Will Thomas: Some Danger Involved

Somehow, through all the bustle of the first day, my battered old pasteboard suitcase had found its way to my room. I shaved and combed my hair with the aid of a pitcher and bowl on the nightstand. The suit I picked out of the wardrobe wasn't an exact fit, but it was better than my own. I made my bed, wondering what had happened to my predecessor that he didn't need his entire wardrobe anymore, and straightened the room before going out into the hall. I hesitated, not certain what to do next.

"Llewelyn? That you, lad?" Barker's voice came from overhead. He must have ears like a cat.

"Aye, sir!"

"Come up here, then. There's a good fellow."

I climbed a narrow and steep staircase to the upper story. The entire top floor was one single long room going up to the roof peak, with a pair of gables on each side. The walls were a deep cardinal red. The room was dominated by a large canopied bed at the far end, with heavy curtains of the style made popular at the turn of the last century. Low bookshelves lined the walls, and every foot of the slanting wall space was hung with weapons: swords, scimitars, blowguns, harquebuses, spears. It was a fantastic collection, if a bit bloodthirsty.

A blaze was burning in the attic grate, and two chairs were set before it. Cyrus Barker was in one of the chairs. Though he wore a dressing gown of gray silk, his wing-tipped collar was crisp and his tie securely knotted and pinned. With one hand he was scratching Harm behind the ears, and in the other, he held a dainty cup and saucer containing a pallid liquid which could only be green tea. Of course, he wore those strange spectacles. I wondered if he slept in them.

"Have you settled in?"

"Yes, sir," I responded. "But, about that windowЕ"

"A house rule you must humor, I'm afraid. Most of the deaths in this country are due to shutting up the patient in a room full of his own noxious fumes and microbes. Fresh air was meant to flow freely about our bodies at night. To shut oneself up in overheated rooms stultifies the brain and lowers one's natural ability to fight infection. I never catch cold, Mr. Llewelyn."

"I believe I've caught one."

"Your body is not accustomed to fresh south London air. Give it time. Soon you'll be as a steam boiler glowing red in the chilly night. Now come, have some of this delicious tea."

I watched my employer's large hands pour tea from a tiny pot into a cup and saucer. We were grown men playing "tea party." The tea was passable, I suppose. I wondered what he'd say if he knew there was a coffee drinker under his roof.

"How were your errands? Did you find everything?"

"Fine, yes, sir. No problems at all."

"And did you study the books I placed on your table?"

"I spent the evening reading the Japanese tales. Fascinating they were, too."

"Excellent," he pronounced, standing and exchanging his dressing gown for a frock coat. "I'm going to the office. I want you to spend the day studying the rest of the books. We'll discuss them thoroughly after dinner." He tucked the dog under his arm like a book and preceded me down the staircase.

My day was spent in hard study. It reminded me of my time at university. Mac brought me several cups of green tea, no doubt at the insistence of my employer. I thought there was a sardonic gleam in the young butler's eye. Lunch proved to be a rather tasteless stew and a hard roll. Later, dinner was even worse, a Scottish feast of mutton, mashed turnips, and potatoes. Not that I was grumbling, but I would have preferred a plate of jellied eel over this lot. Barker didn't seem to notice. It was my own fault for hiring myself out to a Scotsman.

My employer called me up to his eyrie after supper. He was standing in one of the gables, looking out over his garden.

"Fog's coming up," he noted. "Are you prepared for our little chat?"

"I am, sir."

Oral examinations were the dread of most students during my university days. One needed to be thoroughly grounded in the subject and able to think on one's feet. Luckily for me, Barker questioned in a straightforward and logical way. I found myself answering almost conversationally. He expounded after some of my answers, and it was evident that he was well informed on all of the subjects in the books. Far from the torture I expected, I found I was almost enjoying myself. The gentleman in his own home was far removed from the tyrant in his chambers at 7 Craig's Court.

"That's enough, then," he said, finally. "You've proven to me that you now have a rudimentary grounding in the subjects I desired."

"May I ask a question?" I hazarded. "I understand the need for logic and ratiocination, but why all the oriental studies?"

"The Foreign Office considers me an authority on the subject and frequently calls me in for casework and interpreting. I'm something of an orientalist, though my knowledge was acquired firsthand, rather than out of books."

"Firsthand, sir? You've lived in the East, then?"

"I was raised there. Foochow, Shanghai, Canton, Kyoto, Manila. All over, really. That's enough now, lad. Get some rest. Be ready for your first day tomorrow."

I wanted to question him further, but I had been dismissed.

The next thing I knew, Barker was bellowing my name. It was not an ideal way to start one's first day of employment.

"Sir!" I answered, sitting up in bed.

"It is time you were about, lad. It's nearly seven." The voice was over my head, vibrating down from his garret.

Mac had failed to wake me. "Where is Mr. Maccabee?"

"It is the Shabbat," he answered. "Mac's day off."

I rubbed a hand over my face vigorously, then just to show it who was in charge, I climbed out of bed and threw some cold water on it. I put on one of my predecessor's suits and prepared myself for my first day at work. I wanted to make a good impression.

Barker was all hustle and bustle as he came down the stairs, dressed in a spotless double-breasted black morning coat. He inspected my suit critically, then led me out to the curb. Raising his stick, he brought the first cab to our feet.

Barker's residence was just off the circle known as Elephant and Castle. The street was named for the well-known public house, which, if you believe the guidebooks, was corrupted from L'enfant de Castille, after a Spanish noble's child that stayed in London some time in the city's obscure past. If one were to look at a map of London, one would note that the E and C is a kind of hub around which lie the spokes of major thoroughfares, leading to all the famous bridges of the city: Lambeth, Westminster, Waterloo, Blackfriars, Southwark, London, and the Tower. All of them could be reached from Barker's residence in a matter of minutes. It was this fortunate placement, I think, that made Barker choose a home on the unfashionable Lambeth side of London.

It was Waterloo we were crossing this time, before turning south. I was to work in Whitehall, one of the most famous streets in the world. Rattling down Whitehall Street in the hansom, I could look directly ahead and see the Parliament clock tower containing the bell called Big Ben. Over my shoulder were Trafalgar Square and Nelson's Column, and down the street was the prime minister's residence, and the Home and Foreign Offices. Everywhere you turned there was a monument, a statue, a famous landmark.

Craig's Court is a quiet little cul-de-sac backing up against Great Scotland Yard and the police headquarters that have appropriated the name. Despite its abbreviated length, Craig's Court has a reputation, for it is where most of the enquiry agents in town keep their offices.

Inside the agency, the antechamber, the scene of such trepidation two days ago, now seemed dull and vacant. The clerk was still there, buried behind another Police Gazette. Barker continued on, but I stopped to introduce myself.