Honor's Kingdom (7 page)

Our Minister bore down upon me then, though his voice grew no louder. “Don’t depend too much on any suit of armor, invisible or otherwise. Take care—take great care—Major Jones. After all, it wasn’t Disraeli or that damnable Lindsay who killed Mr. Campbell. Tonight may have been a wasted effort. I merely did what lay within my power.”

“But clever it was, sir. Begging your pardon.”

“Clever or not, you’re as exposed as Lear upon the heath,” he said, as we turned back into the world of well-lit streets. “The men you met will have grasped the general purpose of your visit—at least those who take an interest in things beyond the breeding of their hunters. To the degree it may protect you, I fear it may also hinder you. You’re known.”

I shook my head. “I have never been a fellow for sneaking about, sir. It is not decent nor Christian. I have found that, if a body displays himself, any trouble that interests him will soon come round to call. It is a method I have used before, for secrets love to come out into the open.”

The cab pulled up. “Well, let us both hope that you’ll see any trouble coming in sufficient time to protect yourself,” Mr.
Adams told me. “Here’s your hotel. There were no rooms at the Grosvenor, with the International Exhibition filling the town. And, to be frank, the legation’s budget demands a certain discipline.”

Now, that is as I would have it, and I told him so. We must not be wasteful with our government’s resources.

He caught me as I stepped down. He did not need to touch me at all, but had the magic certain men wield and called back my attention simply by willing it.

“Major Jones,” he said quietly, as two women of more enthusiasm than virtue strolled past the cab, “I dearly hope you can retrieve Mr. Campbell’s watch.”

“I will do my best, sir,” I said, and meant it.

“Come see me Monday morning. Early. To tell me what you’ve found.”

“Yes, sir. Monday morning.”

I stepped back and the hack drove off with a snap.

The Empire Hotel appeared fine enough for my likes, although the neighborhood was livelier than I might have wished for my repose. The hotel sat on Baker Street, just along from MADAME TUSSAUD’S and next to the ECONOMIC FUNERAL COMPANY (LIMITED), whose shopfront promised “funerals in the best style, and with superior appointments, at one-half the usual cost.”

The hotel was clean, and that is all a Methodist demands. I do not like sheets that smell of a predecessor. My room was simple and small, yet I had me a table and chair for writing and pondering. Twas the modern aspect of the place impressed me most. Each floor had its own water-closet, with a pot of the sort that rinses itself to a purity.

Although my bags had been stowed in my room for hours, the porter insisted on showing me upstairs and demonstrating that splendid convenience at the end of the hall, which I allowed was a marvelous invention and a mighty step in the march of civilization. Of course, I had seen such before, and looked forward to the day when such a device might grace my
own home, but such luxury in a hotel that appeared to cater to commercial men spoke well of British hygiene.

Cleanliness is a lovely thing, pleasing to God and man.

The porter seemed to have taken an odd liking to me, for he followed me back to my room after the demonstration. I shook his hand affably when he held it out, but he did not seem to want to go away. Perhaps he had a fondness for the Welsh. I began to unpack my effects and, at last, he put on a disgruntled look and stepped off with a bang of the door. He may have mistaken my weariness for rudeness. I am not at my best with help or servants, for I was not born high, though born most honorably.

I washed my face in the basin provided, then took me down the corridor to enjoy the splendor of that handsome sanitary appliance, which proved a salutary undertaking. Now, it is my habit to write to my Mary Myfanwy and our young John each and every night, and I had posted a baker’s dozen of letters home in Southampton, as soon as I debarked from my naval transport, but even a true heart sometimes fails in its duty. I stretched upon the bed to gather my thoughts, and fell asleep before taking up my pen. I fear I did not even say my prayers.

Mine must have been the heaviest of slumbers, for I heard no one enter the room. And I have an old soldier’s ears. My life has depended on hearing the softest Pushtoon footfall below the Khyber, and sometimes I wake at the scratch of a mouse and alarm my Mary Myfanwy. But that night I heard not the slightest sound.

