Fatal Enquiry (34 page)

There was no poison, unless it was a slow-acting one, no ricin, no explosives. The room looked deserted. There were no suitcases and her clothing was gone. I even looked for her weapons case under the armoire. She had decamped while Barker was convalescing.
Good girl,
I thought.
I hope you’re far, far away from here.

“Thomas,” Barker said, directing my eye to the fireplace. There was a leather case there, a tube-shaped affair leaning against the side. She’d pinned a note to it that read “Mr. Barker.”

“The maps!” I cried.

The Guv crossed the room and squatted beside it.

“Ricin” he repeated. “If it is anywhere, it would be here.”

“No,” I assured him.

“Very well,” he said, and opening the lid, poured the contents out upon the floor. I held my breath, expecting to see powder pour from the tube. I had assured him, but there was no one to assure me.

Barker reached inside and pulled out a half-dozen parchment maps. They were yellowed with age and lettered in what I supposed to be Tibetan script. These were Nightwine’s private maps, the ones too precious or valuable to simply hand over to the Foreign Office. Nightwine was dead, but with them Britain could still launch an offensive action against Tibet of its own.

Still resting on his boots, he spread out the maps on the floor. Some were larger scale, showing mountain ranges and entire countries. Others were plans of buildings.

“Shambhala,” he said, pointing to the smallest of them all, no more than two feet by three. “Here is Lhasa. This one appears to be a detailed map of all the monasteries in the Himalayas, and this looks like a map of the Dalai Lama’s chambers. There’s even a hidden chamber marked to get in and out without detection.”

“Some of them look new and some look very old,” I remarked.

“They know how to preserve manuscripts in Tibet. Some of them could be as much as five hundred years old.”

Right after saying that, he lifted the corner of one and began to rip it in two.

“Sir!” I cried. “Stop!”

“It’s too dangerous, lad,” he said. “Far too dangerous. If these were in the hands of the Foreign Office, they would get into all sorts of mischief.”

“But is that your decision to make? I mean, we could bring them missionaries and medicine and education—”

“And smallpox and instability and slavery,” he continued, still ripping and destroying the maps. Some were on fresh onionskin and made a sharp, crisp sound as they ripped, while others crumbled into powdery pieces. It hurt my eyes to see such beautiful ancient works of cartography destroyed.

Barker stopped at the final map, the one of Shambhala. His hand hovered over it.

“I believe I’ll keep this one,” he said. “I’ve destroyed the one showing its location.”

He set it aside and then began shoving the torn maps into the room’s grate. A single match and they all ignited like tinder. I watched the fire consume them in the reflection of Barker’s lenses.

We lowered ourselves cross-legged on the floor and watched the fire. The blaze crackled with whatever resins or varnishes had been painted on the old parchments.

“She’s gone, then,” I said eventually.

“Aye,” he rumbled. “She’s gone.”

“I suppose we could alert Scotland Yard and have the ports blocked.”

“She would anticipate that,” he responded, watching a perfect little jewel of a monastery begin to char and curl. “She is no fool. Anyway, I don’t feel like aiding Scotland Yard at the moment. They must work their way into my good graces again.”

“You don’t regret letting the killer of Brother Andrew get away?”

“That’s just like you, Thomas, to argue one side on Monday and another on Tuesday.”

“Actually, it’s Sunday, sir,” I pointed out.

“Leave it to you to keep track of your day off.”

“Somebody must, until there is a private enquiry agents union.”

“You’ll be founding president, no doubt.”

“They’d need someone bright as a new penny.”

Carefully, Barker rolled the Shambhala map and put it in the leather cylinder.

“Come, lad,” he said. “Let us go back to the office and see what deviltry London’s got herself into now.”

“Yes, sir.”

In the lobby, Barker turned to the doorman he’d spoken to earlier, and tipped his hat.

“Give him half a crown, lad.”

I paid him and we went out to our waiting cabman.

“Half a crown?” I remarked when we were inside. “A shilling would have done. This was a very expensive case, I must say. I intend to add it all up when we get back to the office.”

