Fatal Enquiry (29 page)

Vic took the cigar out of his mouth and spat a string of invectives. He was born Stanislau Sohovic, but anyone pointing out he had immigrant parents was in danger of losing some teeth.

“Let’s go inside,” I said.

The Dickens was more a very long hallway than a public house. The four of us could barely stand abreast and touch both walls, but the Dickens had a reputation as the longest public house in the city. We ordered standard pub fare: cutlets, roasted potatoes, and mushy peas, washed down with brown ale. Vic was forced to drink ginger beer, which I secretly found gratifying. He did manage, however, to get the first word in.

“Where do you suppose old Push is now, eh?” he asked. “Reckon he’s down in the sewers ready to jump out at any moment.”

“No! I say he’s brought the
Osprey
up from Sussex,” Jenkins said, referring to Barker’s steam lorcha. “He could be tied up somewhere along the Thames.”

“I thought he might be in Limehouse, got up like a Chinaman,” Mac replied. “You know how revered he is there.”

I kept my mouth closed, which only made the three of them stop and look at me.

“All right,” I admitted. “This morning I had a thought. What if the Guv were right underfoot this entire time? I went down into the basement and looked to see if he’d been there. I didn’t find anything, but you know he owns the entire building and there are two empty floors above ours.”

We each debated the merits of our case after the food arrived. Had I been alone, I later told myself, I’d have been too nervous to eat. As it was, we wiped our plates with homemade bread and had a second pint. We were well fortified when we left at ten minutes until seven.

“Jenkins,” I said, sounding like a rugby team captain. “I want you to circle around north of the railway and come in from the far end. Vic, you come around from the south along Market Street and walk on the far side of the street as you come back.”

“Wha’ are we doin’?” he argued. “Wha’ am I a-lookin’ for?”

“You’re making sure that I’m not murdered on the street by Nightwine or one of his cronies.”

“Oh,” he said, speaking around the cigar in his gapped teeth. “Thought we was ’ere to do somethin’ important.”

We split up and Mac and I continued down Praed Street. Like many streets in London, it is two solid rows of unbroken three-story buildings. Some very obviously formed residences, while others were a hodgepodge of shops, offices, and government buildings. As we walked I looked for open windows or someone standing on the roofs, hidden by chimneys. I probably wouldn’t feel the bullet, I thought, not if Psmith was the shootist I thought he was. There was no way to prepare beyond common prayer. I looked over at Mac and found he was muttering under his breath, probably in Hebrew.

The Albemarle was there as I had left it, small, discreet, and elegant-looking, with the doorman in a long green coat and hat matching the trim on the building. As we came closer, he opened the door and Nightwine and Sofia exited, waiting for our arrival. I was nervous, conscious that anything could happen. Was this the way Barker worked, or did he prepare for every contingency? One would think after two years in his employ I would know.

“Mr. Llewelyn!” Nightwine called as we approached. “May we please get this business over with quickly? I have an appointment within the hour with someone far more important than you.”

“Good evening, Miss Ilyanova,” I said to his daughter, ignoring his remark.

“Look at you, Thomas,” she responded in turn. “Your face is healing splendidly.”

“Who is this fop?” Nightwine asked, pointing at Mac. “Or should I say, who is this
other
fop?”

“I thought you’d like to meet the man who found your bank draft in Pall Mall,” I said.

“Are you associating with thieves these days?” he asked. “Of course you are. You criminals always work together.”

I saw Mac’s normally sallow cheeks turn red.

“Have you found proof that I withdrew the bounty on your employer’s head?”

“I have,” I answered.

“Then give me my bloody cheque!”

I pulled it from my pocket, folded in half. He took it, opened it, and visibly sighed.

He’d been actually worried. It was the first human emotion I had ever seen him show.

“Thank you, Mr. Llewelyn. Come, Sofia. We’ll be late—”

“Barker!” a voice called out. I remember thinking it was Soho Vic. Immediately, the cry was taken up by another voice. My eye caught the face of a man who was crossing the street in our direction, the young man who had captured me behind Nightwine’s house, the head of the Elephant and Castle gang. They had brought reinforcements of their own. Why did it seem so unfair that they should have done so, when we had, as well?

