Will Thomas - Fatal Enquiry

“Is there anyone else we should bring along?”

“The runt.”

“Runt? You mean Soho Vic? The Guv said he’s out of it.”

“No slight intended to Mr. B’s judgment, sir, but ain’t that a decision for Vic himself to decide? I mean, you can’t treat him like an adult for years and then send him on his way with a sweet to suck on when things get dangerous. Not in my opinion, anyway.”

“Your advice is well taken. Think you can get a message to Vic in time?”

“If he don’t have a note in his hand in forty minutes, this ain’t the town I grew up in.”

As he put on a stovepipe hat and prepared to leave, I spoke up again.

“Could you do me another favor?”

“Sure, Mr. L. What is it?”

“Don’t do anything I would do. If this Psmith fellow is out there somewhere, I don’t want him thinking you are me.”

“Right, then,” he said, looking out the door as if deciding whether or not to take an umbrella. He disappeared into Whitehall. Say what you will about number 7 Craig’s Court, we really have some of the most extraordinary conversations in all of London.

Jenkins returned without incident, and when Mac arrived, we locked up promptly at five-thirty. As we walked down Whitehall Street, we had to make way for two young men wearing black lenses. Barker still had his supporters, I was glad to see. The three of us stopped into the Rising Sun, where Jenkins spoke privately with his publican. There was no telling what sort of tales he spun there, but the assembly wouldn’t hear of us leaving without a pint in our bellies. The way they looked at the three of us, we felt like young knights about to go out and vanquish a dragon. In a way, we were, I suppose. In fact, there was even a beautiful damsel, but I would hardly say she was in distress.

Afterward, we walked to Charing Cross and caught the Metropolitan Underground Railway to Paddington. Vic was waiting for us in front of the Dickens.

“Took yer time gettin’ ’ere, din’t yer? You tourists new in town?”

“Thanks for coming, Stashu,” I said.

Vic took the cigar out of his mouth and spat a string of invectives. He was born Stanislau Sohovic, but anyone pointing out he had immigrant parents was in danger of losing some teeth.

“Let’s go inside,” I said.

The Dickens was more a very long hallway than a public house. The four of us could barely stand abreast and touch both walls, but the Dickens had a reputation as the longest public house in the city. We ordered standard pub fare: cutlets, roasted potatoes, and mushy peas, washed down with brown ale. Vic was forced to drink ginger beer, which I secretly found gratifying. He did manage, however, to get the first word in.

“Where do you suppose old Push is now, eh?” he asked. “Reckon he’s down in the sewers ready to jump out at any moment.”

“No! I say he’s brought the Osprey up from Sussex,” Jenkins said, referring to Barker’s steam lorcha. “He could be tied up somewhere along the Thames.”

“I thought he might be in Limehouse, got up like a Chinaman,” Mac replied. “You know how revered he is there.”

I kept my mouth closed, which only made the three of them stop and look at me.

“All right,” I admitted. “This morning I had a thought. What if the Guv were right underfoot this entire time? I went down into the basement and looked to see if he’d been there. I didn’t find anything, but you know he owns the entire building and there are two empty floors above ours.”

We each debated the merits of our case after the food arrived. Had I been alone, I later told myself, I’d have been too nervous to eat. As it was, we wiped our plates with homemade bread and had a second pint. We were well fortified when we left at ten minutes until seven.

“Jenkins,” I said, sounding like a rugby team captain. “I want you to circle around north of the railway and come in from the far end. Vic, you come around from the south along Market Street and walk on the far side of the street as you come back.”

“Wha’ are we doin’?” he argued. “Wha’ am I a-lookin’ for?”

“You’re making sure that I’m not murdered on the street by Nightwine or one of his cronies.”

“Oh,” he said, speaking around the cigar in his gapped teeth. “Thought we was ’ere to do somethin’ important.”

We split up and Mac and I continued down Praed Street. Like many streets in London, it is two solid rows of unbroken three-story buildings. Some very obviously formed residences, while others were a hodgepodge of shops, offices, and government buildings. As we walked I looked for open windows or someone standing on the roofs, hidden by chimneys. I probably wouldn’t feel the bullet, I thought, not if Psmith was the shootist I thought he was. There was no way to prepare beyond common prayer. I looked over at Mac and found he was muttering under his breath, probably in Hebrew.

The Albemarle was there as I had left it, small, discreet, and elegant-looking, with the doorman in a long green coat and hat matching the trim on the building. As we came closer, he opened the door and Nightwine and Sofia exited, waiting for our arrival. I was nervous, conscious that anything could happen. Was this the way Barker worked, or did he prepare for every contingency? One would think after two years in his employ I would know.

“Mr. Llewelyn!” Nightwine called as we approached. “May we please get this business over with quickly? I have an appointment within the hour with someone far more important than you.”

“Good evening, Miss Ilyanova,” I said to his daughter, ignoring his remark.

“Look at you, Thomas,” she responded in turn. “Your face is healing splendidly.”

“Who is this fop?” Nightwine asked, pointing at Mac. “Or should I say, who is this other fop?”

“I thought you’d like to meet the man who found your bank draft in Pall Mall,” I said.

“Are you associating with thieves these days?” he asked. “Of course you are. You criminals always work together.”

I saw Mac’s normally sallow cheeks turn red.

“Have you found proof that I withdrew the bounty on your employer’s head?”

“I have,” I answered.

“Then give me my bloody cheque!”

I pulled it from my pocket, folded in half. He took it, opened it, and visibly sighed.

He’d been actually worried. It was the first human emotion I had ever seen him show.

“Thank you, Mr. Llewelyn. Come, Sofia. We’ll be late-”

“Barker!” a voice called out. I remember thinking it was Soho Vic. Immediately, the cry was taken up by another voice. My eye caught the face of a man who was crossing the street in our direction, the young man who had captured me behind Nightwine’s house, the head of the Elephant and Castle gang. They had brought reinforcements of their own. Why did it seem so unfair that they should have done so, when we had, as well?

I looked down the street from where Mac and I had just come, and at first saw nothing, even though the call was repeated by others, as well. Then Mac or someone else moved and I saw him, walking down the middle of the street, stepping around vehicles and horses as they passed. He was wearing his familiar long coat and bowler hat. From where I stood, I saw he had grown his mustache again and dared wear his spectacles. I felt as if every person in the street had simultaneously taken a long intake of breath.

Nightwine was the first to let it out again, accompanying it with a curse. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a pistol, an Adams revolver by the look of it, with an octagonal barrel. Sofia laid both hands upon his forearm, not stopping him per se, but counseling him not to start shooting just yet. He looked about to shake her off, not being the kind to brook interference.