When I awoke, in yellow light, I found a box beside me on the bed. Twas a gorgeous thing of polished wood, inlaid most ornately, the way the Musselman artisans do in Lahore. I stared at the thing for a confused moment before I lifted the lid.

Inside lay a child’s hand, bleeding and still warm, upon cream velvet.

THREE

NEVER SEEN NOTHING LIKE IT, I AIN’T,” MR. ARCHIBALD said. “Can’t ’ave ’ad ten years on ’im.”

“A boy, then?” Inspector Wilkie asked. “Not a girl?” His whiskers crept so high and black up his cheeks, and his hair grew so far down his forehead, that I could not help but think of a human monkey, though yesterday I had thought him like a hound. I do not mean such comparisons disrespectfully, of course.

“I would say a boy, Inspector Wilkie,” the coroner’s underling continued. “Although a body can’t be positive certain in the case of a child. A lad of eight or nine. And poor, bless ’im. Look ’ere at those knuckles.” The coroner fellow’s large, deft fingers worked the hand that had not yet stiffened in its separate death. The deed was as recent as it was cruel. “See ’ow the fingers ’ave been scrubbed up, all like it was Sunday. Still, the dirt won’t let go of the creases in ’is skin. And as it’s ’is right ’and, it’s all the dirtier, since ’e made more frequent use of it.”

“Just what I was thinking meself,” the inspector said.

“Took it off at the wrist, with one clean chop. Clean as the corner butcher might see it done. Not sawed through at all, but done cleanlike. With a ten-inch cleaver, I’d put ’alf a crown on it.”

“A cleaver, then, Mr. Archibald?” the inspector asked. “And ’ere I am thinking the very same thing meself.”

The stink of the cellar had settled overnight, though putrid enough it remained. Another body, that of a collapsed hag, had joined the Reverend Mr. Campbell in death’s universal marriage and lay beside him on the next table. We worked over Mr. Archibald’s desk, where a kerosene lamp reinforced the light from the gas fixtures on the walls. Bled pale, the child’s hand lay on a bit of muslin now, removed from its ornate bed. Just beside Mr. Archibald’s unfinished breakfast it was.

“Look ’ere now,” the coroner’s helper said, reaching out with his left hand. He took the inspector’s paw and stretched it out for us all to see. Thick black hair grew downward from Wilkie’s wrist onto the backs of his fingers. “ ’Ere’s just ’ow it was done. I bring down the cleaver like this.” Mr. Archibald made a mock chop with his right hand, stopping just at the start of the inspector’s wear-varnished cuff. “Cutting from the inside out, so to speak. That why it’s cut on the bias, it is.”

The coroner’s fellow let go the inspector and bent low over the child’s hand again. Making certain of everything. He seemed, indeed, a scientific fellow. He might have been a student of Mick Tyrone’s.

“Just as I sees it meself,” the inspector said. “Still, I’m troubled by the implications, Mr. Archibald.”

“And why is that, Inspector Wilkie?” The little fellow’s voice took on a wariness, as if his expertise might be impugned.

“It’s just ’ow as this don’t fit the ’abits of the criminal class, of which I ’ave made a serious study. As you ’ave yourself, Mr. Archibald. It’s proven ’ow the criminal class misbehaves for only one of two reasons, when all is said and done. Either to attain a goal, which might or might not be the possession of an object, or in a fit of passion, drunk or sober. It’s ’ard to see the passion ’ere. Your criminal class might bother a child most disgraceful, but they don’t go cutting off pieces.” We stared down at the tiny hand on the desk. “What could be the object or goal of such a deed?”

At that, the two fellows looked in my direction.

