Will Thomas: Fatal Enquiry

Barker put his pipe in an ashtray on top of his smoking cabinet to cool. I started to go through the post, but suddenly stopped and looked up at my employer. “There’s another letter here, sir.”

“From whom?”

“From Sofia. And it’s addressed to you.”

The Guv stood and leaned over the desk, snatching it out of my outstretched hand.

Dear Mr. Barker,

I was going through my late father’s effects and found this photograph. I thought it might be of interest to you.

Sincerely,

Sofia Ilyanova

Barker separated the letter from the photograph and studied it as if it might produce information beyond the few simple words it contained. Then he regarded the sepia-toned image with such intensity, I wondered what it could possibly be. His wrist dropped and he held it loosely between his fingers, looking stunned. It dropped onto the desk and I retrieved it, wondering what had astonished him so. The image was octavo-sized and someone had inked the date 1885 in the lower right-hand corner. A group of men in large hats of the sort worn in western America stood formally in a group in front of a bunting emblazoned with stars and stripes. The men were all armed and one of their heads had been carefully circled in the same ink as the date.

“It’s him,” Barker said at last.

Who on earth is he talking about? I wondered.

After a moment, he finally found his voice. “It’s Caleb,” he said, breathing hard. “My brother is alive. And Nightwine knew it the entire time!”