Will Thomas - Fatal Enquiry

“His.”

“Cyrus Barker. Is this going to take long?”

“Not if you answer succinctly. Age?”

“I’ve never asked him. He’s around forty, I think.”

“Is he a member of the priory?”

“I believe so, yes. I was a patient here myself last week.”

“What seems to be the trouble?”

“He was in a duel this morning and was cut by a saber in the back of the head as well as stabbed in the shoulder. Just after that, I think, he was struck by a poison dart, because he collapsed in a heap after the duel and registered no pulse. Then he was given an antidote to the poison by an injection directly into the heart. I understand the serum contained a dose of adrenaline. It brought him round in that his heart is beating but he’s not conscious and is pretty much like you see him now. Do you think you can do something for him?”

The porter or what-have-you simply stood there with his pencil poised over his notebook, not writing or doing anything, but standing with his jaw half open.

“Do something, you idiot! The man may be dying!”

The porter wheeled about and went into the room where Barker had been taken. I had intruded into his ordered world with my reanimated corpse and my talk of deadly toxins. I followed him into the room. A second man came out and pushed me out of the way to use one of those metal tubes to listen to my employer’s heart.

“It’s Cyrus Barker,” I said to him, a stocky sixty-year-old man with brown hair shot with gray and a beard white as snow, a much more confidence-inspiring sort than the one before him.

“Oh, we know Mr. Barker here,” he said. “No idea what sort of poison he was given?”

“No, sir. I’m sure it was probably exotic.”

“What physician administered the antidote?”

“No physician, sir. It was a bystander.”

“I see,” he said, as if he got this sort of emergency all the time. “And did he say most definitely that what he injected was an antidote to the poison?”

“Yes, she did,” I told him. “I gathered she had created both.”

The doctor opened Barker’s shirt and inspected the wound on the breastbone, an angry pucker of red skin.

“Wait outside in the hall,” he finally said. “We’ll do what we can.”

“I’ll see to the horse and be right back.”

I’d seen a few stables in the area before and found one that I thought would take good care of Juno. Then I walked back to that medieval alleyway which now contained a secret hospital where, right then, the Guv was strapped to a gurney, fighting for his life.

I sat in a wooden chair against a wall near the front entrance. One hour stretched into two, and two became three. I told myself this wasn’t a simple case. He’d been stabbed twice and poisoned twice, for in a way, the antidote itself was a kind of poison. Administer it to a healthy man and I’m sure it would kill him stone dead. I couldn’t expect to go in a few hours later to find the Guv sitting up and taking nourishment. The doctor, a man named Strickland, finally came out and took a seat in the chair beside me.

“We can’t do a thing for him but wait,” he explained. “Oh, we’ve sewn up his wounds, but with no idea what he’s been exposed to, it would be negligent to start giving him useless medications. We’ll administer digitalis if his heartbeat weakens. Other than that, we must let him rest.”

“Has he awakened at all?”

“No, and I don’t expect him to for a while. He’s always had an iron constitution. We’ll let him sort himself out for now and check his progress.”

“Yes, sir. Whatever you think is best.”

“Now, Mr. Llewelyn, let us talk about you. You left this hospital under rather unusual circumstances a week ago. Is that correct? Your sister had no business taking you from this facility in such a state.”

“She wasn’t my sister, actually,” I admitted. “That was the girl I was talking about to your porter.”

The physician raised his eyebrows. “Can you explain why she felt you were better cared for outside of this hospital?”

“You’d have to ask her.”

“If she shows up again, I hope you will alert someone immediately.”

“I shall. Thank you, Doctor.”

An hour later, I thought to inform Terry Poole that our friend was in hospital and fighting for his life. Some people should know, I thought, such as Mrs. Ashleigh. I also sent word to Mac and Jenkins. Poole arrived within the hour and stood at the foot of Barker’s bed listening to him breathe.

“Any idea when he’ll wake up?” he asked.

“When he’s good and ready, or so the doctor tells me. I say, are those dark spectacles you have there in your pocket?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “Warren finally saw sense, but only after we threatened to form a labor union and strike. There were so many spectacles about the place by the end he said he’d fire the next man who wore a pair. I’ve been reinstated, but assigned to ‘K’ Division. It’s a demotion. No more chances to nip home for lunch, it looks like, not for a while, anyway.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Mrs. Poole must be disappointed.”

“She said she was just getting accustomed to my being underfoot.”

“Have you heard anything about Sofia Ilyanova?”

“She has not been seen since leaving the Albemarle.”

“What about Psmith?”

“I hope he’s long gone.”

“Keep me informed. I’m sure the Guv will want to know.”

The next morning I was at the priory at eight o’clock but was still not the first to visit Cyrus Barker. When I entered his room, I found a stocky, strongly built man sitting next to the bed, with the chair drawn up so that his back was to me. Even though I couldn’t see his face, I still had no trouble recognizing him. It was Charles Haddon Spurgeon, the pastor of the Metropolitan Tabernacle, Barker’s church. I was not about to interrupt his communion with the Guv, so I took a seat out in the corridor.

The pastor came out a quarter hour later, and upon noticing me, walked over to shake my hand. He had a thick head of silvery hair and impressive jowls beneath his beard.

“Thomas,” he said to me. “I understand you have been through quite an ordeal.”

“I have, sir,” I admitted, surprised the great man knew my name. I suppose it was because of his close relationship to Cyrus Barker.

“You will let me know when he awakens, won’t you?”

“Of course.” I had to admit, I liked that word “when.”

“And when he does, tell him I won’t have him dawdling in bed. There is work to be done and he hasn’t earned a holiday just yet.”

“Yes, sir,” I answered. It took a moment to work out that it was spoken in jest.

“Take care of yourself, son,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. “And take good care of your employer.”

He turned and headed toward the entrance. A clergyman of his import must know every corridor of every hospital in the city. As he left, I took Spurgeon’s chair and sat looking at my unconscious employer. His color was better and he appeared to be in a deep sleep. I missed his stentorian voice. In fact, there were a lot of things I missed. Even being at the office, when we had time to talk about things not related to any case, or training together at night. I had taken this situation to keep from starving, not realizing that it would eventually become my whole life.

“Thomas,” a voice said, interrupting my reverie. It was Mrs. Ashleigh, with a doctor in tow. I jumped from my seat.

“Dr. Hilliard has been giving me the latest on our patient,” she said, walking to the edge of the bed. She began to remove her gloves. “Tell Thomas what you just told me.”