“You do that,” Barker said. Crossing his arms and tipping his bowler hat over his spectacles, he rested in the corner of the cab.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

There was an assault upon the knocker that night, shortly after half past ten. Barker and I were disturbed in our separate rooms, both reading with our dressing gowns thrown over our clothes. I was reading one of Mr. Verne’s fantasies, certain if I tried to sleep without finishing it, I should dream of projectiles shooting me to the moon. When the knocker sounded, I wondered, What now? I put a marker in my book and stepped into the hallway, listening to the murmurs at the door. Actually, they were only murmurs on Mac’s part.

“I don’t care what time it is,” a voice brayed in the corridor. “Wake him. Wake both of them, or they can rot in jail this very night.”

“He does not receive visitors in his private home, gentlemen. If you wish, you may speak to him at his offices in the morning.”

I’ve got to say this about Mac: as far as his duties are concerned, he’s got all the brass a man could want. The entire Black Watch could be standing outside and he’d have denied them admittance.

Barker came up beside me and leaned over the rail to hear what was happening, as I was.

“Who is downstairs?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. Someone official, I think. We’ve been threatened with a night in jail already.”

The Guv proceeded down the steps, with me behind him. Two men stood in the hall. The first was Commissioner Warren. I knew him from images I had seen published in the
Gazette.
He was of medium build, with a brown mustache and an aggressive manner. He looked every bit the retired military man. Beside him was a man a little taller, with a lantern jaw almost gray with stubble. I speculated he must have to shave twice a day.

“Gentlemen, may I help you?” my employer asked with more politeness than the occasion deserved.

“Barker,” Warren said. “Where is Sebastian Nightwine?”

“I’m sorry, he’s not in this house. When we saw him last, he was in the company of a young woman. What was her name, Mr. Llewelyn?”

“Sofia Ilyanova, sir,” I supplied.

“Were you responsible for the burning of some maps this afternoon in a grate in the Albemarle Hotel?” the other man demanded.

“I’m sorry, but I do not feel the need to answer questions from guests in my home who haven’t had the manners to offer their names.”

“I am Hoskins of the Foreign Office.”

“Well, Mr. Hoskins, what sort of maps are you talking about?”

“They were maps of Lhasa, which you no doubt already know. They were of national importance to the British Empire.”

“Did I miss something?” I asked. “Are we about to be invaded by Tibet?”

“My sources tell me, Barker, that you were just released from the Priory of St. John. What was the nature of your injury?” Warren demanded.

“An injury to my shoulder.”

“How did you acquire this injury?”

“In a duel in Hampstead Heath with Sebastian Nightwine,” Barker responded.

“Who won the duel?” asked Hoskins.

“Obviously he did. I am the injured party. I should have known better than to challenge a superior swordsman.”

“When did you last see Mr. Nightwine?” Hoskins continued.

“I passed out at the scene and did not see him leave.”

“Where could he have gone, then?”

“I believe he said he and his daughter had a ship leaving at noon.”

“A ship?” Hoskins snapped.

“Aye. I hope you gentlemen have not lent him any money. He never was responsible with money.”

“That’s a lie,” Warren thundered, as if by slandering one military man, he’d slandered them all.

“I’m making no accusations against him,” said my employer. “Just offering personal advice.”

“Perhaps you’ve got him tied up or locked away somewhere. We will have this house searched from cellar to attic.”

“As you wish,” Barker said, as if the matter of his own house being searched didn’t concern him in the least. “You may start there if you wish.”

“There” was actually Mac’s room, the closest to the entranceway. Hoskins turned the handle and pushed the door open. Immediately, Harm burst forward and froze upon his ankle. The Foreign Office man gave a cry of pain and surprise and began to hop about. I could have told him no amount of leg-shaking was going to dislodge the dog’s little arsenal of teeth. Once locked in, I knew from personal experience, he was like a nutcracker with a fresh walnut.

Warren pulled a small pistol from his pocket and dared to aim it at Barker’s prized possession, given him personally by the Dowager Empress of China herself. The Guv twisted his wrist and took the gun away from him, as one takes a slingshot from an incorrigible six-year-old. Warren turned red and began to sputter, choking on his own anger.

“Mac!” Cyrus Barker called, almost leisurely, as if for tea.

