“Are we closer to finding out the leader of the faction?” I asked casually.
Barker looked over his tented fingers. “We’ve already ruled out Rossa, Davitt, and Cusack. I’ll admit I’m not certain about O’Muircheartaigh. He is a master strategist, and he plays a subtle game, but how much Irish freedom means to him is anyone’s guess.”
“Wasn’t there another one, though?” I asked. “Another name beginning with ‘D’?”
“Very good, lad. There was. Dunleavy, the American. He’s American by birth, Irish by descent. He’s dropped from sight. Very possibly, he is our man. I’m hoping Mr. Cathcart will have turned up some information.”
Just then, Jenkins came into the room. He had very definitely begun to show signs of strain. The building was still standing, figuratively speaking, but there were cracks in the foundation. I am all for temperance, and I must admit that our clerk’s nightly self-pickling had concerned me in the past, since he had become something of a fixture in my life, but watching him in the throes of sobriety was almost more than I could take. I wished he would break his vow and frequent another public house until the Rising Sun reopened, for all our sakes.
He entered with the afternoon post as usual, but the orbit he made by my desk was slightly elliptical and the letters in his hand flapped like pigeons in Trafalgar Square. They came in contact with the edge, but only partially, and when he let them go, they all slid into the dustbin. Jenkins tottered off like a clockwork toy while I retrieved the post. A few minutes later he returned, bearing the same tattered business card we had seen at the beginning of the week.
“Mr. Cathcart,” Jenkins announced. The inebriate came slowly into the room, step by step, as if gravity were a tricky business and not to be taken for granted. Eventually, he came to a halt in front of Barker’s desk.
“Your Honor.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Cathcart,” Barker said. “Have you anything to report?”
“I have. I’ve become such a fixture at the Crooked Harp that they’ve given me the run of the place. I was fortunate enough to even get a glance into the register. Several rooms were hired collectively for three days leading up to the night of the thirty-first. No names were written down, and for once the Irish were rather close lipped, but I overheard a sobriquet that might have some meaning for you. Someone said, “‘Flashing Alfred’s boys shall be back in town soon.’”
“Flashing Alfred, eh?” Barker asked. “I see. Anything else?”
“Well, sir, another fellow said, ‘That’s a mercy,’ and everyone laughed. Might that be of use to you?”
“It most certainly would. I wonder if you might be interested in prolonging this assignment a few weeks longer, if you have not been otherwise engaged. You would not be reporting to me directly, but Mr. Jenkins here shall take down any words you overhear for my benefit.”
“That would depend,” the Sponge stated. “Are you working upon a case involving the explosion at Scotland Yard, if I may ask?”
“I am, and you may.”
“One of the best public houses in London was damaged in that explosion. I do not take kindly to people thinking they can blow up institutions like the Rising Sun merely because they happen to be standing adjacent to something as inconsequential as Scotland Yard.”
“Hear, hear,” Jenkins put in. Henry Cathcart gave him a grave bow.
“I thought I recognized one of the gentleman patrons of that establishment. How was it you yourself were not injured in the explosion?”
“My old man was taken poorly that night with pleurisy,” our clerk responded. “I had to cut my evening short.”
“And the Sun was the worse for your absence, I am sure. Still, it was fortunate that you left when you did. Yes, Mr. Barker, I shall continue our agreement for the rest of the month or until such time as you dispense with my services and settle our account. I shall, of course, require lubrication, to grease the wheels of commerce, as it were.”
“Certainly,” Barker stated. “Would you like it all up front now?”
“I fear not, sir. I often find my pockets gone through in the mornings. It is a drawback of my profession. Perhaps if I were to drop by a couple of days a week and could speak with your esteemed clerk.”
“I would consider it an honor,” Jenkins piped up. Really, I thought. These two tosspots are forming a mutual admiration society right here in our office.
“Very well. Thank you for your services, Mr. Cathcart,” Barker said. “So far, they have been most insightful.”
Summoning his dignity, Cathcart turned and walked ponderously out of our chambers.
“Could you make heads or tails out of that?” I asked, when the Sponge had gone.
“Of course. Flashing Alfred is Colonel Dunleavy. He earned the nickname in the battle of Antietam, when he led his troops into battle, both pistols blazing and the reins of his horse between his teeth. According to Le Caron, he has a wonderful set of teeth, of which he is quite vain, and it was said he blinded the Union side with their brightness. Obviously, he is leading a faction that was already here during the bombing and shall return again. I think these could be the lads we’re searching for.”
“And the reply. What’s that about?” I asked.
“It was meant as a joke or pun, Thomas. Mercy. The faction is hiding in Merseyside, Liverpool, which has the largest Irish population in England.”
“So that’s where they are,” I said. “It’s just a ferry’s ride due west to Dublin.”
“Precisely. With the London and North Western Railway’s express, they could be out of the area entirely within a couple of hours and even out of the country, if they wished. I would imagine, however, that they would have found the last step to be unnecessary. There are plenty in Liverpool who are sympathetic to Irish Home Rule, enough to hide them away.”
“So, what do we do with the information, sir?”
“We’re going to Liverpool, and we’re going to track down Dunleavy and his faction. We’ll offer our services as bomb makers,” Barker said, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands over his expanding waistline. He had already put on several pounds.
“Making real bombs, sir?”
“Real enough, though I hope they will be disarmed by the time we hand them over.”
“As simple as that?”
“Simple enough. Not easy, mind you, but simple.”
“How shall we convince them of who we are?”
“We shall answer that question a little closer to the time. For now, it is vital that we move on to Liverpool. Before we leave, I’d like to speak to the cabman whose horse I shot the day of the bombing. I believe he may have caught a glimpse of the bomber.”
Later that afternoon, we found ourselves at Charing Cross Hospital, to see the one witness to the bombing of Scotland Yard. He wasn’t a young fellow, and his head and arm were encased in plaster. His face was a mess of lacerations and abrasions, and the plaster skullcap occluded one eye and covered his ear. The arm and head, I hazarded a guess, had been broken when he’d fallen backward off his perch.
“How are you feeling, sir?” Barker asked, after the porter had returned to his station.
“Take more’n this to do in John Farris,” the cabman said.
“Mr. Farris, I am an enquiry agent and have come here to ask you a few questions. Did you bring a fare to Whitehall?”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“Where did you pick him up, and where did he ask to be dropped?”
“I picked him up in Seven Dials, and he asked to be dropped off in Whitehall. Didn’t say his exact destination, just told me to stop when we was near the Yard. He paid me off, including a tip. I was in the process of turning my cab around when the explosion happened about a minute later.”
“Could you describe the fellow?”
“Not real well, sir. The problem with hansoms is a fellow can come out of nowhere and hop into your cab before you get a good peep at him, and the only glance you’ll get is a bird’s-eye view down the trap, which is to say you’ll see his hat and shoulders and not much else. He were rather like this fellow here,” he said, addressing me, “only pale complected, like. He was young, and had an accent but was trying to hide it, I think. Didn’t sound real natural, if you ken my meaning, but he didn’t talk between ‘Take me to Whitehall, my good man,’ and ‘Thank you. You may stop here.’ Could have been Irish, but could have been almost anything.”