A quarter hour later we were standing where we had begun our journey that morning, at the Charing Cross Railway and Footbridge. What a change a few hours had wrought. Though it had stood near empty hours before, the far shore now teemed with people milling about like ants on a mound. I wondered how the rumor of the reward had already reached into every corner of London. Had not one person come forward to defend the reputation of Cyrus Barker?
“Shall we cross?” he asked, though it was obvious he had every intention of doing so.
“In for a penny,” I quoted.
“Exactly.”
When we reached the bridge it had been barricaded completely, and a queue had formed. Constables questioned anyone attempting to cross.
“Your name, sir?” a bored constable asked as we came forward.
“Shadwell,” the Guv replied. “Robert Shadwell. Bruiser Bob, they call me. This here’s me son, Alf.”
“Shadwell,” the constable wrote on a clipboard. “And your purpose for being here?”
“Come to hunt for this Barker bloke like everyone else. Heard there might be a reward.”
He made a notation on the form and nodded.
“Very well, gentlemen, you may pass.”
As we neared our offices and Scotland Yard, I could hear a man below addressing the crowd in a loud, clear voice.
“Again, we have not established the rumor of a reward for the capture of Cyrus Barker. Scotland Yard disavows any knowledge of such an offer and, frankly, we doubt its veracity. A definite source has not been located. Also, the Yard will brook no interference in this investigation. We will arrest anyone whom we believe to be hindering this manhunt for personal gain!”
“Who’s the fellow speaking?” Barker asked a constable at the checkpoint on the other side.
“That’s Inspector Abberline. He’s in charge of the hunt.”
“Any leads? Where was he last seen?”
“You’ll have to ask him that,” he said, pointing his thumb at his superior on the bank.
“Don’t think I won’t,” my employer said. “Come along, boy. Pick up your feet.”
We descended the steps and found a mixed crowd of would-be man-hunters and newspaper reporters, pestering the officer with questions. Abberline was about thirty, of less than medium height, with good features, a small mustache, and black hair beginning to recede. He looked bright as a new penny and very capable of running such a large-scale operation. The questions with which they peppered him he answered back with aplomb and logic.
“What about the rumor that after mowing down your constables like skittles, he turned back and is hiding somewhere in his rooms?” a reporter asked.
“Absolutely unfounded. We thought of that possibility and have tossed every room in the immediate area from cellar to attic.”
“How are the injured constables?”
“All three of them were admitted to Charing Cross Hospital. As I understand, two have been released, while the third will remain with a broken knee.”
“Is it true that his assistant is with him?”
“Yes, it is. Initially, he was not charged, but now we have reason to believe he is also a fugitive of the law. Mr. Thomas Llewelyn is considered dangerous and was the one responsible for breaking PC Raife’s knee. He was imprisoned three years ago, I understand, for attacking a nobleman with the intent of robbery.”
So much for British justice, I thought bitterly. Though I had paid my debt to society, my past would be brought up repeatedly throughout my life. There are events in our lives that define us. Mine was lifting a single coin from a stack on the mantelpiece of an upperclassman at Oxford at the precise moment he walked in. The coin meant life or death for my young wife, lying ill in a garret on the other side of town. As it turned out, ’twas death for her, and eight months in Oxford Prison for me on a charge of theft. When I claim Life is a cruel taskmaster, believe me that I know whereof I speak.
“How long will the bridges be cordoned off?” one of the reporters asked.
“Until noon tomorrow, at Commissioner Warren’s discretion.”
“What makes you sure Barker done it?” the Guv called out. “Were there witnesses?”
“No,” Abberline answered. “But he left behind one of his calling cards. I cannot comment further.”
Barker turned away and walked to the river’s edge, raising his lantern to light it. I backed away from the crowd casually and followed. The sun was starting to set and the Thames looked as black and thin as india ink. Barker scratched under his chin, which I knew to be a sign he was thinking fiercely while the crowds behind us continued to pelt Abberline with increasingly inane questions. My employer turned and headed south along the embankment.
So, I thought, the victim had one of Barker’s business cards on his person. That did not sound so damning. They were readily available in a pewter stand in our outer office for anyone to take, and he handed them out whenever he had the opportunity, believing that advertisement resulted in clients. It took me a minute or two to realize that it wasn’t those cards to which he referred. The victim must have been found with one of Barker’s sharpened pence buried in a hand or leg. I couldn’t think of a single thing that would point more strongly in Barker’s direction than one of his sharpened coins, a novelty that to my knowledge the Guv alone employed, and which he’d just used that very day in Threadneedle Street, thereby damaging his case further.
“Let’s separate, lad,” my employer ordered, as he helped me light my lantern. “Stay just in view of my light.”
“Do you have a destination in mind, sir?”
“I do.”
“Might I hope there is food there, and that it isn’t far?” I asked, dwelling on the fact that we hadn’t had lunch or dinner.
“Aye,” he said, turning around and marching along the embankment. “You’re entitled to hope as much as you like.”
With that less than encouraging news, I followed behind. At first, I was forced to push my way through the crowd, lantern held high, but as we headed south most of them dispersed over Westminster Bridge or into Whitehall. In ten minutes’ walk we were the only two men that I could see following the Thames, but I still hung back, because if I understood him at all, he needed to think.
Perhaps there will come a time someday when there will be a paved path along the Thames in London, a promenade that will go on for miles, but for now it was rough going. I was constantly stepping up and down, barking my toes on something or backtracking and going round. A couple of times I lost sight of the lantern for several minutes. Free though I was, I did not enjoy my solitary walk along the river. Normally at that time, I’d have already eaten a wonderful supper prepared by Etienne Dummolard, our cook, enjoyed a hot soak in the bathhouse, and would currently be reading or going out with my friend Israel Zangwill to a concert or coffeehouse. Now my life was in ruins. Why bother wasting time and effort climbing out of the muck if you’re fated to be tossed back in again?
At one point, I was stopped by a constable who asked me if I’d seen anything unusual or anyone hiding along the waterfront. I told him that with all the activity along the river that evening, it didn’t seem possible for anyone to escape being found. I was even so bold as to ask if the rumor of a reward was true. He responded that he doubted it, and in any case, it wouldn’t be going into the pocket of his tunic, anyway. I lit a cigarette for him, wondering what the commissioner or Inspector Abberline would say to this officer casually chatting up one of the suspects they were presently hunting all over London.
Not long after, I nearly stumbled over Barker. He was sitting on the edge of a dock with his feet dangling over the water, and his candle had guttered and gone out. By then the moon had risen and we were bathed in a cool blue light. I put down my lantern and shook out my arm, for it had been a chore to carry it all that distance. I was tired and hungry and despondent about our predicament.