Will Thomas - Fatal Enquiry

“Where was he found?”

“Beside a folly at the far edge of his property. It must be very secluded that time of night.”

“Interesting,” the Guv said.

“Glad to be so bloody entertaining.”

“No, interesting that he should have had a private rendezvous so far from the house, when an hour earlier he’d invited a vile blackmailer like myself in the front door and up to his private study. It’s difficult having to come back and kill someone. If I were better organized, I’d have done it on my first visit.”

“He didn’t do it,” I said to Inspector Poole. “But I’m sure you worked that out for yourself, too.”

“That’s enough out of you,” he snapped.

We stood and sang another hymn and waited for a reading from Ecclesiastes before sitting down again.

“A young woman,” the Guv said. “The only reason to see someone on a clandestine rendezvous outside of the house would be to meet an unescorted female.”

“You mean like the one who dropped off the present at O’Muircheartaigh’s door yesterday morning?” Poole asked. “You think everything is related?”

“Isn’t it usually?”

Poole turned to Barker. “You claim then that you were set up?”

“The Irishman is near death, and I’m on the lam. We have been got neatly out of the way.”

“Can you tell me, Cyrus, what you’ve done to incense Commissioner Warren against you?”

Barker shook his head slightly. “Not in the least. I’ve never even met the man.”

“Well, you’ve succeeded in jumping up his nose. He’s baying for your blood. Apparently he hates all private enquiry agents and you in particular. If he had his way he would revoke all private licenses and you’d be having your neck stretched for you in Wormwood Scrubs. He seems to think you a deserter from the army, which puts you one step beyond Satan in his eyes.”

“Shhh!” The old woman leaned toward him again.

“Beg pardon, ma’am,” Poole said.

Barker’s tone went icy. “Has Nightwine been speaking to Commissioner Warren?”

Poole looked uncomfortable. “They dined together yesterday at the Army Navy Club. Oh, Christ help us!”

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s Abberline, coming this way. Hook it!”

We didn’t need a second invitation, but scissored out of the pew, down the aisle, and behind the choir loft.

“Hurry!” I heard Inspector Abberline cry, though I’m sure the constables were having difficulty running in the Abbey in the middle of a service. I thought it likely the good Lord would forgive us under those particular circumstances, and therefore ran as fast as my legs would carry me.

Ecclesiastes will tell you that there is a time for everything under the sun. Despite the fact that we were in one of the most sacrosanct spots in the whole of England, it was time to put shoe leather to paving slabs and get out of there. To do so, we would be forced to raise a clangor and disturb that fine peace, for there is a terrible echo in the Abbey and it is impossible to run silently. As I glanced back at Barker, I caught something out of the corner of my eye. Poole was not following us. In fact, he was moving toward Abberline, blocking his progress. I wanted to yell back at him, to call him a bloody fool for throwing away a good career, but Barker’s hands came down on my back and propelled me forward and I was forced to save my breath or tumble full length across the tombs. Abberline had not come alone, but had brought along half a dozen constables and any number of officers dressed as ordinary citizens.

The CID had recently created a “plain clothes” squad, as skilled in makeup and costume as any actor. I realize I am Welsh, and as such am not entitled to an opinion, but I cannot help but think it decidedly un-English. Costumed spies are all well and good on the Continent, but we don’t go for that sort of thing in London Town.

It was after one of them had seized my coattail and I was giving him a good, straight kick to the pit of his stomach that it occurred to me that I could do anything I liked to the fellow. In theory, how was I to know this was an officer in disguise? He hadn’t identified himself as such. He wasn’t like the constable on the bridge whose knee I had clouted. The fellow reluctantly let go of my boot and lay in the aisle, holding his stomach. Before the next assailant, a bobby in a regulation helmet and waxed cape had caught me up, I hared away and was soon running toward a large staircase. Truth to say, I had no knowledge of the entrances and exits there, and for once my employer was no wiser than I. Of a sudden, Barker jammed a shoulder into me, knocking me like a billiard ball toward a set of anonymous doors. It took a moment to get myself in stride again, and as I reached them, I shot a glance over my shoulder and saw blue-black oilskins and helmeted figures pouring in from the south entrance. Had we gone that way, we’d have been captured for certain.

I hit the doors hard, conscious of the fact that they had hung there for centuries, and wincing when they banged against the wall. I was in a deserted corridor, heading toward the west entrance with Barker right behind me and the constables just behind him. The Guv stopped abruptly, bringing down the first row of men behind him, then turned in the immediate confusion of officers tumbling over one another like a football scrum and caught me up again.

With the west door almost within reach, Barker thrust me through a doorway into a short hall and out through the far side, crossing a square of lawn. It had begun raining and there was horse traffic just a few yards away on the other side of an iron fence. Barker sprinted past me and I ran as fast as my legs could go. Before we were fully prepared, we had shot into traffic, shying horses and slowing carriages on both sides. It was a wonder we weren’t both crushed under the wheels of a passing vehicle, but before I knew it both of us stood on the other side of the street safe and sound.

I muttered a curse, considering it miraculous to be alive.

“Lad,” Barker warned.

As if escaping from Westminster Abbey were something he did on a regular basis, he raised his hand and hailed an approaching cab. We clattered aboard and I looked at him curiously. The Guv was barely breathing hard.

“Where to, gentlemen?” the bored-sounding cabman asked through the trapdoor over our heads.

“Soho,” Barker replied.

“Why Soho?” I asked when the cab began to move.

“Because it is not Westminster at the moment.”

We bowled off toward the west. Somewhere behind I heard a chorus of police whistles. When we were safely away I dared sit back in my seat and asked the question that was uppermost in my mind.

“What do you suppose will happen to Poole?”

I knew the atmosphere at Scotland Yard. While it had the appearance of male camaraderie, in reality, it was every man for himself. Inspectors chaff each other and engage in bluff banter, but in fact, it was a fierce competition; each man responsible for creating a list of informants and bullying subordinates into helping him. One only helped a superior in order to ride his coattails to a better position, and an inspector who disgraced himself was immediately attacked from all sides: from his superiors, anxious to distance themselves from any scandal, and from subordinates, eager for his position.

The Guv leaned back against the seat cushion, his one visible eye closed, considering the question. “I don’t know what will happen, but without a doubt, Terry is finding himself in a good bit of trouble on our account.”

Eventually, our cab slowed in Glasshouse Street, but rolled by the entrance to the Café Royal, which I had assumed would be our destination. The café is the unofficial headquarters of Mr. Pollock Forbes, who is himself unofficial, being the head of a Masonic organization wielding great power within the government, and a history stretching back to the Crusades. Barker and I were coming to beg favors. Across the street in Shaftesbury Avenue, I could see the building where Cyrus Barker had recently leased a room to begin his Antagonistics classes again. He had been planning the defensive fighting classes for several weeks, yet another disruption in our lives. The cab came to a halt at the Guv’s command, in front of a white, nondescript door, and we alighted. Barker proceeded to pick the lock while I covered him and stared down anyone nearby who looked too inquisitive. For a secret society, the door opened too readily to his hand, I think. Barker tapped me on the shoulder and we slipped through.