Will Thomas - Fatal Enquiry

“And now that he is here, he is taking advantage of the situation to settle your dispute once and for all.”

“Aye,” Barker called out over the rain. “He would not be able to enjoy his retirement knowing I would come after him.”

“Would you?” I asked. “Go after him, I mean? As far as Tibet or China?”

“Of course!” he cried, as the downpour became a deluge. “I’m no more able to leave this matter unfinished than he is!”

A little over an hour later, I sat on the edge of the bed, clad once more in a blanket. My clothes hung over the fender of the fireplace drying out. Tea was brewing on the hob, and we had cheese and biscuits on the desk after a successful barter with the pawnbroker. The Guv lay cocooned again, sodden as he was, and I could almost see vapor rising from the hammock.

“I’d give half my estate right now for a pipe and a tin of Astley’s Cavendish,” he remarked.

“Are we finally running out of people to see and places to investigate, sir? I think I’m getting a blister.”

“You’ll get worse than that before this case is done,” he replied.

Not You poor lad. Not Take the rest of the day off, though, as a matter of fact, we did, if only because the rain continued to pour down on London and we had no money for a cab.

“Perhaps in a day or so you would enjoy a visit to the Reading Room at the British Museum. I would like you to investigate Shambhala for me.”

“That sounds intriguing.”

“I think I should send you along to see Anderson, as well.”

“Robert Anderson? The spymaster general? Why would he want to see me?”

“A week ago you probably wouldn’t have been permitted, but your present notoriety might work in our favor.”

“It might get me arrested instead.”

“Then you can rest comfortably in a cell while your blister heals.”

“‘O frabjous day,’” I quoted.

“I beg pardon?”

“Nothing, sir.”

I got up and hobbled to the fireplace. My suit was taking a remarkably long time to dry and the chamber had begun to smell like wet sheep. The kettle began to whistle.

“Tea’s ready,” I said. “You are going to eat something today, aren’t you?”

There was no comment from the hammock.

The next morning the storm had rolled off toward the Continent, leaving everything bedewed and smelling of loam. I had done the best I could with a suit which had been drenched several times, a thrice-used collar, and a tie that had traveled from Canton while I was still in public school. I was going to see Robert Anderson, but not without misgivings.

“Why should we expect him to reveal anything to us, sir?” I argued. “He didn’t ask for me to come and probably feels I have nothing to offer him.”

“Then you must disabuse him of that opinion. What I have told you to say I would be interested in hearing, were I in his position.”

“But suppose he gives me nothing in return?”

“Really, Thomas, you must work these things out for yourself. Balk! Stay seated in his chair, an impediment to the day’s activities, until he either has you thrown out or finally opens his mouth.”

“What if he doesn’t know anything? I mean, his concern is the Irish threat. He has nothing to do with matters in Tibet.”

“Since when have you been an authority on the duties of the spymaster general? Do you suppose he is not concerned about a matter which could potentially enlarge the British Empire a hundredfold?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I see your point.”

“We should have sold the tea kettle and bought a new collar,” he went on, eyeing me critically.

“I would have liked a shoeshine, as well,” I said. “It can’t be helped.”

“Good luck, lad,” Barker said, patting my shoulder.

“I thought you didn’t believe in luck,” I answered.

I crossed at Westminster Bridge, aware that I was not far from where this case had first begun. I could look over and see an engine steaming across the Charing Cross Bridge. I assumed Jenkins had opened the offices as always in Craig’s Court. What day was it? It was so easy to lose track when one is on the run. By my calculations, it was Friday, April 9. Officially, we had been wanted men for five days. Generally, the Guv likes to finish a case within two weeks’ time, though I seriously doubted he would make his self-determined deadline this time.

Entering the combined chambers of the Home and Foreign Office, I went up to the sentinel who guarded the building from anyone attempting to enter without proper authority. Pulling a piece of paper from my pocket, I borrowed a pen and wrote the words RE: Shambhala expedition. T. Llewelyn on it. I handed it to the guard, a stocky, ginger-haired fellow with a florid face.

“Give this to Robert Anderson,” I said.

The man frowned at me and I understood why. One doesn’t simply demand to see the spymaster general of all the British Empire without an appointment. Also, I was rather certain he recognized my name, for I had seen this particular Cerberus before. After some hesitation he pointed a pudgy finger at a bench, and stepping to a door, he conferred with a colleague before handing over my paper. Then he returned to his desk. Nothing happened for the next twenty minutes. The wheels of British government grind exceedingly slow, but finally, a civil servant, possibly the one he had spoken to, came and fetched me. As I passed I looked into the piercing blue eyes of the guard and he eyed me shrewdly. I was surprised at my own gall, but it was too late to turn back now.

Anderson was seated in his office, looking slightly harried and a bit grayer than when I had seen him last, when we had investigated a faction of Irish bombers. His office was Spartan and not particularly large, decorated with a Union Jack on a pole and a cross on the wall made of olive wood. I supposed the two represented what he stood for, God and Country.

“I’m not in the habit of speaking to wanted men, Mr. Llewelyn,” he warned, writing as he spoke. “You should not be here. What do you want?”

“I won’t take up much of your time. I was wondering if you could tell me the name of the gentleman leading this expedition to Tibet.”

His pen paused briefly, stabbed itself into his inkwell and went on writing.

“I couldn’t possibly answer that question. The names of our agents are confidential for obvious reasons. Besides, I have no idea what you will do with the information.”

I would not be deterred so easily. “Very well. Do you think if I inferred that said agent was Sebastian Nightwine, I would be far off the mark? You needn’t say anything. Just tap your nose with your pen.”

“You have a gift for facetiousness, Mr. Llewelyn, which is liable to get you into trouble.”

“I must take that as a ‘no,’ then. Fine. The consequences be on your head.” I rose as if to go.

“Sit down,” he commanded. “To what consequences do you refer?”

“I scarce can say, and certainly would not hazard a guess. I’m sure you know that he is very dangerous. If you can explain to me why Her Majesty’s government is plotting the takeover of Tibet with a man who has a file at Scotland Yard two inches thick, I’ll be on my way.”

“You are starting to sound like your employer.”

“I’ve been cramming. I wanted to get it right.”

“I shall tell you what I’d tell him, then. It’s none of his concern what the government does. Him, least of all, under present circumstances.”

“Now, see,” I said. “That’s what I told him. It would be far more advantageous to go to see W. T. Stead, and lay all our evidence before him.”

“That scandalmonger?” he demanded. I knew I’d succeeded in getting his attention because his pen stopped.