To Kingdom Come (31 page)

Just then, a man stepped out of the shadows of an alleyway behind us and cleared his throat.

27

I
RAISED MY STICK, READY TO STRIKE AGAIN IF
necessary. I must have looked a sight. My nose was swollen, the skin under my eyes already turning a dusky purple, my hair wringing wet, and my shirt red with blood. It was appropriate, therefore, for Jacob Maccabee to step out of the alleyway, immaculate in his crisp suit and bowler, as if he’d just stepped out of a tailor’s shop.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, as if we’d just been out on a perambulation around Hyde Park instead of a month-long desperate attempt to save London from being destroyed. “Your vehicle is waiting, sir,” he said, turning to our employer, “and I’ve brought the items you requested.”

“Excellent,” Barker said, leading us through the alleyway to the back, as if it were any other day. When had he alerted Mac? I wondered. Our private hansom and our mare, Juno, were awaiting us. Mac reached into the vehicle and held something up for me to don. It was the coat my employer had made for me several months before, with lead lining in the chest and back and built-in holsters.

“You’ve got to be joking. I don’t need that,” I said. “It is nearly July.”

“Wear it,” Barker demanded, donning his own. “This business may get more deadly before it is all over.” We didn’t have time to argue but climbed aboard the conveyance. Our horse, Juno, looked back at us from her traces.

“Where shall I take you gentlemen?” Mac asked, climbing up into the back of the vehicle and opening the trapdoor over our heads.

“I need to find a telephone quickly,” Barker answered. “Have you any suggestions?”

“Yes, sir. I believe I can take you to one not three streets from here.”

It was closer to four, but I will not quibble. It was in a jeweler’s shop in Shaftesbury Avenue. I wondered if Mac knew every Hebrew in town. Though it was after hours, he knocked loudly at the door until it was answered by a small, portly man. There was a short conversation in Yiddish, which Barker, ever the linguist, joined in, and then we were led inside to a telephone.

“Mr. Anderson?” I asked.

“Exactly. It is vital we locate the Prince immediately.” He gave the operator an exchange number and waited. In a moment, he was speaking to Anderson, explaining what had just happened.

“You’re looking well, Mac,” I said.

“Thank you, sir. I only wish I could say the same of you. Allow me to get some ice for that swelling.”

“Later, perhaps.”

“Let’s be off, quickly, gentlemen. The Prince of Wales is in St. James’s Street, at White’s Club. It is but a few streets from here. We must get there immediately.”

The three of us bounded back into the cab. Mac called out his thanks in Yiddish, then cracked his whip in the air. Juno’s shoes bit into the cobblestoned roadway and we were off.

We were going as fast as the traffic would allow, but we were all on the edge of our seats going down Piccadilly. If we didn’t get there soon, the man next in line to the throne might be dead. Finally, we bowled up to the marble entrance to White’s, and alighted.

All seemed well. There were no constables in sight and no commotion. St. James’s still had the grand sedateness for which it is justly famous. Barker and I appeared to be the only thing out of place so far, a bearded bomb maker and a bloody anarchist, both glaring anxiously about.

We were moving toward the door when our quarry suddenly appeared from the far corner of the street. Like us, he’d acquired new clothes—a nondescript coat and a bowler, but I couldn’t miss those two satchels, having chosen them myself in Paris. Perhaps if I’d been more prepared, I would have shut my mouth until he came closer, but my nerves were at fever pitch. I sang out as soon as I saw him.

“There he is!” I cried.

Garrity was still a couple of hundred feet away. I saw him skid to a stop, pull his hat down, and turn around, running off in the direction of Pall Mall.

“After him, lad!” Barker cried.

