DeVere came in from the pouring rain sometime later, looking as if his face were clay and some sculptor had just carved fresh lines around his mouth and eyes. He fell into our visitor’s chair and the breath slowly drained out of him.
“It was she?” Barker asked.
Trevor DeVere nodded.
“You have my condolences, sir, on the loss of your daughter. She is in a better place, but I do not suppose that is of much comfort to you right now. You have several options in front of you. You may discharge me and see to the needs of your wife. In time, perhaps, the two of you will find acceptance in this, if not peace.
“Your second choice is to retain my services and allow me to search for your daughter’s killer. It may take time, but I still believe I can do it. It is possible, however, that finding her murderer will give you cold comfort. It shall not bring her back and will allow the memory of her death to linger in your home for months, even years to come.”
“I came here to sack you, Barker,” DeVere finally said, “though it was against the wishes of my wife. She said that if Gwendolyn could be found, you would be the man to do it. I have no confidence in anyone or anything at the moment, and my wife is too distraught to give me any more advice, but I believe I shall continue to retain your services. That is, if you have the stomach for it.”
“That is well,” Barker said. “I have made a contract with you that I would find the man who took your daughter and I intended to fulfill that contract whether I was working for you or not. In a way, I suppose, I feel I am working for the parents of the other murdered girls who could never afford my services.”
“I do not care for whom you are working, as long as you find the man who murdered my little girl.”
“We are of one accord, then, Major DeVere. You should go now and tend your wife. Mr. Llewelyn and I shall pick up the scent once more. We will track him down, you may rest assured.”
Barker watched him go from the bow window.
“I cannot imagine the crushing strain he must be under,” he said.
“What do we do now?” I asked.
“Let us have lunch at the Northumberland around the corner, and perhaps better fortified, we can see where we erred. We must find our way back onto Miacca’s trail.”
“So, it’s back to Bethnal Green, sir,” I said.
“Indeed,” Barker answered. “Let us go back and discover if we can see things in a different light.”
10
After lunch, the rain had not let up, and cabs being hard to find, we took an omnibus to the City where we then joined the Great Eastern Line to Bethnal Green. We employed our umbrellas until we reached the environs of the Charity Organization Society, but then Barker has always stated that rain is an enquiry agent’s friend. It deters crime and empties the streets. Who knows how many crimes are postponed in London due to inclement weather?
I was disinclined to go into the charity, but it turned out that was not what brought Barker here. He was looking at an empty warehouse across the street with boarded-up windows and an estate agent’s sign upon the door.
“It looks suitable enough for our purposes, at least from the outside,” he said. “We can look out over the rooftops for suspicious activity.”
“Why do you think we will get any fresh information here, sir? Wouldn’t Miacca have left the area?”
“My instinct tells me he’s still here somewhere. I suspect he feeds on the misery he engenders.”
“Is this what you meant by a fresh perspective?”
“It is. Don’t think this shall be like Claridge’s, however. We shall live under Spartan conditions. We shall hide ourselves and watch in shifts, and when the moment is right, pounce upon our prey.”
Barker was talking as the rain beat upon our umbrellas, and I heard a cab approaching in just enough time to step back before getting splashed. It was then that I saw him, nestled in the cab out of the wet, comfortable and arrogant as ever, a face out of my past. The Guv had said something would turn up if we came back to Bethnal Green, and he was correct, as usual.
That face drew me down the street effortlessly, as if I’d been chained to the axle of the cab. It pulled me past my employer with a mumbled apology and down to Cambridge Road. I splashed through the gutter, soaking my trousers and shoes, heedless of which direction the rain was blowing. I followed the cab until it stopped at the foot of the street and then jumped into an entranceway while its occupant paid the cabman.
“Well, who is it?” Barker demanded. He was standing on the pavement next to me, holding his umbrella furled, ready for anything. He didn’t look angry that I’d bolted, merely curious, as if the case had taken a turn he had not anticipated, which perhaps it had.
“It is Palmister Clay, sir,” I said, then poked my head around the corner. Clay was just going in to one of the buildings with a bouquet of flowers in his hand.
“Clay?” Barker said, going through a list of names in his head.
“He’s the fellow who put me in prison.”
“Ah, the fellow you batted for at university,” the Guv stated, docketing him into a specific slot. “And just what do you intend to do?”
“Why, confront him, of course.”
“Is that wise?”
“I owe him a beating. That blackguard killed my wife!”
“As I recall, she died of consumption.”
“Yes, but he kept me from buying the medicine and beat me up while his two mates held me down. And he had me arrested!”
I was talking to Barker, but in front of my eyes all the memories of that terrible time were flashing by. I remembered the feel of Clay’s fist in my stomach and the iron taste of blood. Most of all, I remembered the vision of Jenny, my Jenny, wasting away in a verminous bed, with the dark circles under her eyes and red stains on her handkerchief.
“It is in the past, lad,” Barker stated. “We have no reason to confront him in this case.”
“But, sir,” I said, “this is obviously not his usual neighborhood, and he appears to be taking flowers to someone.”
“In Bethnal Green?” Barker asked, tapping his chin with the handle of his umbrella. “He married last year, you know. The announcement was in The Times. ”
“Yes, I saw it, and I do not believe he and his bride have set up housekeeping in Cambridge Road. He’s got himself a mistress one year into his marriage. That’s just the sort of caddish thing Clay would do. We should speak to him.”
“Mmm,” Barker grumbled, which in this case meant Don’t press me.
“Look, we can’t know if there’s a connection to the case until we ask,” I said. “We should question him in the interest of thoroughness.”
“Oh, very well, but you must promise me you will not issue him a challenge.”
I had wanted to do just that. In fact, I wanted to skip the entire questioning stage and punch him on that pointed chin of his. Over and over again I saw my two knuckles connecting with his jaw and him falling backward.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I promise not to challenge him.”
“Very well, let us go.”
I controlled myself, walking behind Barker, letting him lead, instead of charging the building like the Light Brigade. It was much better kept than most in the area, a mews which had been divided into flats. My employer ascertained that it wasn’t merely one house by glancing through the hall window, and he opened the outer door in that way he has, very silkily for a large man. We were faced with the problem of which flat Clay was in, but the answer came from a single petal in front of one door, as scarlet as sin. I expected Barker to give the door a solid thumping as he had done Mrs. Bellovich’s, but instead he chose a discreet knock upon the wood.