Will Thomas - Fatal Enquiry

“The Pall Mall Gazette is a reputable newspaper, even if they are a trifle socialist. They even print photographs!”

“If you reveal any information regarding this expedition, you may provoke an international incident.”

“I believe you’ve got that backward, sir. If I reveal the information I would stop the international incident you are provoking.”

He got up from his chair and shut the door. On the one hand it showed he was giving me his full attention, but on the other, I was trapped.

“I am not involved with the Shambhala expedition,” he insisted.

“That hardly matters,” I pointed out. “When Mr. Gladstone’s government goes down clawing and scratching into the mud over this, saying you were not involved will hardly absolve you.”

“They might consider the offer too good to refuse. Even Barker could not stop the momentum.”

“The Guv says the prime minister has wanted to add new colonies ever since his opponent, Mr. Disraeli, made us an empire. The problem is there’s a worm at the core of the apple.”

Anderson leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I presume you’re referring to Sebastian Nightwine.”

“Yes. In case you haven’t heard, he and Mr. Barker have been acquainted for twenty-five years, ever since Nightwine killed his brother.”

“Mr. Nightwine has spoken extensively about your employer. It is how I’ve become connected to the matter. I am considered the local authority upon Cyrus Barker. But, as you see, I still have work to do. I presume you have something to ask or tell me. I hope it is the latter.”

“It is. Mr. Barker wishes me to inform you that in his presence, Nightwine told him many years ago about this plan, only with one significant change: Nightwine intended to seize control of Lhasa and have himself declared king. He had no intention of handing it over to the British government.”

Anderson shook his head. “Your powder is wet, I’m afraid. It doesn’t matter what he said many years ago.”

“Fair enough,” I responded. “How about yesterday at 4:25 P.M. when in my presence he said he’d sell Tibet to the highest bidder? He was gracious enough to allow Britain to make the first offer, but ultimately you would need to have the winning bid.”

Anderson closed his eyes and his shoulders slumped a little. “How can I verify this is true?”

“The Guv said you’d ask that. The three of us were the only ones in the room at the time. He said to give you his word.”

“That’s good enough for me, but not, I fear, for my associates. The negotiations are at an end. The deal is complete. Mr. Nightwine is to turn over his maps to us on Monday.”

“In exchange for money, I assume,” I said. “You’ll never see it again. What’s to keep him from pocketing it and betting at the fan-tan parlors in Shanghai?”

“This is the British government we’re talking about.”

“With thousands of pounds in his hand he could buy whatever he wants in Asia. He could take over Tibet as he said, or he could buy his own island and fortify it with cannons. I don’t think he cares much about the British government one way or the other. He’s doing it for the money. He told me to my face he was taking his retirement.”

“There was talk about giving him an earldom.”

“I’m sure, but the Russians would offer to make him a count, and the Chinese would make a mandarin of him.”

Anderson began to scratch his beard, as if it had begun to itch. “Do not speak with Mr. Stead, for now at least. I need to talk to several people. It is probably too late to stop this, and some men on the committee will be deucedly hard to convince.”

“I will tell Mr. Barker when I see him. Thank you for seeing me without an appointment.”

I was actually in the corridor before he called me back in again.

“Yes, sir?” I asked, having no idea what he was about to say. He was frowning, but not in a way that looked as though he were angry with me, though he did not look me in the eye.

“Look, I just wanted to say if Cyrus should ever retire or you feel the desire to move on, come and see me.”

I stared at him, nonplussed. “Are you offering me employment?”

“Perhaps, if we can reach an agreement,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

“I’d never leave Barker’s employ, sir,” I told him. “The man’s done too much for me.”

“I’m not asking you to. Situations change, however, and if you should ever find yourself at loose ends someday, remember us. You’ve had experience with the Irish and know a primer from a fuse cap. We’re always looking for capable young men.”

That’s because the Irish keep killing them, I wanted to say, but didn’t. “I’ll consider your offer, sir,” I answered diplomatically.

“Do that.” He took up his pen and began to write once more. After a moment, he looked up at me dismissively. “Good day, Mr. Llewelyn.”

I came out of Anderson’s office and down the stairs, my head preoccupied with the offer he had just made and wondering why it had made me angry. Why should anyone assume that Cyrus Barker’s career was over? As long as he drew breath, to cross him off as a has-been, or worse, a never-was, well, it was an insult. Barker’s career was a great social experiment. He was trying to legitimize a profession that still had one foot in the shadows.

Were my employer there, he would have pointed out that I had taken my eye off the quarry. I was so busy preparing a mental defense of my employer that I hadn’t bothered to notice the subtle changes which had occurred in the lobby during my absence. Barker would never have allowed it to happen. I was nearly out the door when I felt cold steel on my wrist, and turning around, found myself staring into the intent eyes of Inspector Frederick Abberline. I found I much preferred them at a distance.

When they put you in a temporary cell in “A” Division, they cook you until you are done. That is, they give you hours to think over your misdeeds in the hope that you’ll confess and possibly turn on your accomplices. It requires no effort on their part and there is no law against it, as long as it takes no more than a day. Often the delay is legitimate. Inspectors fight for space in the few interrogation rooms as barristers do in the courts. It isn’t personal, but it certainly can feel that way when it is you who are locked in a cell with nothing to do but contemplate the walls and ceiling. Then one feels particularly set aside for punishment.

In the scheme of things, breaking one constable’s kneecap and cuffing him to a rail is not a capital offense. We were wrestling for the truncheon and it could just as easily have been my kneecap that was broken, or so my solicitor would maintain. They could not connect me to the greater charge leveled against Cyrus Barker of murdering Lord Clayton. However, I was worried for both of us. I wondered if Gerald Clayton had followed Barker’s advice and proposed marriage to his cousin. If not, could one witness be enough to convict Barker in court when the time came? I rather feared it might. I hate it when you know something is only meant to scare you, but it succeeds anyway. I may be a criminal, but I will never be a hardened one, I’m sure. Criminals such as the infamous Charley Peace could have done my few hours standing on his head.

The Guv warned there would be days like this. In fact, all things being equal, I am surprised I wasn’t more upset about my predicament. Were I a stockbroker or a clerk in the Admiralty, being arrested might have been the greatest tragedy of my life. As for me, it was, well, just another day at the office.

Eventually, I was taken to the interrogation room. Abberline was there ahead of me and was perusing my file.