To Kingdom Come (5 page)

“Thank you.” I saw him discreetly press some silver into the
steward’s hand. The two of us climbed the servants’ staircase and soon found ourselves in sole possession of an elegant corridor. Barker knocked on the door marked 311. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he thumped. With that ham-sized fist of his, it was just short of beating down the door.

A moment later the door opened, and a man looked out at us in minor annoyance. I was more accustomed to seeing his face in engravings in
The Illustrated London News.
He was a tall, well-built man in a frock coat of light gray, with a long but well-groomed beard.

“Yes?” he demanded. “What do you want?”

“Mr. Parnell, my name is Mr. Cyrus Barker. This is my assistant, Mr. Thomas Llewelyn. I believe I am in possession of information you shall find useful.” He offered his card. Barker has a way of snapping the pasteboard in his thick fingers as he presents it that has so far eluded me, no matter how often I try.

“I doubt that sincerely,” Parnell replied drily, looking at the card. “Barker. I’ve heard of you, but I assure you I don’t need to hire an enquiry agent.”

Barker would not be put off so easily. “I have a matter of great importance to discuss with you, sir, but I would not care to do so in this hall.”

Parnell shrugged and stepped back, opening the door wide. “Very well, come in. Half of London has been in here today already. I don’t recall your name being mentioned by Scotland Yard this morning.”

“You won’t,” Barker said, as we stepped into the room. “We are working
sub rosa
for one of Her Majesty’s agencies. I am taking you into our confidence, because I am convinced you had nothing to do with the atrocities that occurred last night. I am going to risk revealing what I have learned because I believe you can be trusted, even if Her Majesty’s government does not.”

“It’s nice to know someone trusts me. I spent most of the
night being questioned by Scotland Yard. The newspapers today are wild over this new outrage. I won’t be surprised if I’m burned in effigy at a rally tonight. Everyone seems to think I can wave my wand like Merlin and every faction will fall into line like so many ducks. I wish it were that easy.”

“I’m afraid the situation is worse than you’ve been led to believe. According to my sources, if a bill for Home Rule is not rushed through Parliament within the month, there will be a second series of outrages much larger than the first.”

“Good lord,” Parnell said, falling into an overstuffed leather chair and running a hand through his scant hair.

“Precisely. Should that occur, it will not be an effigy they shall hang. All your attempts at forming a legitimate coalition for Home Rule will have been set to naught. It is vital that you help me, you see. I am your only hope of containing the more militant factions of the Brotherhood.”

“If another series of bombings occurs, it could throw back the chances for Irish democracy thirty years or more,” Parnell agreed. “Believe me, gentlemen, I want to help you, but I know nothing about the bombings. I assure you, none of my associates had anything to do with them.”

“Somehow, a group of factionists from the more radical fringe were able to smuggle in dynamite from America. They prepared and delivered their bombs and got away without being detected. Obviously, that requires a high level of organization. Who has such an ability to command men and use strategy among your compatriots? Who is both ruthless and radical enough to threaten the government and the Royal Family?”

“I scarce can say,” Parnell said vaguely.

“You need assurances,” Barker said patiently. “I know there are dozens of factions out there, with a like number of ideologies. Some are militant, others philosophical, and some are merely formed to take in money. I have one mission and one mission
alone: to find the faction that blew up Scotland Yard last night. I must find them, shut down their operation, and turn them over to the authorities, and I shall do so privately. This is not for the newspapers. You cannot use this as proof of your sincerity, not publicly, anyway. Give me names, Mr. Parnell, the names of the more militant leaders among the I.R.B., or Clan Na Gael, or whatever they are calling themselves this morning.”

“How do I know,” Parnell asked, “that what you uncover won’t go to the Special Irish Branch who’ve been kicking in doors and harassing innocent Irishmen?”

