed last year; but it takes several years to develop the connections I have in this city, and the S.I.B. was not yet ready. As for the Home Office, their members are recruited from the top schools in the country. As good as they are, it was difficult for them to infiltrate the factions. That’s why their spies died in the field, all, that is, save Le Caron, whom, you remember, I trained myself. Now, I couldn’t make a convincing Irishman, and there are very few people I could impersonate, but Johannes van Rhyn was one of them. It just happened that he was the one man they wanted most of all.

“The last I spoke to him, van Rhyn was complaining because Rossa was attempting to recruit him for his faction. I thought that if Dunleavy knew the other factions were after him, he would jump at a chance to make use of van Rhyn.”

“How could you be certain you would discover the faction that blew up the Yard?” I argued.

“The Irish are a loquacious race. We would have had almost no chance of discovering them had they been Chinese, for example. Cathcart deserved his pound a day. As for Soho Vic, I’ve kept him busy running messages between the Harp and our offices. There was a chance I couldn’t discover which faction had blown up Scotland Yard, but I did, so the question is moot.”

“Dunleavy was never able to convince you he was the faction leader, was he?”

Barker lit his pipe, in no hurry to answer, running the lit vesta around the bowl before blowing it out. “No,” he stated. “Alfred Dunleavy was too weak. He is undisciplined, lazy, melancholy, and a drunkard. He had grandiose schemes and a complaint against the world for not making him a great leader. He could not have thought up or enacted the brilliant scheme of employing a team of five men using timed assaults to bring down London.”

“So, whom did you suspect?”

“Everyone, of course. A brilliant leader would be capable
of playacting. Now, confess, lad, even when you found O’Muircheartaigh’s letters, I’ll wager you didn’t once suspect Miss O’Casey of being the leader, did you?”

I had to admit it, but I wasn’t going to say it was because she had turned my head. “No, sir, I didn’t.”

“Yes, well. My second list of suspects, if you considered the faction leaders as the first, were: the O’Caseys, Garrity, McKeller, Yeats, the Bannon brothers, and Mr. O’Muircheartaigh. Oh, and Dunleavy, since there was a small chance he was more clever than I thought he was. That was my list of suspects, and I merely had to winnow it down.”

“Yes,” I added, “while concealing who you were, making their bombs, and preparing a plan to capture them when they reached London.”

Barker gave a cough, his answer to a chuckle. “I’ve had a little experience doing this, lad. Where was I?”

“The list of suspects.”

“Correct. I crossed McKeller off early. It’s possible he was more than he claimed, but he seemed so genuine, I believed him. He was a big, violent man, without much of a past or a future. By the way, I must compliment you on defeating him. He was a very dangerous opponent. Did you really intend to put up that weak guard?”

“Yes, sir. I remembered what you said about putting everything into a final effort. It was the only way I could win.”

“You improve, Thomas.”

“Thank you, sir,” I murmured. It was rare praise, indeed.

“The Bannons I dismissed because they were twins. I know it was possible for one of them to be the leader, but they were very self-involved, as twins sometimes are. Also, they seemed to be doing mere yeoman service. They had no internal fire.”

“O’Casey,” I said. “Now, he was the logical choice. Trinity educated and obviously talented. He’s good-looking, intelligent,
not to mention a trained fighter. What was it about him that didn’t make you suspect him as the secret leader?”

“He didn’t rise to the bait.”

“Bait?” I asked. “What bait?”

“You, lad,” he said, taking his pipe from his mouth. “I used you as bait. Surely you must have seen that. A young fellow like Thomas Penrith, armed with all the skills of van Rhyn, with decades to develop more. I thought if O’Casey or Dunleavy was the actual leader, they would have been astute enough to latch onto you early. You’ll note that Dunleavy barely spoke a word to you, and young Eamon O’Casey didn’t warm up to you until after the bomb demonstration. He was a little closer to you later, but not enough. I would have thought that someone wishing to attach a man of your skills to this cause would have forged a bond with you. He did not, but Maire O’Casey grew very interested in you.”