CHAPTER FOUR
After we dropped Sir Alan in Fleet Street, Cyrus Barker reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and consulted his battered pocket watch.
“I’m sure you must have plans for the rest of the afternoon.”
“I do,” I admitted. “But I’ll share a cab with you back to Whitehall.”
The Guv grunted his assent, but something in his statement suggested to me that he was trying to rid himself of my company. He had needed my presence for Nightwine’s arrival, and now suddenly my services were no longer required. Meaning is as much in how we say a thing as in what we say. Even his grunt held a tone of disappointment.
We shared a hansom cab back to our offices and once inside my employer seated himself as if intending to stay there for some time. It was the Sabbath Day. I don’t wish to imply that he never worked on Sunday, since our profession is an elastic one which takes no heed of days and times. However, Barker does not work then unless he has a particular reason to do so.
Nightwine’s arrival in town certainly warranted a bending of this rule, but there was no reason for him to return to the office afterward; no reason of which I could conceive, anyway. I thought his behavior highly suspicious.
He looked pointedly at the clock on the mantelpiece and I regarded it as well. It was seven minutes to three. The Guv had an appointment. He was expecting a visitor and he didn’t want me there.
“I thought you were in a hurry to be away,” he said.
“As you often tell me, I must cultivate patience.”
The Guv pursed his lips and rose from his chair. He looked out the bow window into Whitehall Street while a minute ticked by.
“Would you prefer I go?” I asked. “I mean, if you’ve got something on…”
“Not a thing,” he assured me. Going to the smoking cabinet in his bookcases, he removed a pipe carved like the head of a lion and began thumbing tobacco into it. “Stay all afternoon if you wish.”
I stretched, a prolonged, catlike movement, which would have been censured by Barker as unprofessional during the week, but was perfectly allowable on a Sunday, the day of rest, when one wasn’t supposed to be working. All the same, it got under Cyrus Barker’s thick hide, which was what it was intended to do. Another minute ticked by.
While Barker smoked, I looked through the various cubbyholes in my rolltop desk.
“Are you looking for something?”
“Am I bothering you, sir?”
“Not in the least.”
“Just looking for a fresh pencil. Here’s one.”
“Good.”
It was four minutes to three. Barker’s head was encircled by smoke like a diaphanous halo. I decided I’d strained his patience long enough.
“Best be on my way, then. Tell Mac I shan’t be home for dinner. Cheerio!”
“Enjoy your day, lad,” he replied, visibly relaxing.
I stepped out into Craig’s Court and turned the corner into Whitehall Street. As it happened, I was standing in the exact spot where a day earlier I had encountered the girl named Sofia. Traffic in the street was a third of what it would be on Monday and foot traffic was minimal. It was not difficult to deduce that the man walking toward me was intended for number 7. One of the reasons Barker hired me, or so he has told me, is my ability to be unnoticeable. Just then I leaned against the wall with my hands in my pockets and one foot against the brick, my head down. The passing fellow paid me no heed at all. When he was gone, I took out my pad and pencil and began to scribble in Pitman shorthand. It’s how I think best. If it isn’t recorded, it didn’t happen.
Five feet ten, medium build, late fifties. Well dressed, morning coat (hasn’t changed since church?), graying hair, clean shaven, walking stick, homburg hat, no overcoat. Purposeful stride. Appearance of wealth. Does not look lost.
The man turned into Craig’s Court. I wasn’t about to put my head around the corner and have Barker see me, but I had to wonder, who was this fellow and what business did he have with Barker on a Sunday?
Casual acquaintances have joked with me about enjoying mysteries, as if when an enquiry agent’s assistant has time off he prefers to spend it reading Wilkie Collins. The truth is: I despise mysteries. They really get under my fingernails. I already have enough elements of my life that have no answers; I don’t require any more, thank you. True, I derive some satisfaction when we capture a criminal and prove without doubt that he has stepped outside of the law and deprived someone of their property and often their lives. That does not mean I would go looking for imaginary cases in my free time. Do barristers while away their evenings poring over legal briefs or do engineers read boiler manuals by candlelight, a cup of tea at their elbow? I rather think not.
I was walking away with the intent to avoid my employer on the off chance that he himself might step out of the office to see what mischief I was getting into, when up ahead I saw a familiar sight. It was a white lace parasol just disappearing ahead of me into Northumberland Street. On any given day, of course, London teems with white parasols, and the chances of finding a particular girl under any one of them are far less than finding a pea under one of three walnut shells manipulated by a confidence trickster. However, I was twenty-two and sound of limb, and would have crossed London for the opportunity to flirt with a pretty girl. And so I gave chase, as any sane young man would.
By the time I reached the corner and turned into Northumberland Street my quarry was well down the road. She was remarkably fleet of foot. Was it Sofia? The odds were almost astronomically against it. I was not so vain as to think she would hang about the area hoping for another chance to speak to me; almost vain enough, perhaps, but not quite. From where I trotted a hundred yards behind, the woman under the parasol could or could not be her. She was about the girl’s height, and was wearing a different dress, but then she would be wearing something different. This dress was almost fawn colored, and when she lifted her heels, her boots were white leather. The parasol was like a thousand others. Behind, I willed her to turn around and give me the slightest glimpse of her face, but then I’d never gotten a woman to do anything even by speaking. How did I expect it by willing it? She passed a small courtyard in front of the Northumberland Arms, and about twenty seconds later, I did so, as well.
“Mr. Lancelyn, is it not?”
I skidded to a halt and nearly fell on the cobblestones. My heart began beating faster, I could feel it in my breast. At one of the tables Sebastian Nightwine was just rising.
Ahead of me, the girl turned the corner and disappeared.
“It is Llewelyn, as I’m sure you are aware.”
“Lancelyn, Llewelyn, no matter. I’ve never been good with names. Perhaps we should all be Welsh and call ourselves Jones.”
“An excellent suggestion,” I replied. “You should pass it on to your friends in the government.”
“That was an interesting reception at the docks. Mr. Barker’s idea, I take it.”
“No, actually I’m the one with the Jewish friends these days.”
“Ah. You’re not as callow as you were two years ago. Come have a seat. I’ll buy you a drink, or a cup of tea, if you prefer.”
“Nothing for me, thank you. It might be poisoned.”
Nightwine sighed. “I believe I can get through an entire conversation without killing someone, although you do try my patience. I suppose, like your employer, you feel you cannot break bread with the Bad, Bad Man.”
“Something like that.”
“Just sit down, then. We need to talk.”
With a good deal of reluctance, I sat. Normally I prefer bars or glass between myself and a viper. On the other hand, there was a kind of exhilaration at being this close to a man Barker considered his nemesis.
“Well? You want to talk? Let’s talk.”