“I’ve trusted you just now with privileged information that could be passed on to the press or to other factions because I believe your efforts to help the Irish people are sincere.” Barker moved over to the window and looked out into the street, his arms crossed. “Now you shall have to trust me. I cannot put it any plainer than that. The names, sir. In your heart of hearts, who do you think it might have been?”

The Irishman picked up a silver case and lit a cigarette. His hand, I noticed, was not steady. Surreptitiously, I pulled my notebook out of my pocket.

“You do realize what the punishment among the factions is for informing, do you not, Mr. Barker?” Parnell asked.

“If you are referring to Peter Carey, who was assassinated for informing on the Invincibles last year, I do. They tracked him all the way to South Africa. But he had definite information and was one of the conspirators. I merely wish to be pointed in a direction.”

“Very well. I cannot give you a definite name, but I can give you a list of a half dozen capable enough. There is Peter Davitt, O’Donovan Rossa, Michael Cusack, Alfred Dunleavy, Henri Le Caron, and Seamus O’Muircheartaigh. Most have spent time in prison, and Dunleavy and Le Caron have commanded armies. If he isn’t among one of them, he is unknown to me, and I’d like to
think that such a fellow would have been brought to my attention before now.”

“Have you got all that down, Llewelyn?” Barker asked.

“Almost, sir. I didn’t get the last fellow’s name.”

“I know him,” Barker said. “I shall spell his name for you later. That is all I need of you, Mr. Parnell. We won’t take up any more of your time. Come along, lad.”

Barker led me down the grand staircase to the lobby, where we evoked the scrutiny of the hotel manager. One cannot be faulted for leaving an establishment, however, and we left unhindered. Two thirds of detective work, I believe, is sheer brass.

Outside, my employer led me to the curb and stood for a moment, his walking stick on the pavement. I assumed he was awaiting a cab, but when one jingled up, he stepped back and offered it to a woman and her daughter leaving the hotel. He then led me down Brook Street a block or two. As we were passing a quiet tea shop, his strong fingers gripped my elbow in that way of his, and we entered. Without a pause on our way to the farthest booth in the room, he called for a pot of tea and three cups. Three cups? I wondered. It wasn’t until we arrived at the booth, and he sat on the same side as I, that the light dawned. We had a second assignation.

I took a sip of the tea, and as I set the cup down, a man slid silently into the booth across from us. He was a thin fellow, whose long coat and pants were so tight he appeared even thinner. His head was bulbous, the scanty black hair plastered across it, and his thin mustache was waxed into points.

“Barker,” he said, bowing his head respectfully, then took a delicate sip from his cup.

“Henri, may I present my assistant, Thomas Llewelyn? Thomas, Mr. Henri Le Caron. He was spying on us earlier from the second-floor rooms across the street from Claridge’s with the aid of a telescope.”

“Was I that obvious?”

“Not at all, but, then, I was looking. I suppose you could just as easily have been the Special Irish Branch.”

“They were in the attic above me, watching Parnell until last night, but they shut down their operation this morning. I do not believe they consider Parnell a suspect.”

“Do you?”

Le Caron took another sip of his tea to sum up his thoughts. “Probably not, as far as the bombings are concerned, but I’m throwing my net a bit wider. Anderson wants to know how capable he is, and whether he has any weaknesses that can be exploited, if necessary. I believe Parnell quite capable of persuading Gladstone to sponsor a bill for Home Rule, but he is not without flaws. He’s living above his means and has an English mistress, a married one, at that. If the Irish intend to throw all their eggs in his basket, I believe they shall find them dashed to the floor.”

“Have you spoken to Mr. Anderson since last night?”

“Yes, by telephone. He’s apprised me of the situation. I must say, I don’t envy you or the Special Irish Branch your deadline. It has taken me years to earn the trust of the Irish Brotherhood, and that is merely in a general way. The factions themselves are very close-knit.”

“How many groups would you estimate are functioning at the moment in Ireland and England?”

