Will Thomas - Fatal Enquiry

“It is just a coincidence,” I argued. “He is dead, and we shall both miss him terribly. The timing is dreadful, I know, but what else could it be?”

“It could be anything. Nightwine could have poisoned his tea, for all I know. Anyone who can kill people with powdered caster bean shells would know how to simulate a heart attack. An overdose of digitalis, perhaps? We won’t know until the postmortem.”

I had trouble believing that Brother Andrew’s death was anything other than a sudden tragedy. For one thing, Nightwine was being followed about by Poole and his lot. For another, I doubted McClain would have allowed Nightwine into his mission. It didn’t make sense. I began to think that perhaps the Guv was developing an obsession. We had taken one hit after another, and my rock-solid employer was crumbling right before my eyes.

It’s odd how people come into our lives and we learn to rely upon them to such an extent that when they are gone we mourn them more than our natural relations. Aunts, uncles, even sisters and brothers I did not have as strong a bond with as I did with Andrew McClain. He had taught me, advised me, cheered me when I was down. I could rely upon him. He was that brick without which the entire structure comes tumbling down. If I felt that way, then Cyrus Barker must have felt it doubly so. As far as I could tell, no one deserved to be considered Barker’s mentor as much as Handy Andy McClain. If anything existed that could derail my employer from a case, it was this. For once, I saw the mighty oak tremble.

“I’m sure there will be a large funeral for Brother Andrew, considering what he’s done for this city,” I said.

“Aye,” he answered, but with little conviction.

We had found a tea shop in which to sit and mourn. It would have felt irreverent to the Reverend’s memory to mourn him over a pint when he had helped so many drunkards during his ministry. The East End would never be the same without him.

“What shall become of the mission?”

“I don’t know,” Barker admitted. “It was undergoing a transition. I suppose it is harmless to tell you now. Andy was leaving the Church of England. That is why I spoke to Lord Clayton. He was going to provide the money for a new building. Andy had asked me to act as an intermediary. It would not be an easy break, but he had prayed long and hard over it and was convinced it was the right thing to do, even if it meant leaving the old church building behind. He would have taken the boxing ring with him, of course.”

“Of course,” I murmured.

“We’ve tempted fate long enough,” Barker said, setting down his cup. “We should get back to the barge.”

It was a drawn-out process getting back to the spot where our day had begun. From start to finish it was more than an hour before we neared the dock where the Lo family’s barge was berthed. When we got there, it was already far too late.

“Abberline,” Barker growled as we viewed the scene from behind a nearby warehouse. The vessel was in danger of capsizing from the number of constables gathered on the deck, and moored right beside it was the police launch, whose sleek hull and brass fittings only made the barge look more weather-beaten and decrepit.

“We won’t be sleeping here tonight,” the Guv said, turning away, as if dismissing it from his mind.

“What about the Los?” I asked. “They’re sure to be arrested.”

“I must get word to Cusp,” he answered, referring to his solicitor, Bram Cusp, who was expensive but generally worth the money.

“But where do we go now?” I asked. “We’re nearly out of money.”

“I’ve got a place in mind, though I must admit I haven’t been there in a few years. And it shall mean another long walk. We cannot trust cabs, even were we to find one here in Chelsea Basin. Cabmen have long memories.”

“It’s just unfair,” I said. “We’ve done nothing wrong and yet half of London is barking at our heels.”

“No one ever claimed life is fair, lad. It’s a cold and callous world.”

We tramped across the city for the second time that day. “Plodded” might be a better word. Johnson said a man who is tired of London is tired of life. Just then I was heartily sick of both. I wanted cool sheets and a soft pillow and I wasn’t too particular where. Barker propelled us forward, moving from shadow to shadow whenever possible to avoid notice. At one point, half dead on my feet, I imagined I heard the steady regulation boots of every police constable in the district measuring out his beat. Perhaps, I thought, we could escape to the country for a while until everything settled down. Philippa Ashleigh, Barker’s companion, owned an estate in Sussex that was but an hour’s ride by train. We could sit in relative ease while Scotland Yard chased its tail up here in the city.

However, I knew that the Guv would never endanger her life and had some other destination in mind. As we walked, I mulled over where Barker could be leading me. If his first choice had been a dilapidated barge, what could possibly be his lesser choice?

We crossed to the Surrey shore at Westminster, within half a mile of our home. I wondered how the old pile was faring at the moment. Was Mac awake and worrying about us? Was Barker’s Pekingese, Harm, pining by the front door, wanting his master home? Probably not, if they were sensible. I wanted to prowl into the kitchen and see what Etienne had left in the larder as I had done on countless other occasions in the middle of the night.

Barker headed north into Lambeth, which is not my favorite part of the city. It has all the squalor of the East End without its poor reputation. It’s dull, drab, and down-at-heel. Centuries before, in Shakespeare’s day, all the theaters in London were there, including the Globe. The bawdy houses and the more riotous public houses were there, as well. Since then, Lambeth has embraced an aura of shabby respectability, but the same activities went on behind more discreet doors, I was sure.

We trudged silently down Lower Marsh Street. I’m not the wittiest conversationalist when I am this tired and footsore, and the Guv was silent, as usual. I was hungry and thirsty, and a fugitive from what passes for justice here. I was lamenting my fortune, when my employer suddenly plunged into a common lodging building. Without stopping or asking for directions, he led me to a stairwell and began to ascend as quietly as possible. The old Georgian stairs were so tall and narrow a chap could easily break his neck on them. The halls were painted a dun yellow, and in some places wallpapered in a peeling print many years out of date. The carpet on the stairway was threadbare and musty. Here the Guv didn’t seem certain where he was going. He reached the top floor and looked about with his fingertips on his lower lip, lost in thought.

“This is it,” he finally said, coming to a padlocked door. He removed a key from his pocket and tried to unlock it. The lock was stiff and in need of oil, but it finally yielded to his pressure, opening with a squeal of protest. The room in front of us wasn’t a room at all, but a staircase leading to an attic. I followed, curious to see what we would find at the top of the stair.

It was a room much like the one he occupied in our home in Newington, only smaller.

There were two dormer windows facing the street, a sloped ceiling, and old, mismatched furnishings, including a bedstead, a desk, and an upholstered chair with a small table.

Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. There was a straw hat on the desk; not a boater, but a flat-brimmed one with a light tan band and a raised peak down the center of it like the keel of a boat. A suit of clothes hung from a hook that was equally tropical. I stepped closer to the desk and found it was spread with dusty maps of London and yellowed newspapers dated August 1879. There was a book written in Chinese there, and when I picked it up a square of polished wood lay under it in the dust. The entire room was like stepping into the past: Barker’s past, to be more precise, when he first arrived in London. I found a pack of Swan vestas in the drawer and lit a small penny candle.