I looked down the street from where Mac and I had just come, and at first saw nothing, even though the call was repeated by others, as well. Then Mac or someone else moved and I saw him, walking down the middle of the street, stepping around vehicles and horses as they passed. He was wearing his familiar long coat and bowler hat. From where I stood, I saw he had grown his mustache again and dared wear his spectacles. I felt as if every person in the street had simultaneously taken a long intake of breath.

Nightwine was the first to let it out again, accompanying it with a curse. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a pistol, an Adams revolver by the look of it, with an octagonal barrel. Sofia laid both hands upon his forearm, not stopping him per se, but counseling him not to start shooting just yet. He looked about to shake her off, not being the kind to brook interference.

As Barker stepped under the light of the closest gas lamp, something caught my eye.

It didn’t look right. I’d been worried that the Guv wasn’t eating, but he looked well nourished, even immense. Upon closer inspection, it didn’t look like the Guv at all, actually. I glanced back in time to see a hand seize Nightwine’s shoulder and jerk him around. Not two feet from where I was standing, the doorman slapped a pair of gloves across Nightwine’s face, with a dry leather snap. Sofia made a sound in the back of her throat as her father recoiled from the blow.

“Sebastian Nightwine,” a deep, rumbling, and very familiar voice said almost in my ear. “In front of these witnesses, I challenge you to a duel.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Almost immediately we were surrounded by people, some of Barker’s allies, some in Nightwine’s employ, and other citizens from the hotel or on the street, anxious, as we were, to see how this little contretemps played out. After all, it wasn’t every day that one saw a doorman slap a visitor to his hotel.

Cyrus Barker removed his hat, revealing a small, closer-fitting pair of dark spectacles than the ones he was accustomed to wearing. His mustache had begun to grow in. There was too much happening to take in all at once: Barker’s sudden appearance; Nightwine’s reaction to being struck; the doppelgänger Barker, just about to reach us; Sofia, caught between two adversaries; and a mixed circle of men who, at a single word, might start a riot. That was not even considering the shot which at any minute might snuff out my life like a candle flame.

“You’re challenging me?” Nightwine repeated, as if he weren’t sure he’d heard correctly. “That means I have the choice of weapon.”

“It does,” Barker replied. “Tomorrow before dawn. Let us say six o’clock.”

“I’ll provide the weapons, then. I choose sabers.”

“Sabers it is.”

Just then I heard the creak of a boot behind me. I turned my head as the false Barker passed by, seemingly unconcerned. I recognized him immediately now, Bully Boy Briggs in an outsized version of Barker’s clothes. Gone were his heavy side whiskers, replaced by a dark mustache and black lenses. As he walked, he twirled his metal truncheon in his hands, ready to use it if he were stopped, as unlikely as that was. So exact was the outsized gray-black leather coat to the original, it could only have been made by K and R Krause, Barker’s tailors. The last time I had seen him, my employer had fished him out of the Thames after their fight, and had inexplicably given him twenty-five pounds. Was Barker so canny that he had conceived this event so far ahead of time?

I turned my gaze back upon Sofia, wanting to see her reaction, if any, to Barker’s larger twin, but found I couldn’t. In the confusion, she had vanished, leaving an empty space at her father’s side. Nightwine still stared at Barker speculatively, as if trying to work out what trick he was trying to perform by giving away the choice of weapons. If it did prove to be some sort of trick, he could find no flaw in it.

Nightwine looked about, realizing his daughter was missing. Things had not gone as planned, yet he still believed he had the upper hand. He cleared his throat and addressed his old enemy again.

“Good, then,” he responded. “I shall see you tomorrow. Where shall we meet?”

“The southwest corner of Hampstead Heath.”

“I’ll be there.” He turned to one of his men standing at the curb. “Someone stop that vehicle.”

One of the gang members ran out into Praed Street and stopped a passing cab, startling the horse. Nightwine strode out to the cab and climbed aboard. It bowled off, leaving his subordinates to beat a disorganized retreat.

“Good evening, Thomas,” Barker said. He looked at Mac, Jenkins, and Soho Vic, who had gathered closer now that Nightwine’s men were gone. “Gentlemen, it is good to see you all here together.”