“I’d say two dozen or more, but some are merely Irish youths looking for a reputation. Less than half that are true terrorists, radical enough to bomb and kill, or to die in the attempt.”

“Parnell has given me a few names of possible candidates for leadership of the faction who planted last night’s bombs. One of them is a dangerous Frenchman named Le Caron.”

Le Caron laughed, revealing a space between his teeth. He seemed the total opposite of a successful spy, but then, I suppose, a ruddy-cheeked, solid fellow looking like an Eton and Cambridge
graduate would have raised the Irish hackles in a heartbeat.

“Yes,” Le Caron said. “Watch out for the Frenchman. He’s a dangerous fellow. Who were the others?”

“Davitt, Cusack, Dunleavy, and Rossa. Oh, and O’Muircheartaigh.”

Le Caron emptied his cup and set it down. “For a politician, Parnell has more acumen than I would credit. Unless the faction leader is a new fellow we haven’t heard of, it will be one of the five. I’ve worked with the rest before, but I only know of O’Muircheartaigh by hearsay. He contributes heavily to the Irish cause, but his organization is mostly composed of Irish criminals. His base is here in London.”

“I’m familiar with Seamus,” Barker stated. I noticed Le Caron gave him a shrewd glance, flicked a second one my way briefly, and went on.

“That leaves Davitt, Dunleavy, Rossa, and Cusack,” Le Caron continued. “All of them are green with envy over Parnell’s hopes, though between you and me I don’t think the Crown will ever countenance state visits from a former prisoner.”

“Rossa has schemes of his own. He’s being funded by groups such as the Ancient Order of Hibernians, but he’s got them so confounded, they don’t even realize they are funding a terrorist. Davitt’s more a politician, a great orator, but not the sort for this kind of mission. As for Cusack, he’s attempting single-handedly to bring back the Irish language and sports. I think his plate is full already, and he rarely leaves Dublin.

“Dunleavy’s an old Irish-American warhorse, who fought as a colonel on the secessionist side during the American War Between the States. He saw action at Antietam and Vicksburg. I was on the opposing side, but after the war, we worked together on an Irish raid into Canada, in an attempt to trade Toronto for Irish freedom. Of course, I sent word ahead and the attack was scuttled. I think Dunleavy still seethes over the losses of the Southern states but
having a role in the new Irish government would more than make up for it. He’s ruthless and wily enough for a campaign like last night, when he’s not on the bottle. He’s got his share of the Irish melancholy and occasionally goes on bouts of drinking.”

“Thank you for the information,” Barker said. “You don’t think Parnell capable of subterfuge?”

“It is possible,” Le Caron acknowledged, “but I’d sooner suspect one of the others. Parnell is already in a good position politically, not that we couldn’t bring him down, if we needed to. The mistress alone is enough to discredit him. For one thing, she’s married to an English officer.”

I got a glimpse then of the kind of politics that went on in the rarefied circles the Home Office worked in. I had to say, I didn’t care for it and hoped that working for the government was not something my employer would do often. I felt as if we, as pawns, could be too easily sacrificed.

“I must get back, as boring as it is to watch him read newspapers and wring his hands,” Le Caron said, preparing to leave. “I wish you both
bonne chance
in your search for the faction. I hope you get to them before Munro and his boys do. The Home Office has no love for the Special Irish Branch and their tactics. They may be new, but they have already stolen several of our informants and scared off or worried others. Strong-arm bullyboys is what they are. Is this little fellow going with you? Is he being trained in faction fighting?”

“I am having Vigny give him lessons this week.”

“Close enough. Good day, and good hunting.” Le Caron rapped his knuckles on the table and was off.

Outside, Barker whistled again for a cab, while I pondered the last exchange. Who was Vigny, and what was faction fighting?

“Why do I feel as if you’re not telling me everything?” I asked.

Barker gave that short cough that passes for his chuckle. “Lad, you don’t know the half of it.”

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