We both outraged the public peace by running flat out after the rapidly departing bomber. In doing so, I narrowly avoided colliding with a group of men just coming out of the club. I turned my head in time to see one fellow in the middle—a stocky, bearded chap with hooded eyes—who was removing the cigar from his mouth and staring at us with some interest. I was a block away before I realized that it was the Prince of Wales. It was as close to any royal as I’d ever been in my life. I don’t think Barker noticed, and if he had, I doubt he’d have given two straws. His nose was to the scent, and he wasn’t going to quit until he’d brought down his quarry.

We ran through Pall Mall after the bomber. When we reached Trafalgar Square, Garrity’s arrival had sent dozens of pigeons into the air. Barker had a keen eye, or we would have missed him, amid all the flapping and feathers. Without stopping, he pointed south toward Whitehall, where this had all begun.

I heard a crash of glass ahead of us, as we reached Whitehall, and a minute later, we reached Craig’s Court. A new hole stood in the fresh pane of our chambers at Number 7. I saw no sign of our prey anywhere.

“Surely, it hasn’t been half an hour since we set the bomb,” Barker said, trying to convince himself. It was near time, however, and the last thing he needed was to blow up the chambers he’d just had refitted. Stopping to defuse one bomb would keep us from following Garrity, who still had another. The time had come, I realized, to separate.

“I’ll go in and defuse it, sir. You go on after Garrity.”

Having no key, I climbed the brick at the front of our building until I reached the bow window. Avoiding the glass, I tripped the latch, opened the window, and crawled inside. It was a matter of only a minute to disarm the bomb. That left only one, but of all the hands it could be in, Garrity’s were the worst. He could easily reset the timer and blow up Scotland Yard a second time. I half expected to hear the rocking shudder of an infernal explosion any minute, but it didn’t come. I jumped from the windowsill to the pavement and ran along Craig’s Court.

I made my way through a narrow alley beside the Telephone Exchange. There was no sign of Garrity or Barker anywhere. I ran around the corner to Scotland Yard, worrying that history might repeat itself. I passed the Sun, which was open and doing a brisk business again. Had I the time, I would have gone in and spoken to Jenkins, who, according to his own orbit, would be reigning over his little corner of the public house. As for the Yard, it was like a beehive, with constables on the alert for the missing
bomber. There was no sign of Garrity, and the trail was growing cold.

I was beginning to despair that I’d lost him, and hoping that Barker would arrive any minute, when I heard the sound of feet running. Looking up, I saw movement ahead. Before my mind even had time to react, my body was loping along toward the sound ahead of me. I ran toward the Thames.

On the far side of the railway bridge, right near the water’s edge, there was a flurry of movement. Close to a dozen constables were on the ground struggling. I was looking to see if Garrity was among them. Abruptly, my employer stood, but whether he was helped up or they had mistaken him for another bomber, I couldn’t say. As I got closer, some of the constables turned toward me, ready to take me down, if I were a threat.

“He’s with me,” Barker called.

Then I saw Garrity, prone upon the ground, his arms and legs in the tight clutches of Scotland Yard and a look of black anger on his face as he cursed us.

“You’ve got him, then.”

“Yes, but the bomb is gone. We’ve been tricked. There, lad, up on the bridge!”

I looked behind me and doubted my eyes. The satchel was in the hands of a man wearing a coat and hat identical to Garrity’s, and he had just begun to cross the railway bridge. I had no idea who it could be. I was after him, even staying ahead of Barker, for once.

“Stop!” I yelled. It might have come out better had I Barker’s low, rough voice, but it had the desired effect. I saw the figure look over his shoulder and then run even faster. Our quarry was on the small railway bridge that my employer and I had crossed on the night of the first bombing. In half a minute I was on the bridge myself.

The bomber was much closer to me than before. I could easily
make out his coat and bowler and one of the satchels I had purchased in Paris. He was so close, in fact, that he was within shooting distance.

“Stop, I say, or I’ll shoot!” I bellowed, with as much conviction as I could muster. I reached into the leather-lined pocket of my special coat, and my hand grasped the wooden grip of my Webley revolver. I thrust it out, and tried to push down any doubts as to whether I could really kill anyone, or even whether I should.

