Will Thomas - To Kingdom Come

“And the reply. What’s that about?” I asked.

“It was meant as a joke or pun, Thomas. Mercy. The faction is hiding in Merseyside, Liverpool, which has the largest Irish population in England.”

“So that’s where they are,” I said. “It’s just a ferry’s ride due west to Dublin.”

“Precisely. With the London and North Western Railway’s express, they could be out of the area entirely within a couple of hours and even out of the country, if they wished. I would imagine, however, that they would have found the last step to be unnecessary. There are plenty in Liverpool who are sympathetic to Irish Home Rule, enough to hide them away.”

“So, what do we do with the information, sir?”

“We’re going to Liverpool, and we’re going to track down Dunleavy and his faction. We’ll offer our services as bomb makers,” Barker said, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands over his expanding waistline. He had already put on several pounds.

“Making real bombs, sir?”

“Real enough, though I hope they will be disarmed by the time we hand them over.”

“As simple as that?”

“Simple enough. Not easy, mind you, but simple.”

“How shall we convince them of who we are?”

“We shall answer that question a little closer to the time. For now, it is vital that we move on to Liverpool. Before we leave, I’d like to speak to the cabman whose horse I shot the day of the bombing. I believe he may have caught a glimpse of the bomber.”

Later that afternoon, we found ourselves at Charing Cross Hospital, to see the one witness to the bombing of Scotland Yard. He wasn’t a young fellow, and his head and arm were encased in plaster. His face was a mess of lacerations and abrasions, and the plaster skullcap occluded one eye and covered his ear. The arm and head, I hazarded a guess, had been broken when he’d fallen backward off his perch.

“How are you feeling, sir?” Barker asked, after the porter had returned to his station.

“Take more’n this to do in John Farris,” the cabman said.

“Mr. Farris, I am an enquiry agent and have come here to ask you a few questions. Did you bring a fare to Whitehall?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“Where did you pick him up, and where did he ask to be dropped?”

“I picked him up in Seven Dials, and he asked to be dropped off in Whitehall. Didn’t say his exact destination, just told me to stop when we was near the Yard. He paid me off, including a tip. I was in the process of turning my cab around when the explosion happened about a minute later.”

“Could you describe the fellow?”

“Not real well, sir. The problem with hansoms is a fellow can come out of nowhere and hop into your cab before you get a good peep at him, and the only glance you’ll get is a bird’s-eye view down the trap, which is to say you’ll see his hat and shoulders and not much else. He were rather like this fellow here,” he said, addressing me, “only pale complected, like. He was young, and had an accent but was trying to hide it, I think. Didn’t sound real natural, if you ken my meaning, but he didn’t talk between ‘Take me to Whitehall, my good man,’ and ‘Thank you. You may stop here.’ Could have been Irish, but could have been almost anything.”

“How was he dressed, this youth?”

“Long coat, tannish color, and a brown bowler. Dark trousers and shoes. Middle class, I thought, or a poor one, trying to ape his betters.”

“I’ll bet you’ve answered these questions a hundred times.”

“Two hundred,” the man wheezed.

“Is there anything else you can recall?”

“No, sir. That’s the lot.”

“Thank you, then. We’ll let you rest. If I may ask it, I would like this conversation to remain a secret.”

“As you wish, Mr. Barker, sir.”

Barker stopped and turned back to the supine figure on the bed.

“You know me?”

The fellow gave a brief cackle. “A cabman, not knowing the best tipper in London? I knowed you the moment you walked in. Mum’s the word, Guv’nor. Ain’t a policeman or reporter alive that’d make me peach on you.”

Barker reached out and offered a hand to the injured man. The man raised his own, and my employer grasped it firmly.

“I want you to know something before I go. I put your horse down myself. I was there at her side. There was no way to save her. Her injuries were simply too severe. If I thought she had a chance of surviving, even out of harness, I would have waited, but there wasn’t. She was crazed and injured, and it was a kind-ness.” He turned to me. “Come, Llewelyn. This gentleman deserves his rest.”

We left the old cabman to his solitary grieving.

I finished packing my clothing into the disreputable pasteboard suitcase I’d owned since before Barker had first hired me. Within an hour, we’d be at Euston Station, the London and North Western Railway terminus, on our way to Liverpool. I felt uneasy, as if I were about to go into battle. The chances I would get killed today were slight, I told myself. I wouldn’t allow myself yet to think of tomorrow.

I came down the stairs and set my suitcase by the door. I hadn’t seen Mac since he’d opened the curtains that morning. In fact, the place was as quiet as a tomb. I went into the dining room, where Dummolard was laying out breakfast. He had outdone himself, creating a country hunt breakfast for Barker and me.

I sat down and helped myself to the coffee but thought it best to wait for my employer. As I was taking my first sip, I heard the click of the door of Mac’s private domain in the hall, and Barker suddenly came into the dining room.

Mac had put some concoction into Barker’s hair, turning it varying shades of gray, so that each strand resembled a bit of wire. The front was plastered back; but behind his ears, it was thick and unkempt. His beard was equally shot with gray, and not even his mustache and eyebrows had been spared. In place of his usual spectacles were a smaller pair, black as night, exactly like the ones van Rhyn wore, with dark lenses and glass side pieces. He wore a tweed suit of European cut, and I could tell that Barker had neared his goal of gaining half a stone in weight. In his hand was a tall walking stick, or short staff, inlaid with ivory.

“ Guten Morgen, Herr Penrith, ” he said to me.

“Good morning to you, Mr. van Rhyn,” I replied.

“I think it appropriate that we pray over this meal,” Barker said, and I bowed my head. He did thank God for the meal, but also he asked for success in our endeavor and a safe journey home. It only served to reinforce my fears that we were about to embark upon a most dangerous assignment.

The table was immaculate with white linen, heavy silver that I had never seen before, and Blue Willow transfer ware, laden with far too much food for just two men. Platters of eggs, bacon, bangers, kedgeree, potatoes, grilled tomatoes, toast, jam, marmalade, and coffee all fought for space on the sideboard. As I got my first cup in me, my appetite began to grow. I dared the toast first, then the bacon. It was excellent, so I thought I might have some eggs to go with it. The potatoes looked particularly good; and I wouldn’t want to insult the cook, who had gone to so much trouble with the kedgeree. Before long, we had sampled every dish and even gone back for seconds.

Afterward, when we had shaken hands with Mac and Dummolard, and given Harm a parting pat on the head, I felt positively moribund. We stepped into the cab in danger of breaking the springs, and rolled off toward Euston Station.

“I think the next time we leave the city on a case, it should be a spur-of-the-moment decision,” I muttered.

“Agreed,” said my employer, for he had wielded his knife and fork as well as I.