Jacob Maccabee appeared and separated the dog’s jaws from Hoskins’s limb.

“My apologies, gentlemen,” the Guv said, returning the pistol. “I forgot our guard dog was in that room. Why don’t you begin with the library?”

Hoskins had seated himself on the hall floor and was examining the bite marks on his ankle. “What’s behind that door? A tiger?”

I tried to control myself, but his aggrieved look was too funny. I laughed, which under the circumstances was not the right thing to do.

“Oh, you think this is funny, do you, Mr. Llewelyn?” Warren snarled. “Do you know what I think is funny? Six months in Holloway Prison, for a start.”

“For what?” I asked. I’d already been released for assaulting an officer.

“I’m sure we can come up with all sorts of new charges. Resisting arrest, causing an affray, aiding a known fugitive. In fact, I can keep you for months simply on suspicion. Your file says you are trained in the use of explosives. How do we know you are not an Irish sympathizer?”

“Give him to me,” Hoskins put in. “I’ll see that he disappears permanently.”

“Gentlemen!” Barker growled, silencing everyone. “I do not believe Mr. Llewelyn or I are going anywhere tonight.”

“What makes you so sure?” Hoskins demanded.

Cyrus Barker turned to me and put out a hand. “Mr. Llewelyn, the watch.”

I stood for a moment, confused. Was he going to perform some sort of magic trick? I pulled the ticking engine from my pocket, removed it from its gold and platinum chain, and handed it to him. Immediately, he thrust it into Hoskins’s hand. The man looked at it, as perplexed as I, then his brows rose and he handed it to Warren without a word. I had forgotten the inscription.

To Cyrus Barker, from HRH the Prince of Wales for services rendered to the Crown

Barker knew that the prince bestowed these upon his guests like party favors, and I knew it, but these gentlemen did not. If they did, they still couldn’t tell what the service had been. It could have been anything from being a good baccarat partner to saving his life. In this case, it just happened to be the latter.

Without a word, Warren gave me back my watch, which I reclasped and put in my waistcoat pocket with all due reverence.

“You’re sure Nightwine said he was leaving on a ship, and not a train?” Hoskins asked.

“Definitely a ship. Did you catch the name, lad?”

“I don’t think he threw it, sir,” I answered.

“There you are, then.”

“You were still seen going into the Albemarle this afternoon,” Hoskins said.

“We haven’t denied being there,” Barker answered. “We were as curious as you as to whether they had gone. One might assume Nightwine burned the maps himself, before he left.”

Hoskins looked at Warren and Warren looked back. It wasn’t that they wanted to believe the Guv. They didn’t, but he had pulled a trump card from my pocket and they didn’t know him well enough to know if he was bluffing.

Warren raised a finger. “If we learn you’ve been lying to us, you won’t be able to tell the difference between my wrath and a ton of brickbats falling about your head.”

“I shall certainly remember that, Commissioner,” Cyrus Barker assured him. “I wish you luck with your hunt. You know there is no love wasted between Mr. Nightwine and myself.”

“Mr. Barker,” Hoskins said, now cordial enough to add the word “mister” to his name. “Can you offer an explanation as to why Nightwine would bring maps all the way to England merely to burn them?”

“I believe I can,” he said. “He has had the maps for a while, the only maps that show the entrance and fortifications of Lhasa. By memorizing and then destroying them, he is assured that he alone has the knowledge of how to get in and out of Tibet. He may still intend to take the country, only for himself, with your money to finance it. You may recall I sent the lad to your office with just that suggestion over a week ago. Were I you, I would stop payment on that bank draft immediately.”

If I ever felt at any time that my employer lacked imagination, it was disproven that day. While Nightwine lay in the grave somewhere, or in a coffin crated up and bound for the East on some steamer, Barker spun a tale of a mythical Nightwine attempting to bilk the government of its money and making it sound plausible enough to be true. There was enough truth to it that Warren and Hoskins were unable to punch holes in his logic.

“Sebastian would not do such a thing,” Warren maintained, but I could sense a hesitancy in his voice.

“Believe what you will, sir. That is only my theory of what he plans to do, but I have known him more than twenty years and you not even twenty days.”