“Give up!” I cried. “I cannot possibly miss at this range!”

Then, on the wind, a scent came to my nose. Above the noxious fumes of the river, something carried on the breeze, full in my face, something I would recognize anywhere. It was lilac.

“Maire?” I whispered, as I realized who it was.

The figure stopped in its tracks. I did the same. We were no more than fifteen feet apart. Slowly, she turned. She was wearing a man’s coat and hat, over a man’s suit coat and trousers. It all came together in a flash. Maire O’Casey had been the youth who had set the first bomb, the one the cabman had let out at Scotland Yard.

“Put the gun down,” she said to me, as if I were an errant child. “You know you could never shoot me.”

“What are you doing here?” I demanded. “You’re supposed to be in Liverpool.”

It was growing dark, but I could still see the smile on her face. She removed the bowler and threw it over the railing, her auburn hair spilling out around her upturned collar.

“You didn’t really think Dunleavy clever enough to think up this little enterprise, did you? If you did, you’re even more naive than I thought you were, Thomas.”

“If it wasn’t Dunleavy, it must have been O’Muircheartaigh,” I said bitterly. “I presume he’s waiting for you in a carriage across the bridge.”

“Is that so? Did you really think he is behind all this?” she asked.

“It was Maire, herself, lad,” Barker called out from somewhere behind me. The sun had almost set and he was in silhouette. “She is the leader of the faction.”

“That’s right, it was me. I thought up this entire plan. I recruited Dunleavy, with Eamon’s help. I organized the faction. I planned the entire operation and delivered the bombs that blew up Scotland Yard. And you, Cyrus Barker!” she called out.

“Yes, Miss O’Casey?”

“While you men were at the Crooked Harp, I went to see my old mentor, Seamus O’Muircheartaigh. He had a suspicion that you might be on our trail. You played a very good game, though not quite good enough. I still have this bomb.” She looked at me. “Thomas, there is still time. Come with me. Once safely across the bridge, we can blow it up and make our escape. We can begin again together. With my planning and your bomb-making skills, we shall free Ireland yet. What do you say?”

I actually did stop and think a moment of a life with Maire, away from the private enquiry work and my life as it was. It fell like a house of cards.

“I say, I work for Cyrus Barker and Her Majesty’s government. Set down the satchel at once, and step away.”

She held out her hand. “But, Thomas, forget all that. Come with me,” she urged in a low voice. “We can find a cab on the other side of the bridge. We can be in Paris again by tomorrow.”

I lowered the gun, staring into the face of the woman I had kissed so recently. My mind couldn’t take it in. “Stop it, Maire. You know I can’t.”

“Of course you can. You can do anything you want to do.” She plucked a revolver from her pocket and pointed it over my shoulder. “Not one step closer, Mr. Barker!”

“Miss O’Casey.” I heard Barker’s deep rumble behind me. “Your game is finished. Put down the bomb.”

“Come with me,” she said, stepping farther away, ignoring Barker.

“Not another step!” I ordered, but even I could tell it lacked conviction.

“Good-bye, Thomas.” She began to turn.

“Stop, blast you!” My finger was squeezing the trigger.

Perhaps it was the sudden anger in my voice that did it. She knew I wouldn’t let her leave. She swung the barrel of her pistol toward me and I saw the sudden flash of her gun.

I felt the bullet strike me on the left shoulder. It was caught in the leaden mesh built into my coat. It was as if I’d been prodded roughly with a stout poker. I don’t know to this day whether my finger twitched in natural reaction to the shot or whether I deliberately pulled the trigger. All I knew was that my own revolver discharged a second after hers.

Saying there was a boom simply does not describe it. One second, I was on the bridge, my feet braced, and the next, I was blown over the side. I have a memory of Barker’s arm reaching toward me, but he was too late. Maire O’Casey was no more to be seen, and I was launched out into the night sky.

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