Will Thomas - Fatal Enquiry

As Barker stepped under the light of the closest gas lamp, something caught my eye.

It didn’t look right. I’d been worried that the Guv wasn’t eating, but he looked well nourished, even immense. Upon closer inspection, it didn’t look like the Guv at all, actually. I glanced back in time to see a hand seize Nightwine’s shoulder and jerk him around. Not two feet from where I was standing, the doorman slapped a pair of gloves across Nightwine’s face, with a dry leather snap. Sofia made a sound in the back of her throat as her father recoiled from the blow.

“Sebastian Nightwine,” a deep, rumbling, and very familiar voice said almost in my ear. “In front of these witnesses, I challenge you to a duel.”

Almost immediately we were surrounded by people, some of Barker’s allies, some in Nightwine’s employ, and other citizens from the hotel or on the street, anxious, as we were, to see how this little contretemps played out. After all, it wasn’t every day that one saw a doorman slap a visitor to his hotel.

Cyrus Barker removed his hat, revealing a small, closer-fitting pair of dark spectacles than the ones he was accustomed to wearing. His mustache had begun to grow in. There was too much happening to take in all at once: Barker’s sudden appearance; Nightwine’s reaction to being struck; the doppelgänger Barker, just about to reach us; Sofia, caught between two adversaries; and a mixed circle of men who, at a single word, might start a riot. That was not even considering the shot which at any minute might snuff out my life like a candle flame.

“You’re challenging me?” Nightwine repeated, as if he weren’t sure he’d heard correctly. “That means I have the choice of weapon.”

“It does,” Barker replied. “Tomorrow before dawn. Let us say six o’clock.”

“I’ll provide the weapons, then. I choose sabers.”

“Sabers it is.”

Just then I heard the creak of a boot behind me. I turned my head as the false Barker passed by, seemingly unconcerned. I recognized him immediately now, Bully Boy Briggs in an outsized version of Barker’s clothes. Gone were his heavy side whiskers, replaced by a dark mustache and black lenses. As he walked, he twirled his metal truncheon in his hands, ready to use it if he were stopped, as unlikely as that was. So exact was the outsized gray-black leather coat to the original, it could only have been made by K and R Krause, Barker’s tailors. The last time I had seen him, my employer had fished him out of the Thames after their fight, and had inexplicably given him twenty-five pounds. Was Barker so canny that he had conceived this event so far ahead of time?

I turned my gaze back upon Sofia, wanting to see her reaction, if any, to Barker’s larger twin, but found I couldn’t. In the confusion, she had vanished, leaving an empty space at her father’s side. Nightwine still stared at Barker speculatively, as if trying to work out what trick he was trying to perform by giving away the choice of weapons. If it did prove to be some sort of trick, he could find no flaw in it.

Nightwine looked about, realizing his daughter was missing. Things had not gone as planned, yet he still believed he had the upper hand. He cleared his throat and addressed his old enemy again.

“Good, then,” he responded. “I shall see you tomorrow. Where shall we meet?”

“The southwest corner of Hampstead Heath.”

“I’ll be there.” He turned to one of his men standing at the curb. “Someone stop that vehicle.”

One of the gang members ran out into Praed Street and stopped a passing cab, startling the horse. Nightwine strode out to the cab and climbed aboard. It bowled off, leaving his subordinates to beat a disorganized retreat.

“Good evening, Thomas,” Barker said. He looked at Mac, Jenkins, and Soho Vic, who had gathered closer now that Nightwine’s men were gone. “Gentlemen, it is good to see you all here together.”

He shook each of our hands in turn, exchanging a greeting with us all. Unbuttoning the long, green coat, he stepped inside an alcove just inside the entrance, and exchanged it and the doorman’s hat for his own more familiar coat and bowler. I looked over and saw that Soho Vic was giving us all a gap-toothed grin. Mac had one as well, and even Jenkins looked pleased with himself.

“Is this a private party?” a voice called from across the street. Out of the shadows came the lean, laconic figure of Terence Poole. “Or can anyone join in?”

Barker went forward and grasped his hand. Then he turned and started walking fast, leaving us to follow him as a group.

“Did you find Mr. Psmith?” I asked, catching up with Poole.

“He found me, actually. He was quite put out to learn that the roof he had chosen to shoot you from already had someone occupying it.”

“Seems a shame to spoil a chap’s plans.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Ahead, Barker was having a discussion with Soho Vic, while behind, Mac and Jenkins compared notes. It was time to have the Persian carpets cleaned and perhaps a new painting for the outer office. We followed as Barker turned onto Edgware Road, intent upon some unknown destination, but with a brief wave in our direction, Vic kept heading east. He had mouths to feed and a ragtag army of street urchins to bed down for the night.

I’d have preferred a cab, but Barker seemed determined to enjoy the night that was settling like a deep blue mantle over London. The North Star was the first to shine overhead, while a sluggish moon hung on the horizon, trying to decide whether it was worth the effort to rise that evening. Barker turned onto Oxford Street, in the direction of Charing Cross and our chambers.

“Did you see Barker slap Nightwine in the face?” I asked Poole.

“No! Did he? Blast, I missed that. Saw the big fellow dressed as Barker, though. Who was that?”

“Briggs.”

“Jim Briggs? Last I heard, he couldn’t decide whether he was a bodyguard or a strong-arm man. I’d rather have him working for Barker than the other side. His wife’s sick, I heard, and he’s got two little ones to feed.”

“I only met him once,” I said. I didn’t explain the circumstances. I wasn’t sure where to begin.

Barker had ducked into Dean Street. I had given up trying to decide where the man was going, but though I was still worn from my injuries, it was a good night for a walk in the finest city in all Christendom. All of us walked with our hands in our pockets save for the Guv, who had his folded behind him. Then I noticed him reach into his pocket and extract a key. Stepping into Shaftesbury Avenue, he unlocked the door to the empty building Barker intended to eventually turn into a school of arms. The front room was empty, but in a back room I found a small bedstead, and a shelf containing potted meat, tinned peaches, and half a loaf of bread. I had finally solved the mystery of where he had been the last six days.

I had been present when he let the property, but now I saw he had made one improvement on it. He had added a telephone set. He now seized the instrument and gave the operator a number in Belgravia.

“Abraham,” he said when the call had been put through. “This is Cyrus Barker. I regret the lateness of the hour, but I need a simple document drafted tonight. I shall compensate you for the conditions, of course. Are you able to come? Excellent. Meet me in Newington in an hour. I’ll see you then.”

He hung up. Abraham, I wondered, and then it hit me. He was talking to his solicitor, Bram Cusp, of course. It occurred to me that the only possible document the Guv required on such short notice would be a last will and testament.

Mac was incensed, but not because of the telephone call. He stood by the bed lifting the tins one by one.