“When I returned to his tent after walking Caleb back, Nightwine seemed genial enough, and asked if he would be willing to interpret for him. They were raiding the hills near the Old Armory.
“I offered to go with him, but he refused, telling me, ‘You’re too valuable for that. One stray arrow and where would the Ever Victorious Army be?’
“I should have seen it, Thomas. I should have recognized it from Second Samuel. David wanted to rid himself of Uriah the Hittite, and so he led him into battle and then ordered his men to withdraw.”
“Oh, no,” I murmured.
“Even though I was forewarned, I didn’t think Nightwine capable of such base treachery then. I went off blindly northward toward my next assignment, where my commanding officer sent me. When I found the rebel camp two days later, they were in the midst of a major celebration. Word had arrived that Ward had been killed. It was said that the Devil Soldiers were withdrawing. There was confidence among the rebel forces that the Ever Victorious Army would finally lose. I was in the wrong place. I turned about and began the long march back to Shanghai.
“The rumor proved to be true. The Americans were withdrawing in disorder and Nightwine was nominally in charge, while England decided on a more permanent and high-ranking successor. The war over China would go on. I searched for Caleb and learned from some of the Chinese soldiers that he had fallen in battle, pierced by no less than three arrows. He hadn’t so much as a pocketknife to defend himself. After all my searching and my bloody walk from Foochow, I had spoken with him for less than half a day and wasted most of that precious time arguing about Nightwine’s character in a vain attempt to make them like each other. I have no doubt that it was deliberate murder. Sebastian Nightwine killed my only brother, and I will never forgive him.”
CHAPTER SIX
The following day, and the start of our working week, Cyrus Barker actually refused a prospective client. A manufacturer in Leatherhead by the name of Ferguson was convinced one of his employees was stealing designs and plans and selling them to his competitors. He had no wish to make accusations without proof and risk losing some of his better employees. As he explained his predicament, the Guv pulled a slip of paper from his desk and wrote a name and address upon it. The man’s explanation trailed off as the paper was set in front of him.
“What’s this?” he asked suspiciously.
“It is the name of a rival of mine who is better suited to this case. He is young and ambitious and you will find him competent.”
“You’re turning me down?”
“This sort of work requires someone working within your company for days or weeks. Even if I could afford the time, I’m too recognizable and would be quickly spotted.
“Sending my assistant would leave me with little to do and unable to take on a second case.”
“But I want your agency to handle the situation. You have the best reputation.”
“I would not recommend someone unless I thought him professionally capable of handling the work.”
“This is no way to do business,” Ferguson said, rising from the visitor’s chair.
“If you don’t like my recommendation, I suggest you consult one of the other agencies in this court. Good day, sir.”
After the fellow left, looking angry and befuddled, I put away my notebook and sat back in my chair.
“You want to leave your time free in case Nightwine chooses to retaliate over the incident at the dock,” I challenged.
“If he made an open attempt upon my life or these offices, you would not be able to leave the role you were forced to play in Leatherhead.”
“I suppose you’re right,” I conceded. “I would remind you, however, it does not reflect well on us when we refuse custom.”
“Duly noted.”
“Perhaps it is Nightwine’s strategy to cause you to turn away clients until eventually your reputation suffers.”
“I believe-” Barker began, but I never learned what he believed because Inspector Poole slipped into our offices again.
“I thought you were guarding Nightwine,” the Guv said, frowning at him.
“I am,” he told us. “We work in shifts. I’ve just been next door, checking in at ‘A’ Division.
“Have you heard the news?”
“He’s been busy turning away clients,” I said. “What has happened?”
“Five people are dead this morning and three more in hospital, including two constables. A residence has been placed under quarantine, and just happens to belong to Seamus O’Muircheartaigh. Someone has done for him. He’s barely hanging on to his life, and is not expected to recover.”
The Guv looked at me and gave a low whistle of surprise. “Someone is very brash to make a play at the Irishman,” he said, “if not suicidal. The man is a human cobra. What have you discovered so far?”
The inspector dug into a coat pocket for his notebook and began flipping pages, while I pulled out my own from the rolltop desk, ready to take shorthand.
“This morning, a young woman delivered a package at number 47 Old Jewry, the City, shortly after eight o’clock. That’s about all O’Muircheartaigh was able to tell us before he collapsed. There was parcel wrapping in the outer office and a sword and scabbard on the Persian rug in front of his desk.”
“Was the sword in the scabbard?” my employer asked.
“No, they were lying side by side. When our constables arrived, everyone in the office was dead or dying, without so much as a scratch on them. PCs Roche and Halston were summoned by a secretary, a Miss Callahan, now deceased. Whatever it is, a microbe or what-have-you, it got them, as well. They’re in St. Bart’s Hospital, choking out their lungs at the moment.”
“Do you have a description of the girl who delivered the package?”
“Heavily veiled, dark dress, average height. Could have been any woman in London, or even a small man in disguise.”
“Interesting,” Barker murmured in his low voice, so piercing I could feel the wood desk under my hand vibrate as I wrote.
“What kind of sword was it?” Barker went on. “Foil? Saber?”
“No, it was in your line,” Poole said. “Wide blade, not very long. Possibly Asian. The handle is copper and represents a flower of some sort.”
“Offhand, I’d say it was ricin that killed your constables, Terry, a substance produced in the manufacture of castor oil. It is fatal if inhaled. It was probably in the toe of the sheath. The drawing of the sword to view the blade released the substance into the air.”
“How do we clean it up?” Poole asked.
“Very carefully, and with a wet neckerchief covering your face. The residue will have settled on everything, and this substance doesn’t become inert. O’Muircheartaigh should be quarantined, as well. One good cough and the ricin in his lungs becomes airborne again. It’s nasty stuff.”
“This all sounds vaguely foreign,” Poole stated. “I’ve never heard of ricin before, and of course, O’Muircheartaigh is an Irish criminal. Then there’s the sword. Do you suppose it could be a rival Irish faction, working out of France, perhaps?”
Poole, an Englishman to the core, is always suspicious of anything or anyone outside his own culture. The French are not to be trusted, the Germans covet our navy, and the Russians want to wrest India from our grasp. As a Scot and a Welshman, the Guv and I have wondered about his opinions closer to home, but he is a good friend, and has saved our hides on more than one occasion.
“I’d have called O’Muircheartaigh the most dangerous man in London,” Barker stated, “but whoever made the attempt on his life this morning would more closely earn that title.”