“How was he dressed, this youth?”
“Long coat, tannish color, and a brown bowler. Dark trousers and shoes. Middle class, I thought, or a poor one, trying to ape his betters.”
“I’ll bet you’ve answered these questions a hundred times.”
“Two hundred,” the man wheezed.
“Is there anything else you can recall?”
“No, sir. That’s the lot.”
“Thank you, then. We’ll let you rest. If I may ask it, I would like this conversation to remain a secret.”
“As you wish, Mr. Barker, sir.”
Barker stopped and turned back to the supine figure on the bed.
“You know me?”
The fellow gave a brief cackle. “A cabman, not knowing the best tipper in London? I knowed you the moment you walked in. Mum’s the word, Guv’nor. Ain’t a policeman or reporter alive that’d make me peach on you.”
Barker reached out and offered a hand to the injured man. The man raised his own, and my employer grasped it firmly.
“I want you to know something before I go. I put your horse down myself. I was there at her side. There was no way to save her. Her injuries were simply too severe. If I thought she had a chance of surviving, even out of harness, I would have waited, but there wasn’t. She was crazed and injured, and it was a kind-ness.” He turned to me. “Come, Llewelyn. This gentleman deserves his rest.”
We left the old cabman to his solitary grieving.
10
I finished packing my clothing into the disreputable pasteboard suitcase I’d owned since before Barker had first hired me. Within an hour, we’d be at Euston Station, the London and North Western Railway terminus, on our way to Liverpool. I felt uneasy, as if I were about to go into battle. The chances I would get killed today were slight, I told myself. I wouldn’t allow myself yet to think of tomorrow.
I came down the stairs and set my suitcase by the door. I hadn’t seen Mac since he’d opened the curtains that morning. In fact, the place was as quiet as a tomb. I went into the dining room, where Dummolard was laying out breakfast. He had outdone himself, creating a country hunt breakfast for Barker and me.
I sat down and helped myself to the coffee but thought it best to wait for my employer. As I was taking my first sip, I heard the click of the door of Mac’s private domain in the hall, and Barker suddenly came into the dining room.
Mac had put some concoction into Barker’s hair, turning it varying shades of gray, so that each strand resembled a bit of wire. The front was plastered back; but behind his ears, it was thick and unkempt. His beard was equally shot with gray, and not even his mustache and eyebrows had been spared. In place of his usual spectacles were a smaller pair, black as night, exactly like the ones van Rhyn wore, with dark lenses and glass side pieces. He wore a tweed suit of European cut, and I could tell that Barker had neared his goal of gaining half a stone in weight. In his hand was a tall walking stick, or short staff, inlaid with ivory.
“Guten Morgen, Herr Penrith,” he said to me.
“Good morning to you, Mr. van Rhyn,” I replied.
“I think it appropriate that we pray over this meal,” Barker said, and I bowed my head. He did thank God for the meal, but also he asked for success in our endeavor and a safe journey home. It only served to reinforce my fears that we were about to embark upon a most dangerous assignment.
The table was immaculate with white linen, heavy silver that I had never seen before, and Blue Willow transfer ware, laden with far too much food for just two men. Platters of eggs, bacon, bangers, kedgeree, potatoes, grilled tomatoes, toast, jam, marmalade, and coffee all fought for space on the sideboard. As I got my first cup in me, my appetite began to grow. I dared the toast first, then the bacon. It was excellent, so I thought I might have some eggs to go with it. The potatoes looked particularly good; and I wouldn’t want to insult the cook, who had gone to so much trouble with the kedgeree. Before long, we had sampled every dish and even gone back for seconds.
Afterward, when we had shaken hands with Mac and Dummolard, and given Harm a parting pat on the head, I felt positively moribund. We stepped into the cab in danger of breaking the springs, and rolled off toward Euston Station.
“I think the next time we leave the city on a case, it should be a spur-of-the-moment decision,” I muttered.
“Agreed,” said my employer, for he had wielded his knife and fork as well as I.
We arrived at Euston Station in plenty of time, and boarded our train. I’d seen the northern trains before, with their pretty milk-and-claret paint scheme, but I would have preferred better circumstances for an excursion. I procured a copy of The Times at one of the news vendors, and spent the journey studying it in the smoking car, where Barker sat with his pipe and cogitated. The window was half closed. It rained most of the journey and no one dared disturb the Welshman reading his newspaper or the German poisoning the car with his heavy pipe fumes, so we had the carriage all to ourselves. When we arrived in Liverpool, my suit and my newspaper were crumpled and damp and smelled of tobacco smoke.
Barker reached into the cavernous pockets of his coat and produced a packet of papers, which he handed to me.
“I had these made for you,” he said. “They are identification papers in the name of Thomas Penrith.”
“Are they forgeries?” I asked as I glanced through the passports, which looked as authentic as any papers I had ever seen. Wondering where he could have procured such things, I thrust them into my pocket. Somewhere he had a fellow at his beck and call who was a maker of false papers. It was an odd business we were in. No shipping merchant or exchange clerk would require knowing such a person.
“Either that, lad, or I found another fellow named Penrith who is an explosives expert,” he said. It was the closest he had come to jesting, and I took it as a good sign. He didn’t appear to be worrying over the case. If anything, he was looking forward to it.
In the ticket office in the Lime Street Station, Barker asked the clerk-a portly, friendly-looking fellow in a blue coat and peaked cap-if he might use the telephone. And might the clerk recommend a good hotel in the area?
“Midland Hotel, sir, right around the corner,” the clerk said, before leading us back to a cluttered desk where the telephone stood, surrounded by timetables, papers, and tin teacups.
“If he is like Parnell, he’ll only want the best,” Barker growled. He asked the operator for the hotel, and was connected through.
“Good day,” he said into the mouthpiece. “I have an appointment with Colonel Dunleavy today, and I wanted to make certain that he is in…. The dining room, you say? No, you need not tell him. Thank you.”
He replaced the receiver and turned to me. “Luck is with us, lad. He is indeed staying at the Midland Hotel. I must send a telegram, but afterward, let us go and see if we, too, can get a room.”
My first view of Liverpool was grim and gray. A city does not look its best in the rain. As we stepped out of the station and into the road, the aspect of Lime Street reminded me of a watercolor painting, all washes and colors blending together. There were puddles in the gutter, and rain dripping steadily from the eaves.
The Midland, while not as intimidating as Claridge’s, was certainly imposing. It rose five stories, with turrets offering a jagged skyline, but down on the street, it had window panels like a cozy tearoom to draw people in. Inside, the hotel was opulent. It was also exclusive. The clerk was not going to let just any pair of disheveled, slightly disreputable-looking persons such as ourselves into the establishment.