Will Thomas - Fatal Enquiry

“He’s been sleeping in this hovel, eating food from tins?” he demanded.

“What have you been doing with yourself, sir?” I asked our employer.

“I have been training. I knew Sebastian would choose the saber, a weapon he excels at. Therefore, I hired the best instructor in London, Captain Alfred Hutton, to train me almost continuously in the art over the past week. I rely on the fact that Nightwine has probably not picked up a blade since he left his regiment, and may be out of practice. It is a slender advantage, I’m sure, but it is the best I could find. Right now, if I know him, he is raging about London looking for a good pair of dueling swords and someone with whom to practice.”

“I would pay to see that,” I said.

“Jeremy, do you need to see your father?” my employer asked suddenly, turning to our clerk.

“He’d understand, sir, if you require my services further.”

“I think we are through for the night. Will you give him my regards?”

“I shall, Mr. B. He particularly likes to be remembered by you. I’ll be on me way then. Good night, gentlemen!”

I thought to myself that he was winnowing us, one by one.

“I should be heading on, as well,” Poole said, “unless you need something. Anything at all.”

“Nothing, thank you, Terry. Give my best to Minerva.”

“I shall.”

They shook hands, but paused in the middle. The two were saying good-bye, in case Barker did not return from the duel. How does one compress six years of friendship into one brief handshake?

“Minerva?” I asked when he was gone.

“His wife.”

“He’s married?”

Barker shook his head. “Sometimes I despair of you, lad. You’ve spoken to him a hundred times and never learned a thing about him?”

“Sorry, sir,” I said. He could crush so easily with a single word.

“Have you heard that Gerald Clayton is dead?”

“Aye, I have.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “He was on his way to propose. Now, suddenly, he has committed suicide? What happened? Did she turn him down? Did he turn to drink again and blow out his brains? I thought you had convinced him after your talk.”

“I would not care to speculate without facts,” Barker said.

“Oh, come now, just once! You’re not in a court of law. I won’t hold you responsible if your conclusions are not fully correct.”

“It is a bad habit, nevertheless.”

“It’s not a habit if it happens one time.”

“Look, we have not spoken to the girl, but I think it highly unlikely he ever had the opportunity to see his cousin. We know for certain that he recanted his testimony that morning, so that I was freed. The next we know, he is dead. Knowing Nightwine, he could not allow such an act of mutiny on Clayton’s part. It made him appear weak.”

“So he killed Clayton and made it look like suicide?”

“Just think. He purchased that photograph. It proved of no use as a threat. The only way for it to be of any practical use to Nightwine was as seeming proof that Clayton had killed himself in remorse over some veiled but unspecified deed. To those who know no better it besmirches Clayton’s name forever. To those who understand what Nightwine is capable of, it sends a message as to what will happen to anyone who thwarts him.”

“I find it hard to believe anyone could be that ruthless.”

“Ah, but you see, you were raised by parents who taught you right from wrong. Imagine having a father who taught you from the cradle that any thought for anyone’s interests but your own was reprehensible and deserving of punishment. It isn’t merely that he is a member of the aristocracy, although that is part of it. He was raised to be the new Adam of a post-Christian society.

“Let us lock up and go home to Newington,” Barker went on. “I expect a full report before Mr. Cusp arrives.”

I stepped out the door and flagged a hansom, and we went home in relative silence. Barker was remote, no doubt preoccupied with what was about to happen in the morning. Mac looked unsure whether to speak to him or not. As for me, I was whipping myself with the theory that something I had said or done had precipitated the duel. As usual, I saw through a glass darkly. I had done my best, and would learn presently whether anything I had attempted had made even the slightest difference. It was a long and silent ride back to the Surrey side of town.

Back at home, Mac hurried around turning up the gas lamps while I stood about the hall feeling useless. The only happy one among us was Harm, whom the Guv tucked under his arm like a large black book, narrowly avoiding being bathed by the dog’s tongue. He stood there like a stone statue, while the dog’s plumed tail made circles in the air behind him.

“Let’s go into the kitchen,” he said, and I followed him inside. Putting the dog down, he took up the kettle to get water while I prepared and lit the stove. When I had a flame going, he set the kettle on it, then turned around one of the chairs at the deal table and straddled it.

“Well?” he asked.

“You want to know everything that happened since you sent me to the Foreign Office to get arrested, don’t you?”

“Precisely. And I do mean precisely.”

Soon, the kettle began to sing. Barker got up, opened a caddy of his green tea and measured the leaves into cups before pouring in the water. I preferred mine strained, but just then I’d choke on them rather than complain. He returned with the cups and took his seat again.

Over tea, I told him about my arrest and interrogation at Scotland Yard; my return to the office; the arrival of Sofia and, later, Mrs. Ashleigh; returning home to find Mac shattered; the visit to the British Museum; being captured and escaping; waking up in hospital; waking up in Sofia’s rooms; discovering she was the murderer; walking out and going home; and coming up with the scheme which against all odds actually worked. That took about half an hour, at the end of which, Barker stood up and went through the dining room into the parlor to look at the safe. He removed the painting, set it on the floor, then turned the tumbler and reached in.

“It’s empty, sir,” I said.

“Is it?” he rumbled, moving his hand about inside. There was a sliding sound and he began pulling out packets of notes. “There is a hidden compartment. My valuables are behind a false wall. There was not more than fifty pounds for them to find.”

“I’m glad, sir, but still. Fifty pounds! To think of that much money in the hands of the Elephant Boys makes my blood boil.”

“No matter. I shall carve it out of their hides eventually. That was clever, by the way, to think of his former residence. I confess I discounted it.”

“If only I hadn’t been so stupid as to get caught.” I felt keenly that I had done something to disappoint my employer, not to mention jeopardize the case.

“Could you tell the house was inhabited from the back gate?”

“No, sir. It did not appear to be.”

“Then you’ve done nothing to flog yourself over.”

“Was I wrong to meet Nightwine tonight and return the draft?”

“No. In fact, it gave me the opportunity to offer him the challenge I’ve been preparing.”

“What about the entry into Nightwine’s rooms?”

“That is something I want to talk to you about. Mac is not a professional, and could have been arrested. That note belonged to Nightwine. He actually earned it, much as it grieves me to say it, and you had no right to take it from him.”

The tea had not been strained but I certainly was, as through a sieve. The Guv said it with his usual finality, but for once I wasn’t going to take it meekly.

“I would offer a defense,” I said, aware of the tightness in my own voice.