Will Thomas - Fatal Enquiry

“But I hardly know the girl!”

“See her anyway. Don’t tell her you’ve loved her from afar. Tell her the truth. She deserves that and might take pity on you.”

“Mr. Barker,” he said dryly, “it strikes me that you would say anything to get me to recant my testimony.”

In return, Barker gave one of his cold smiles. “You are in worse trouble than I am. I have given you advice and it is not underhanded. May I take it that this cousin of yours is rather plain?”

“She’s not famous for her looks, but she’s a nice girl, if I recall.”

“Do as you think best. You have made a hash of your life so far, boy. She may be your only salvation.”

Clayton put down his drink. “Sir, I think you are correct. I don’t know why I haven’t thought of it before. But what should I do if one of my father’s associates has already seen the photographs?”

“Your only course is complete denial. You’ll not emerge unscathed. You could lose friends and associates, but if you marry and show evidence of a clean character, you’ll find new ones.”

There was a fire in the grate, and with a gesture Clayton tossed the photograph in. It began to blacken and curl.

“I’ll do it. I shall write to Elizabeth this evening and go to Bristol tomorrow to speak to her. I’ll throw myself on her mercy.”

Barker, whom I must admit had looked as if he were ready to punish the young heir for turning our lives upside down, now sat back in his chair and regarded him steadily.

“If I handle Nightwine, will you agree to recant your testimony?”

Clayton took a large mouthful of brandy and swallowed it. He mopped his face afterward with a pocket handkerchief.

“I understand how untenable my position is. I will not emerge unscathed regardless of the outcome. I have tossed away every privilege my father gave me while he was alive, but I would like to think I have retained at least a vestige of honor. Very well. If you can make Nightwine go away, I shall do as you say. I wish you luck.”

Barker reached out his hand and grasped Clayton’s. He looked my way and inclined his head toward the door. Without a word we exited the room.

In the hall we encountered a sputtering butler, but my employer paid no more attention to him than a standing hall clock. We descended the stairs, passed between two open-jawed housemaids below, and exited as we came. We didn’t have to lay down our honor after all.

Outside the dog raised his head and stared at us listlessly. Barker put out an arm and stopped me beside one of the trees. We watched as the constable passed by, still swinging his truncheon. When he was gone we took advantage of the lower branches to climb over the fence, dropping onto the verge of lawn on the other side. Dusting grass from the knees of our trousers, we were away into the anonymous reaches of darkest Bayswater.

“Sir, I was rather shocked by the advice you gave Gerald Clayton. Deny everything? You usually expect people to tell the truth.”

“You’ll recall I told him to reveal all to his wife. As far as his creditors and associates go, in this sort of situation the punishment far exceeds the crime. A rumor sticks to one like glue. Better to deny, for no amount of explaining or assuring will convince anyone. In fact, I myself am not convinced.”

“You think he-”

“Oh, the photographs may be more than he is willing to admit. It doesn’t matter what he’s done in the past, however. The question is: what shall Clayton do in the future?”

Something else was troubling me and I turned to my employer.

“We saw Sebastian Nightwine debark that ship with our own eyes. How could he have possibly had time to get something on Gerald Clayton? It doesn’t seem possible.”

“I was thinking that very thing myself, and that is not the only problem in this case. No one would attack O’Muircheartaigh’s house without scrupulously keeping a vigil for days to learn their routines and habits. There’s only one explanation.”

“What?” I asked.

“Nightwine has an accomplice. And, if O’Muircheartaigh’s secretary was correct, and there’s no reason to think otherwise, it is a woman.”

No one really calls it the Army Navy Club anymore, not if one considers oneself a Londoner. It is known simply as the Rag. In the last century someone had referred to a meal there as a “rag and famine affair,” and the name became part of London culture, though I understand the food has since improved. The Rag was a big stone block at number 36 Pall Mall, decorated with rococo carvings and tall elegant windows. The club was built, I understand, so that wealthy military men could come into London from their estates and find something in town more in line with their home comforts than the average coaching inn. I had never been in such an establishment before. It was as I expected, however: sea and land battles fought for space on the walls with mounted animal heads and commemorative plaques, while every table was strewn with curios and medals under glass.

The eye patch Barker sported actually worked in our favor for once. It gave him the look of an ex-military man, a former soldier or sailor, which, come to think of it, he actually was on both counts. We might have been stopped and questioned at another club, but there, looking and acting as if one fit in was enough to secure entrance.

Once inside, we made a sweep of the place, looking surreptitiously around the public rooms in search of Nightwine. I was conscious of the fact that we were two wanted men searching for a man guarded by a Scotland Yard dectective. I thought it likely Nightwine would be out somewhere or up in his room. Luck was on our side for once, and we found him seated at a table in a library, with several maps spread out across a table. His back was to us, but it was guarded by a burly detective with a sour expression and a copy of The Sporting Times in his hands.

Barker took a piece of club stationery and pencil from a hall table and I wrote a note on it according to instructions. It read: Inspector Abberline requests that you telephone “A” Division immediately. That done, I folded the note in half, put it on a salver, and slipped into the room, presenting it to the detective. As noiselessly as possible, I slipped out again.

Ten seconds later the detective pushed out the door with an irritated look on his face. As soon as he was gone, we entered the room and bolted the door behind us. Nightwine turned in his seat and regarded us quizzically, though not with any degree of alarm. Far from it, in fact. He had a revolver trained on us.

“Cyrus!” he cried, flashing those bleached-bone teeth of his. “How good to see you again. Was that you who sent my detective after a telephone call?”

“I thought it high time you and I had a conversation.”

“And you brought along Mr. Llewelyn. You see, I remembered your name this time. I like the eye patch, by the way, Cyrus. It suits an old pirate like you.”

“How is Shambhala these days?” the Guv asked.

“Ask me that in a few months.” Nightwine took a cigarette from his case and lit it. It was black with a gold tip. “I wish I knew. I’ve paid a king’s ransom for a map of its whereabouts, but I would still be executed if I crossed Tibet’s frontiers. The only way to go in is with force.”

“Gurkhas?”

“Were you told that or did you guess?”

“Neither. I deduced it. Only a Gurkha tribesman is hearty enough to fight in that temperature and those altitudes. You would arm them properly, I suppose.”

“Her Majesty’s government will provide us with the latest repeating Enfield rifles. I understand the palace guards at Lhasa carry only Chinese-made flintlocks. If it all goes according to plan it should be a massacre.”