Will Thomas - To Kingdom Come

Barker took the telegram and looked over it as casually as if it were a tailor’s bill.

“And this,” Anderson said, adding a second yellow sheet on top of the first, “is a telegram from Superintendent Williamson of the Criminal Investigation Department, complaining that we hired a private detective, who is known for advertisements in the newspapers, suggesting that you mismanaged-no, excuse me, you bungled the case severely, and had the Yard not come along at the proper time to take control of a desperate situation, London would now be no more than a memory. He says he is consulting with solicitors at Temple Bar about proceedings against you.”

Barker took up the second, with no more interest than the first, but I was concerned. Proceedings? What sort of proceedings? My word, was Barker about to be arrested?

“Enquiry agent,” Barker said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I prefer to be called an enquiry agent.”

Anderson frowned. “Mmm, yes. I’m not finished. Here, you will be interested to see, is a third telegram, also from the Yard. It is from the office of Commissioner Henderson, superseding the other two and informing me that on advice from counsel, they will let the matter drop, and they hope for better relations with the Home Office in the future. Ha!” Anderson broke into a big smile. “Mr. Barker, can you imagine the reason for the sudden reversal of their decision?”

“I assume that the Prince wrote a letter to the Yard, commending their efforts in saving him from being blown up.”

“Exactly.”

“And you know that because the Prince is no fool and was able to ferret out the truth of the matter, which is that Scotland Yard had little to do with it. Were I not a Baptist, I would wager that you have a letter from Buckingham Palace in that folder, also.”

“Not much gets by you, Mr. Barker, does it?” Anderson asked, extracting the letter. I saw it bore the Royal Crest at the top.

“One almost did, but as the Bard said, ‘All’s well that ends well.’”

“So,” I put in, “Scotland Yard is no longer upset?”

“Mr. Llewelyn, I assure you I couldn’t give a tinker’s mended pot how the Yard feels. We’ve trod on each other’s feet far too often for that. Here is your check,” Anderson said, handing the bank draft over to us. Barker naturally avoided it, so I pocketed it quickly.

“Is there any further business?” my employer asked.

“Just one. The opinions of my superiors are rather mixed. Some believe you showed initiative, while others thought you were reckless. The dossier from the Foreign Office said your methods were irregular, and that has certainly proven to be the case. Most important, you have succeeded in stopping the faction, and that was something the Yard could not have done without your aid. My question to you is whether you might wish to make this a permanent arrangement. There is always more work to be done, and I could use another spy of Le Caron’s caliber. Your work was most satisfactory. I would like the opportunity to work with you again.”

Barker raised a finger and ran the nail along the skin under his chin, a gesture I’d seen him make when he was considering something. Then he gave a sudden shake of his head, as if coming out of a reverie.

“No, thank you, sir. The idea is intriguing, and there is no one I would rather work with in Her Majesty’s government, but I’ve been captain of my own ship for too long. I’ve worked hard to make a success of my agency, and I am proud of it. This case was such that I felt it would be churlish of me not to offer my services, but I have people who depend upon me in this city, and I would not wish to disappoint them. I decline your offer, though someday I hope to work for you again.”

“May I at least call upon you should something else of extreme importance occur and Mr. Le Caron is otherwise occupied?”

“Certainly, sir,” Barker said. “I did not mean that I would not entertain a request for aid, merely that I did not wish to become a government agent.”

As if of one accord, the two men stood and shook hands. We left the table, the room, and then the Home Office itself. Barker and I walked down Whitehall to our offices.

In a few moments, we arrived at our refurbished chambers. The change was startling. The outer room had been rather dark when I had first applied for employment here, but now the walls had been wainscoted in white, replastered, and painted, and the yellow doors varnished to a high gloss. There was a kilim rug leading from the door and a new side table for cards and messages.

The clerk’s desk was the same, but where once stood a row of wooden chairs, there was a long leather settee and a potted palm almost as tall as I, holding court. There was also a painting after the French fashion which looked like something seen through a rain-streaked window. It was a riverside landscape.

“A Constable,” I noted.

“O’Muircheartaigh is not the only one who can collect art,” he stated.

“I doubt it will be the last constable we see in these offices,” I said drily.

“Thomas, do restrain yourself.”

The door opened and Jenkins came out, looking rumpled and half sleepy, but glad to see us.

“Sirs! Welcome back! Come in, I beg you.”

We entered our offices. The glazier had obviously returned and replaced the glass a second time. The floors had been sanded and varnished, my desk repaired, the rugs cleaned, and gas lamps had been installed over my desk, as well as a new chandelier. We looked quite the modern professional agency. The only thing that was the worse for wear was the assistant Barker had brought in with him.

“The vase!” I cried, crossing over to the pedestal. Barker and I inspected it together, turning it around in our hands. There was nothing but the faintest gray-white seams where the breaks had been.

“One almost can’t tell,” I said. “A visitor won’t even notice the mend.”

“Yes, thank you for your suggestion, lad. I would have hated to lose this.”

I was hoping to hear about the history of the vase and how he acquired it, but he was as reticent as ever. He’d spied his smoking cabinet, and in a moment he was reacquainting himself with his meerschaums.

“Had them polished and cleaned and the stems reground while you was gone, sir,” Jenkins said proudly. “Tobacconist says they are as good as new.”

“They are, indeed,” Barker said, stuffing tobacco into the bowl of the pipe, which had been carved into his own image. He lit it, and placed the vesta in the empty ashtray on his desk.

“You’ll never guess what they clean them white pipes with, sir,” Jenkins said to me. “Raw spirits. The hard stuff.”

“Take it from me, Jenkins,” I said, remembering all the drinking I had endured over the past month. “It is the only proper use for the stuff. Speaking of spirits, how is the Rising Sun?”

“Never better, Mr. L. I shall stand you a pint at the earliest opportunity.”

“Thank you,” I said, thinking to myself that it might be a good while before I was thirsty for ale again.

Barker was sitting in his green swivel chair, still examining the vase in front of him. I took up the ledger and retrieved the check from my pocket.

“Good lord.”

“Thomas, you know how I feel about swearing.”

“Sorry, sir. It is this check. It does not even begin to cover the expenses we’ve incurred in this case!”

“I expected as much. Normally, Le Caron spends half our time together complaining of how little he gets paid to risk his neck. I did not take this case for remuneration. Sometimes other factors come into consideration, such as duty.”

He was silent for a moment, staring at the round vase in front of him as if it were a crystal ball in which he saw a portent. Perhaps, I thought, there was some flaw in the repairs.