“And here I was thinking you a common criminal,” Barker said.
O’Muircheartaigh’s wizened face broke into a nasty grin that was almost skeletal. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Cyrus. Well, perhaps not that sorry. I’ve come here to say that our temporary truce is at an end. I cannot speculate and attend to my business concerned about anyone or anything save my own interests. I suggest you do not attempt to hamper me in my work or it will not go well with you. Let us go to neutral corners and lick our wounds.”
“That is not bad advice, provided you understand that at some point our interests will conflict.”
The Irishman lifted a wide-brimmed hat that he had been holding to his head. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Slowly, he pushed himself painfully to his feet and began to shuffle out with no more of a good-bye than the greeting when he first arrived. He slowed, however, when he reached my desk.
“Survived another one, have you?” he asked.
“As you see,” I answered with a shrug.
“Remarkable.”
He continued on and a few seconds later I heard the door close. I let out my breath.
“He really thinks himself a patriot, then?”
“Aye. He uses the money produced by his own criminal enterprises to fund the government’s enemies. It is ingenious when you think about it.”
“Doesn’t he keep a few pennies for himself?”
“Oh, he has a wealthy lifestyle, but I don’t begrudge him that. It’s one less rifle or bomb that won’t go off in London.”
“I suppose I could live with that.”
Then Jenkins came in with the second post on a silver tray, just as he always does. I noted a large envelope among the letters, but wasn’t especially curious about it. Barker stopped leafing through the stack and stared at it. Then he gently put it on the tray again and pushed his green leather chair away on its casters.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s for you, from Ceylon.”
“Ceylon? I don’t know anyone in Ceylon. I don’t even know anyone who’s ever been to Ceylon.”
“I assume the package is from Miss Ilyanova.”
“Oh,” I said, reaching for it. The Guv caught my wrist in his big hand.
“Do you remember the ricin that nearly killed O’Muircheartaigh, lad? I think it’s best if we take this outside.”
It suddenly seemed to me that there were an inordinate amount of dust motes swirling about our chamber in the sunlight. Holding my breath, I followed my employer out into the small courtyard behind our office. I even followed his example and held a handkerchief against my mouth as a precaution. He cut the string with his dagger and sliced the top of the envelope open. Then slowly he tented it and peered inside.
“There doesn’t appear to be any granular material. I’m going to let gravity pull the contents out. Be prepared to jump back if anything looks untoward.”
He lifted one end of the envelope and decanted a letter, nothing more dangerous than that. Barker used the blade of his dagger, poking it about the envelope, looking for anything dangerous. The breeze I’d been waiting for all afternoon arrived unceremoniously and picked up the letter, and I was obliged to catch it before it went over the wall.
“Stuff and nonsense,” I stated.
“Better that than gasping out your last breath,” Barker said. He looked faintly disappointed that the envelope contained something as mundane as a letter.
I examined the letter at my desk. It was written in Sofia’s hand. I laid it on the desk and unfolded it slowly.
14 May 1886
Dear Thomas,
I am sitting here on the veranda of a quaint little bungalow overlooking the Mahaweli and thinking of you. I hope Mr. Barker has recovered from his ordeal and your lives are no longer turned upside down as they were. I should be sorry, I suppose, for the events I helped to facilitate, but then if it had not happened I should never have met you, and I am glad I did. Kidnapping you from the priory was a whim, but our time together during your recovery may have been the best moments of my life. I have given over my father’s body to a Buddhist monastery for burial and am now free to live as I choose. I have money enough to last until I decide what that life shall entail. Your chastisement of me for the murder of Andrew McClain was the first regret I have ever had for a death at my own hand. I would like to think it was my last, and that I may in time forget the training that was forced upon me. And yet, I understand I am my father’s daughter. I have always liked shiny baubles, and I’m not very good at penurious living. If I return to my old habits, you must share in the blame for not coming to rescue me from it. I should not need to make the only sacrifice. And yet, dear Thomas, you have given me a seed of hope. Perhaps I may live a normal life yet. Certainly, it was what my mother wished and prayed for. Ceylon is so peaceful, and it would be wonderful to live here forever, working with my hands by day and sitting on the veranda at evening’s end, watching the sun go down. I wish you could be here to enjoy it. But don’t worry. I do not expect you.
Sofia
I read it once, twice, thrice over, while Barker sat in his chair regarding me and practicing his much espoused patience. It was a private letter, but I knew he would need to see it. I got up from my seat and put the letter on his desk. He leaned back in the corner of his swivel wing chair, resting his chin on his left hand while reading the letter as many times as I. It was that kind of letter.
While he read, I thought about Sofia in far-off Ceylon. It was certain to be an exotic place, with elephants and palm trees, and I could picture sitting on that veranda beside her at sunset. The vision evaporated when the Guv cleared his throat.
Barker put the letter facedown in the center of his desk, crossed to his smoking cabinet and selected a pipe. He chose one of his favorites, a lion’s head in mid-roar, stuffing its skull with tobacco from his jar. Seating himself again, he swung his heels up onto the edge of his desk and crossed them neatly at the ankle. Then he struck a match against the little French porcelain striker and puffed until it lit. It was one of the few liberties he allowed himself, resting his heels on his desk, and he only did so while cogitating. His mind was like a vast difference engine, working out equations, and I knew it was only a matter of time before he started asking me questions.
“Are you contemplating a trip to Ceylon, Thomas?”
“No, sir. I am not,” I lied.
“Then the two of you did not share a grand passion.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. “No. I wouldn’t call it that.”
“Are you under the impression that she may have been in love with you?”
“She was the practical sort, I’d say. She wouldn’t lose her head over a fellow, although she might make him feel that she did.”
“It’s getting close to lunch. Go over to the Grapes public house and bring us some meat from the joint, and bread, and a pitcher of beer. I’m suspending work on the new case for the day, until I’ve studied the letter thoroughly. My thumbs are pricking. Pricking fiercely, in fact.”
I returned with the food and drink, having liberated also a nice wedge of cheddar and a jar of pickled onions. We ate at our desks, making rude sandwiches of the beef and the thick bread. I believe it was his favorite meal, a businessman’s lunch for busy men in the middle of Whitehall. In the Grapes, I rubbed shoulders with men from the Admiralty, the Foreign Office, Downing Street, and the Houses of Parliament. If Etienne Dummolard suspected that, he would have torn his hair out.
He was munching onions with the aid of a small fork Jenkins had brought from somewhere, and taking swallows of beer as he read the letter once more. Something about it truly excited him. At one point he even drew the lamp closer and perused it flat upon the desk with his face but a few inches away.