For my part, I was back as I had begun, with little to do, waiting for him to say something and unable to interrupt him. It was my letter, after all. Therefore, I studied my notes from the new case while he studied the old one. Finally, he tossed it across the glass top of his desk, where it fell off on my side and landed on the Persian rug.
“We’ve been fooled, lad,” he said. “She tricked us. She tricked everyone to get what she wanted. I did not take this girl seriously enough. I thought it mere coincidence that I never encountered her the entire time she was in London, but she planned it that way before she even arrived. I was too preoccupied with her father.”
“I noticed she disappeared the minute you arrived at the Albemarle,” I said.
“In many ways, she’s worse than Nightwine.”
“Wait,” I said, waving my hands. “You’re the one who said a girl her age could not attempt such a complicated venture.”
“I know,” my employer said. “I was wrong.”
That was a remark I never expected to hear from Cyrus Barker’s lips.
“Go on,” I said, looking at him skeptically.
“I didn’t understand her motivation, or rather, her desperation. She came here with the express intent to kill her father.”
“But she couldn’t kill her father,” I pointed out.
“That’s correct. But I could. She saw a chance for her own freedom, if she played her cards right.”
I crossed my arms, thinking furiously.
“Don’t forget, lad, Sebastian Nightwine was here two years ago, before he even met her.”
“And caused her mother’s death,” I added.
“Precisely. When he was here last he already had the plan to attack Tibet, and had possessed it for over twenty years. Why should he choose now to go ahead with it, after all this time?”
“He said it was his pension,” I said. “He was keen as mustard after it.”
“Perhaps she put the thought in his head. She had to make her father think it was his idea in order for him to go through with it.”
“It’s too fantastic,” I argued. “To come halfway round the world to rid oneself of one’s father.”
“Believe what you want, but think about this: why the British backing? They could have eventually gotten funding elsewhere and taken Tibet on their own, but Nightwine became convinced he must make his money here.”
“Where you would be in his way.”
“Exactly. And Miss Ilyanova knew we would inevitably clash. I was the blunt instrument she would use against her father. She would not kill her father on her own, but she could manipulate matters so someone else could do it for her.”
“What about me?” I summoned the courage to ask. “She manipulated you and Nightwine. Was she manipulating me, as well?”
“Just because she couldn’t kill you doesn’t mean she couldn’t manipulate you. Miss Ilyanova has been damaged by the events of her life, possibly beyond her ability to return to a normal existence. Despite her claims in the letter, which you must understand was written for a purpose, I cannot picture her living a life of quiet domesticity, even to please you.” Barker got up and went through the entire ritual of lighting his pipe again. I suspected he was summoning his thoughts, or thinking how best to express them.
“Thomas,” he said when his pipe was going again. “You’re an intelligent young fellow, educated, bright-”
“Get on with it,” I remarked.
“But you’re not on her level. She is the daughter of a Russian countess and a famous explorer. She is beautiful, clever, and perhaps the most dangerous woman in Europe. She is an adventuress, as much as I deplore the term. She could have her pick of any man in London or Paris. Wealthy men, powerful men, aristocrats, even kings. Instead, she chose the son of a collier, a disgraced scholar, assistant to a man on the run from the law, with seemingly little going for him.”
I saw it coming, but it stung anyway. Barker is a very good man but he can be uncommonly blunt. I felt I should say something in my defense.
“She said we were in unique positions, because of the battle between you and her father.”
“Do not take everything she said at face value, lad.”
“She was just using me, then?”
“I’m not saying she had no feelings for you. She has not invited you to Ceylon in order to punish this agency. However, you had one attribute no one else possessed. Her father despised you.”
“Oh, he did,” I answered. “But what does that have to do with anything?”
“Nothing, or quite a lot, actually. I suspect she used you to make her father irate. You wouldn’t be the first unsuitable young man thrust under the nose of her father, I’m sure.”
“Balderdash,” I said, crossing my arms and leaning back in my chair.
Barker removed the pipe from his mouth and shook his head. “What happened between you and Miss Ilyanova does not concern the agency. I’ll only say this. You have told me recently that you are content with your employment here and that you intend to continue with the agency indefinitely. What means could she employ to get you to abandon your career and follow after her? She tried to make you fall in love with her, but that did not succeed. You chose instead your responsibilities here. Her only way to bring you to Ceylon is by impressing upon you the belief that she has something more to offer.”
Barker put his pipe in an ashtray on top of his smoking cabinet to cool. I started to go through the post, but suddenly stopped and looked up at my employer. “There’s another letter here, sir.”
“From whom?”
“From Sofia. And it’s addressed to you.”
The Guv stood and leaned over the desk, snatching it out of my outstretched hand.
Dear Mr. Barker,
I was going through my late father’s effects and found this photograph. I thought it might be of interest to you.
Sincerely,
Sofia Ilyanova
Barker separated the letter from the photograph and studied it as if it might produce information beyond the few simple words it contained. Then he regarded the sepia-toned image with such intensity, I wondered what it could possibly be. His wrist dropped and he held it loosely between his fingers, looking stunned. It dropped onto the desk and I retrieved it, wondering what had astonished him so. The image was octavo-sized and someone had inked the date 1885 in the lower right-hand corner. A group of men in large hats of the sort worn in western America stood formally in a group in front of a bunting emblazoned with stars and stripes. The men were all armed and one of their heads had been carefully circled in the same ink as the date.
“It’s him,” Barker said at last.
Who on earth is he talking about? I wondered.
After a moment, he finally found his voice. “It’s Caleb,” he said, breathing hard. “My brother is alive. And Nightwine knew it the entire time!”