I was distraught, for reasons you will learn, but forced myself to go slowly and mind my tongue. Now, I have seen my share
and more of life’s cruelties, on the field of battle and else-where, but that child’s hand disturbed me more than plague in the ranks and tribesmen surrounding the column. I know how to preserve myself in a scrap, and how anger poisons skill, while cowardice cripples. Many a day I have stood when I wanted to run, and kept myself upright with blood spattered over my snout. But there is a certain breed of man I fear beyond reason, the sort who find their joy in causing pain. I have known too many of them, and I have known them all too well.

Nor do I like that which is sometimes done to children by their elders. I do not like such cruelties, great or small. The man who hurts a child is worse than Cain.

But let that bide. I had to speak, for I owed an explanation. Hadn’t the hand been found upon my bed? An incredible thing that wanted explanation?

I had rushed from the hotel half-way across London to Bow Street, clutching that box. Fair howling I come in, insisting that I needed to speak to Inspector Wilkie at once. I was not in full possession of myself, and am not sure I was more than half buttoned-up. I speak of my tunic, and not of my trousers, which were properly closed at all times. I fear I caused a fuss, but an English police sergeant possesses a beefy calm that sees things through. At last, the fellow behind the high desk decided I might not be a lunatic entire and he turned to a subordinate policeman with the order, “Go get Wilkie, Collins.”

And now we were down in the coroner’s cellar, and all my companions knew was that I had awakened to an unwanted gift tucked in beside me.

I am a fool in countless ways, but not in matters of viciousness or death. I knew the hand held a message, and a message addressed to me. But I could not see what that dreadful message might be. Only that, on my account, a child had been crippled. And likely killed thereafter. Twas not a pleasant thought for a man to bear.

Was it meant to frighten me off? Or to draw me in? To gain my attention? Or to confound me?

And there was more. But all that in good time.

“Mr. Archibald?” I began. “You said the wound was made by a cleaver. Might it have been another smooth-edged blade that did the work? A saber, perhaps?”

The coroner’s man crumpled his eyebrows in imitation of his crumpled shoulders and chewed his lip before speaking. “I expects so, sir. So long as the blade was ’eavy enough to cut through at one go. A saber’s got a weight to it, I believe. Although I ’ave observed that the criminal class, which Inspector Wilkie and I ’ave studied most diligently, ’as a preferment for the cleaver as an instrument. They’ll employ most any butcher’s knife what comes quick to ’and in a pinch, but when there’s time to spare, they’ll choose a cleaver. Wouldn’t you say so, Inspector Wilkie?”

“I would, indeed, Mr. Archibald. But ’ear the major out.” Surrounded by whiskers and hair, his eyes fixed upon me. “What’s all this about a saber, now?”

“Gentlemen,” I began, “I am in something of a muddle, see. A shock it was to wake to the box. As you will understand. But I will tell you a thing, if you will listen.”

“Oh, we’ll listen,” the inspector said. “Won’t we, Mr. Archibald? What with a parson dead in a basket of eels one day, and the ’and of a living child cut off the next. I’ll listen all day and through the night to morning, Major Jones.”

And so I told them of India. I told them of the pillaging of Delhi, after we took it back. I told them how the Seekhs and tribesmen who stayed loyal to our flag, not least for their own revenge against the Hindoo and the settled Musselman, went through the houses of the rich merchants, stealing with both hands. And when a great fat Hindoo fellow would not say where his jewels and gold were hid, the intruders began with the right hand of his youngest son, working up to the eldest, and hacking away until the poor devil squawked. For the left hand is defiled in the world of India, and only the right will do. And sons are precious.

No amount of begging would stop those dreadful amputations, and woe unto the family of the trader who had no gold. Mothers thrust their daughters forward, begging the soldiers to cut off the hands of their girls, only to spare their sons, but all was for naught. The worst of it was that the British soldier learns quickly. And when our own boys saw how well the low trick worked, they took it up themselves. I beat men with a rifle butt to stop them, and threatened to shoot others. I recall the baffled look on an Irish private I had knocked down. “Jaysus, Mary and Joseph,” he cried, “they’re only dirty niggers. Where’s the harm?”