“So, the papers he had in the Irish bombing case last year,” I began, “the ones that claimed we were a German bomber and his assistant-”
“Oh, those were easy. It’s good to keep my hand in now and then.”
“Barker seems to have a propensity for hiring felons,” I noted.
Jenkins wagged a finger at me. “Now, now,” he said. “I wasn’t actually arrested, and as for Mr. Maccabee, he was held on suspicion. The only felon in the bunch is you.”
I chuckled. I had to admit he had me there. “Knowing the government, I’m surprised they didn’t take both.”
“Oh, I let them know I’d kick up a fuss. It is my father’s property, after all. The last thing they wanted was for it to be made public. This was the price of my silence.”
“So you’re certain this is the copy you made.”
“I certified it in writing. This was the one Father pointed out. However, I must admit he has always had a sardonic sense of humor. Some days, I wonder myself.”
Jenkins led me out again and locked the door behind us.
“I was planning to read Mr. Trollope to the old gentleman this evening,” he said as we returned to the dining room. “There never was a man as enjoyed Mr. Trollope so much as he. You are welcome to stay if you wish.”
“I’d like to, but I should be getting back,” I pointed out. “I’m sure the Guv’s got a thousand things for me to do before tomorrow and there is still the journey back. Thank you for your hospitality and a very interesting tale, I must say. Are you certain you will be safe?”
“We’ve taken on worse than these Sicilian blokes,” Jenkins said. “We’ll be safe enough. Mind you come out of this in one piece yourself.”
“If I don’t, it won’t be for lack of trying. Thank you, Jeremy.” We shook hands. It occurred to me it was the first time we had ever done so.
“See you back in Craig’s Court, sir, on more professional terms.”
“I will, but I should like to come again some time and buy you both a meal to repay this one. Good evening, Mr. Jenkins. It was an honor meeting you. Thank you for having me in your home.”
When I stepped outside, I heard the locks turning on the other side of the door. I had thought our clerk little more than an inebriate, and here he was with a corking story in his life. I sighed and began the long walk to Newington.
Violence is a part of my occupation, whether I like it or not, but for every altercation there is another that fails to materialize. I have no complaint with that, you understand. I chose to walk because in a cab I wouldn’t know whether I was leading the Mafia to Barker’s door, so I went on foot, using all the skills Gallenga had taught me. I scrutinized every face, window, and vehicle around me. I backtracked and circled and looked behind me in shop windows. No Italian assassins fired upon me with their shotguns, no cloak-and-dagger men stabbed at me with their knives, and no mafiusu tried to kidnap me for ransom. As I reached the back gate of our house in the Elephant and Castle district, I reflected that all my efforts to avoid being attacked had been merely practice.
When I stepped into the back passage there was already an assortment of suitcases by the front door.
“Has the Guv said how long we will be out of town?” I asked Mac, who came down the stairs looking harried. For Mac, that meant one of his curls had fallen out from behind one ear; otherwise, he was immaculate and ready at any moment to pose for a statute of Apollo at the Royal Academy of Arts, provided he could be persuaded to remove his yarmulke.
“He has not specified, but I believe it shall be less than a week.”
“You’ve packed for a month. Do you know where we’re going?”
“The Guv says south. You’re leaving first thing in the morning. That’s all you need to know.”
I looked up the stairs, where I could hear Barker moving about.
“So, what sort of mood is he in?”
“He’s a bit grim tonight. It’s like he’s playing a game of chess, only with your lives.”
I shrugged. “That’s nothing new. I find it hard to believe we’re actually abandoning London. I suppose I have time at least for a soak.”
“Mr. Barker told me not to heat the water. He says it is too dangerous to go out in the garden at night.”
Shakespeare says discretion is the better part of valor. Smart fellow, the noble bard. Rather than beard the lion in his den when he was in a mood, I went upstairs, and seeing that my few possessions had been packed, I decided to read for an hour or two before going to bed. At the same time, however, I made certain there was a loaded pistol on the bedside table within easy reach.
16
The next morning we boarded a train for who knows where. Barker knew, of course, but I might as soon expect a yeoman at the Tower of London to hand me the Crown Jewels in a bag as for the Guv to reveal his personal plans to me. I reasoned that since we were at Victoria Station, we would be heading southeast along the Chatham Railway, but how far? The line ended at Dover, but there was a ferry there for Calais. Did he intend for us to leave the country?
To complicate matters, we were bringing Harm with us, Barker’s prized Pekingese dog. The little brute had been placed in a wicker contraption, the better to carry him about, which he considered an affront to his dignity. He stared at us miserably through the small window in the front of the basket; but for once, he did not howl, as he is often given to do.
It was a beautiful morning to escape London, even if one was not being threatened by Sicilian murderers. I glimpsed a fox trotting alongside the railway lines, though we were not yet out of the city. Outside, the air was fresh and invigorating, but that did me little good since, as usual, I was closeted in the smoking compartment with my employer. I always end up near the windows, which I throw open wide, but this only means that Barker’s tobacco smoke must eddy around my head before making its way out the window.
My employer had purchased a stack of newspapers at a station stall, and was working his way through them as we passed into the Kentish countryside. The railways really need to do something about the trees that grow along the tracks. They spoil a fine view of the little towns and villages along the way. I supposed the seeds were somehow collected and spread along the line by the moving trains and it is a testament to England’s verdant soil that so many trees spring up, but I’d rather have my oil painting views of the small towns and hamlets of rural Kent. Before I knew it we slid into Tunbridge Wells and out again. Barker switched newspapers. I don’t believe scenery interests him unless a murder has just been committed in it.
We rolled past tall rows of hops, like overgrown vineyards, being harvested by men with long poles. I understood that many hop pickers were from the East End, and the harvest provides a chance for the workers to get out of the city, as well as the opportunity to lay by some money for the winter. Their lives are hard, but then they haven’t been chased out of town with Black Hand notes threatening their lives.
Eventually, my companion’s pipe went out and I could smell sea air. The pigeons that had flapped by our train earlier had been replaced by raucous fulmars and gulls, and I knew Dover was not far off. We eased into the station like clockwork, and then immediately, chaos ensued. Two hundred people seemed bent upon catching the next ferry to France. As it turned out, however, we were not among them. Barker merely purchased two fares to Hastings and we boarded another train. Fortunately, it didn’t have a smoking compartment this time, and being one of those composite carriages that only has first and third, we found ourselves in a first class carriage. The seats were plush and there were small framed pictures of the countryside behind our heads. The brass overhead racks in which we put our bags shone from much polish.
I would have enjoyed myself fully if it weren’t for Antonio Gallenga. Drat the fellow, I couldn’t get the “eye” out of my head now. As we waited for the train to leave, I watched the passengers. Were we being followed? Did anyone on the platform look Italian? I studied the faces and postures of the men waiting and developed a list of five possible suspects. I grew concerned because we were in a corridor carriage, where a fellow could walk by our compartment at any time, and I wished we were on the Brighton line with no corridors, all privacy and safety. A fellow could open the door, shoot us both dead, and hop off the train before the next station; and we had not even an exterior door in our compartment by which to escape. Didn’t the designers of railway carriages realize how dangerous they could be?