He shook each of our hands in turn, exchanging a greeting with us all. Unbuttoning the long, green coat, he stepped inside an alcove just inside the entrance, and exchanged it and the doorman’s hat for his own more familiar coat and bowler. I looked over and saw that Soho Vic was giving us all a gap-toothed grin. Mac had one as well, and even Jenkins looked pleased with himself.

“Is this a private party?” a voice called from across the street. Out of the shadows came the lean, laconic figure of Terence Poole. “Or can anyone join in?”

Barker went forward and grasped his hand. Then he turned and started walking fast, leaving us to follow him as a group.

“Did you find Mr. Psmith?” I asked, catching up with Poole.

“He found me, actually. He was quite put out to learn that the roof he had chosen to shoot you from already had someone occupying it.”

“Seems a shame to spoil a chap’s plans.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Ahead, Barker was having a discussion with Soho Vic, while behind, Mac and Jenkins compared notes. It was time to have the Persian carpets cleaned and perhaps a new painting for the outer office. We followed as Barker turned onto Edgware Road, intent upon some unknown destination, but with a brief wave in our direction, Vic kept heading east. He had mouths to feed and a ragtag army of street urchins to bed down for the night.

I’d have preferred a cab, but Barker seemed determined to enjoy the night that was settling like a deep blue mantle over London. The North Star was the first to shine overhead, while a sluggish moon hung on the horizon, trying to decide whether it was worth the effort to rise that evening. Barker turned onto Oxford Street, in the direction of Charing Cross and our chambers.

“Did you see Barker slap Nightwine in the face?” I asked Poole.

“No! Did he? Blast, I missed that. Saw the big fellow dressed as Barker, though. Who was that?”

“Briggs.”

“Jim Briggs? Last I heard, he couldn’t decide whether he was a bodyguard or a strong-arm man. I’d rather have him working for Barker than the other side. His wife’s sick, I heard, and he’s got two little ones to feed.”

“I only met him once,” I said. I didn’t explain the circumstances. I wasn’t sure where to begin.

Barker had ducked into Dean Street. I had given up trying to decide where the man was going, but though I was still worn from my injuries, it was a good night for a walk in the finest city in all Christendom. All of us walked with our hands in our pockets save for the Guv, who had his folded behind him. Then I noticed him reach into his pocket and extract a key. Stepping into Shaftesbury Avenue, he unlocked the door to the empty building Barker intended to eventually turn into a school of arms. The front room was empty, but in a back room I found a small bedstead, and a shelf containing potted meat, tinned peaches, and half a loaf of bread. I had finally solved the mystery of where he had been the last six days.

I had been present when he let the property, but now I saw he had made one improvement on it. He had added a telephone set. He now seized the instrument and gave the operator a number in Belgravia.

“Abraham,” he said when the call had been put through. “This is Cyrus Barker. I regret the lateness of the hour, but I need a simple document drafted tonight. I shall compensate you for the conditions, of course. Are you able to come? Excellent. Meet me in Newington in an hour. I’ll see you then.”

He hung up.
Abraham,
I wondered, and then it hit me. He was talking to his solicitor, Bram Cusp, of course. It occurred to me that the only possible document the Guv required on such short notice would be a last will and testament.

Mac was incensed, but not because of the telephone call. He stood by the bed lifting the tins one by one.

“He’s been sleeping in this hovel, eating food from tins?” he demanded.

“What have you been doing with yourself, sir?” I asked our employer.

“I have been training. I knew Sebastian would choose the saber, a weapon he excels at. Therefore, I hired the best instructor in London, Captain Alfred Hutton, to train me almost continuously in the art over the past week. I rely on the fact that Nightwine has probably not picked up a blade since he left his regiment, and may be out of practice. It is a slender advantage, I’m sure, but it is the best I could find. Right now, if I know him, he is raging about London looking for a good pair of dueling swords and someone with whom to practice.”

“I would pay to see that,” I said.

“Jeremy, do you need to see your father?” my employer asked suddenly, turning to our clerk.

“He’d understand, sir, if you require my services further.”

“I think we are through for the night. Will you give him my regards?”