Will Thomas: The Black Hand

What was he going to ask? He puffed a time or two on that dratted pipe of his. If I moved forward another half inch on my chair, I’d fall off.

Barker cleared his throat. “Mr. Llewelyn, I understand fully the circumstances of your hire-that you were going to throw yourself into the Thames if you were not gainfully employed, that you considered yourself a failed scholar, and that this was the only position available to someone with a criminal background such as yours. In short, you came here out of desperation. Now you are desperate no longer. You have earned enough to move your late wife’s remains to a proper site; you could if you so chose send money to your family in Wales and still live well here. I provide your room and board and training. I would be content to continue training you as my assistant, Thomas, but I would not have you here against your will. If you wish to become a clerk or private secretary, or even a poet, now is the time to do so. I can offer a letter of recommendation that should offset your criminal record, in certain circles, at least. I could even get you an interview or two. Your skills in shorthand, typing, orthography, and organization are exemplary; and you don’t have to be prompted to do anything. If you wish to leave my employment, now is the time. Of course, if you go, I shall miss our conversations and training together, but we shall both move on. However, if you stay, I shall rely on you more fully; and were you to leave then, or grow dissatisfied with your work, you would throw this agency into turmoil. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, though my tongue felt as if it were stuck in my mouth.

“So, what’s it to be, then? Will you be signing on for another voyage?”

I didn’t hesitate or even consider. “I will, sir. I’m afraid I’m ruined for any other kind of work now. I don’t want to sit in an office and fill out forms on a chancery case that has been going on for decades when I could be saving some person’s life or helping stop a crime from occurring. Two weeks with nothing but accounts in front of me and I would run mad.”

Barker actually chuckled. “Very well. I’m giving you a raise of five pounds a month. Also, if we open this school of which you and Terry Poole are so enamored, I expect you to run the operations and act as junior instructor. That is, if we stay open very long. You shall be paid for that as well, but you must sacrifice some of that free time you cherish so. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. That’s settled. How are you coming along with the notes on the Sicilian case?”

“I’m just getting started,” I said.

Barker tsked me. Now that I was in his clutches completely, I could expect no more panegyrics on my exemplary performance.

“Really, you had a full day of idleness yesterday to work on it.”

“Sorry, sir. I don’t know what I was thinking. I won’t let it happen again.” One of the good points about working for Cyrus Barker is that sarcasm soars right over his head.

“See that it doesn’t. I suggest you-Yes, Jeremy?”

Jenkins came into the room.

“A visitor for you, sir,” he said. “Rather impatient, too.”

My employer and I looked at each other, and we both gave a short sigh. We no sooner finish a case than another one crops up. There is no peace for the wicked, as Spurgeon is fond of quoting.

“Show him in,” Barker said, putting his pipe in the ashtray.

And so it began again.