Will Thomas: To Kingdom Come

“I understand why the bombers would attack Trafalgar Square and Scotland Yard,” I said, “but why the Junior Carlton Club, sir?”

“You must study English politics a little more thoroughly, lad,” Barker replied. “The main opposition to Home Rule will be the old dogs sitting around the fire at the Carlton making decisions, but it will be the young pups at the Junior that will dictate policy over the next twenty years. The Irish are sending them a very clear message.”

There is a right way to do things and a wrong way, and then there is the Barker way, which is a third choice no one had thought of yet, because they were not clever enough. Had we gone in the front entrance of Claridge’s, we would have been stopped at the desk, but the Guv walked in the service entrance as bold as you please. We worked our way through the kitchens and the dining room, facing nothing more challenging than a few questioning stares. In the hallway, he went so far as to buttonhole a steward.

“Tell me, my man, in what room is Mr. Parnell staying? We are from the Home Office.”

I was debating whether we could accurately be described as “from the Home Office,” but it was not precisely a lie. It is one of Barker’s axioms that one must make use of whatever leverage one can muster.

“Room three eleven, sir,” the man responded.

“Have the reporters all gone?”

“They have already left, sir. Mr. Parnell had them in for a statement.”

“Thank you.” I saw him discreetly press some silver into the steward’s hand. The two of us climbed the servants’ staircase and soon found ourselves in sole possession of an elegant corridor. Barker knocked on the door marked 311. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he thumped. With that ham-sized fist of his, it was just short of beating down the door.

A moment later the door opened, and a man looked out at us in minor annoyance. I was more accustomed to seeing his face in engravings in The Illustrated London News. He was a tall, well-built man in a frock coat of light gray, with a long but well-groomed beard.

“Yes?” he demanded. “What do you want?”

“Mr. Parnell, my name is Mr. Cyrus Barker. This is my assistant, Mr. Thomas Llewelyn. I believe I am in possession of information you shall find useful.” He offered his card. Barker has a way of snapping the pasteboard in his thick fingers as he presents it that has so far eluded me, no matter how often I try.

“I doubt that sincerely,” Parnell replied drily, looking at the card. “Barker. I’ve heard of you, but I assure you I don’t need to hire an enquiry agent.”

Barker would not be put off so easily. “I have a matter of great importance to discuss with you, sir, but I would not care to do so in this hall.”

Parnell shrugged and stepped back, opening the door wide. “Very well, come in. Half of London has been in here today already. I don’t recall your name being mentioned by Scotland Yard this morning.”

“You won’t,” Barker said, as we stepped into the room. “We are working sub rosa for one of Her Majesty’s agencies. I am taking you into our confidence, because I am convinced you had nothing to do with the atrocities that occurred last night. I am going to risk revealing what I have learned because I believe you can be trusted, even if Her Majesty’s government does not.”

“It’s nice to know someone trusts me. I spent most of the night being questioned by Scotland Yard. The newspapers today are wild over this new outrage. I won’t be surprised if I’m burned in effigy at a rally tonight. Everyone seems to think I can wave my wand like Merlin and every faction will fall into line like so many ducks. I wish it were that easy.”

“I’m afraid the situation is worse than you’ve been led to believe. According to my sources, if a bill for Home Rule is not rushed through Parliament within the month, there will be a second series of outrages much larger than the first.”

“Good lord,” Parnell said, falling into an overstuffed leather chair and running a hand through his scant hair.

“Precisely. Should that occur, it will not be an effigy they shall hang. All your attempts at forming a legitimate coalition for Home Rule will have been set to naught. It is vital that you help me, you see. I am your only hope of containing the more militant factions of the Brotherhood.”

“If another series of bombings occurs, it could throw back the chances for Irish democracy thirty years or more,” Parnell agreed. “Believe me, gentlemen, I want to help you, but I know nothing about the bombings. I assure you, none of my associates had anything to do with them.”

“Somehow, a group of factionists from the more radical fringe were able to smuggle in dynamite from America. They prepared and delivered their bombs and got away without being detected. Obviously, that requires a high level of organization. Who has such an ability to command men and use strategy among your compatriots? Who is both ruthless and radical enough to threaten the government and the Royal Family?”

“I scarce can say,” Parnell said vaguely.

“You need assurances,” Barker said patiently. “I know there are dozens of factions out there, with a like number of ideologies. Some are militant, others philosophical, and some are merely formed to take in money. I have one mission and one mission alone: to find the faction that blew up Scotland Yard last night. I must find them, shut down their operation, and turn them over to the authorities, and I shall do so privately. This is not for the newspapers. You cannot use this as proof of your sincerity, not publicly, anyway. Give me names, Mr. Parnell, the names of the more militant leaders among the I.R.B., or Clan Na Gael, or whatever they are calling themselves this morning.”

“How do I know,” Parnell asked, “that what you uncover won’t go to the Special Irish Branch who’ve been kicking in doors and harassing innocent Irishmen?”

“I’ve trusted you just now with privileged information that could be passed on to the press or to other factions because I believe your efforts to help the Irish people are sincere.” Barker moved over to the window and looked out into the street, his arms crossed. “Now you shall have to trust me. I cannot put it any plainer than that. The names, sir. In your heart of hearts, who do you think it might have been?”

The Irishman picked up a silver case and lit a cigarette. His hand, I noticed, was not steady. Surreptitiously, I pulled my notebook out of my pocket.

“You do realize what the punishment among the factions is for informing, do you not, Mr. Barker?” Parnell asked.

“If you are referring to Peter Carey, who was assassinated for informing on the Invincibles last year, I do. They tracked him all the way to South Africa. But he had definite information and was one of the conspirators. I merely wish to be pointed in a direction.”

“Very well. I cannot give you a definite name, but I can give you a list of a half dozen capable enough. There is Peter Davitt, O’Donovan Rossa, Michael Cusack, Alfred Dunleavy, Henri Le Caron, and Seamus O’Muircheartaigh. Most have spent time in prison, and Dunleavy and Le Caron have commanded armies. If he isn’t among one of them, he is unknown to me, and I’d like to think that such a fellow would have been brought to my attention before now.”

“Have you got all that down, Llewelyn?” Barker asked.

“Almost, sir. I didn’t get the last fellow’s name.”

“I know him,” Barker said. “I shall spell his name for you later. That is all I need of you, Mr. Parnell. We won’t take up any more of your time. Come along, lad.”

Barker led me down the grand staircase to the lobby, where we evoked the scrutiny of the hotel manager. One cannot be faulted for leaving an establishment, however, and we left unhindered. Two thirds of detective work, I believe, is sheer brass.