Saying there was a boom simply does not describe it. One second, I was on the bridge, my feet braced, and the next, I was blown over the side. I have a memory of Barker’s arm reaching toward me, but he was too late. Maire O’Casey was no more to be seen, and I was launched out into the night sky.
28
Where was I? Oh, yes, twenty feet deep, just free of that infernal coat, and about to fill my lungs full of vile Thames water instead of air. It was then that I felt a rough but familiar hand seize my collar and begin to pull me upward. Somehow, Barker was beside me. He dragged me up to the surface, and we both took in great lungfuls of air. I had complained about the dank, fetid reek of the river dozens of times before, but just then it seemed the sweetest air in the world. I was alive, soaked like a water rat, and choking for breath, but alive for all that.
“Hold still,” the Guv ordered. “Stop thrashing about.”
No longer having the strength to struggle, I stopped moving while Barker reached over my shoulder and took hold of the lapels of my waistcoat, pulling me along through the water on my back. My employer was a strong swimmer and towed me as easily as if I were made of cork, while I sputtered and coughed, trying to expel the foul water from my lungs.
As I floated there, my thoughts scudding along like clouds on a blustering day, I eventually made out the sound of oars. Someone had alerted the suicide station under Waterloo Bridge, and they had launched a rowboat.
“Over here!” Barker cried. The next I knew, I was being pulled roughly over a gunwale, the hard wood scraping across my stomach, and was left sputtering like a fish in the bottom of the rowboat. A constable threw a blanket over me and rubbed me down with all the gentle tenderness of a turnkey. He made up for it by handing me a steaming mug of tea, leaving me to sort out my erratic thoughts while the others hauled in Barker.
In the boat, to the steady sound of the oars plunking in the water, my mind began to coalesce. Maire O’Casey. The bomb she had carried had exploded, obliterating her on the bridge from which we were slowly drawing away. Maire had taken me in completely, had even taunted my ignorance on the bridge. I’d been a fool. I’d thought her a gentle girl, the kind I would wish to see again if only I could figure out how she could accept my being the spy who turned her brother in. Now there was no need. She’d been leading the faction the entire time, and now she was dead. I felt an emotional mantle settle over me just then, chilling my heart, a mixture of cynicism, world-weariness, and grief. Better I’d been left at the bottom of the river. Had I been able to piece this together then, I might not have struggled so fiercely to be free from the embrace of my lead-lined coat.
When we reached the police pier, I saw the silhouettes of Juno, our cab, and Jacob Maccabee atop his perch against a gas lamp. They must have followed our progress on the water and outdistanced us handily on land. Barker and one of the river constables took me under the arms and helped me onto the dock, where I stood shivering and looking out across the oily surface of the Thames. The constable was tugging at me, and with a start I realized he was merely trying to take the mug of tea. I let go, and Barker bundled me into the cab. I was to go home while Barker worked through the night, giving statements to Scotland Yard and the Home Office, attempting to pacify Inspector Munro and seeing that all our bombs were carted away to be destroyed by Her Majesty’s Horse Guards, whose barracks were but a few streets away.
As I sat bundled in the blanket, cradled in the embrace of the hansom, I reflected on the fact that this was the second time my case ended in injury and my being driven home in this very cab. I listened to the steady clip-clopping of Juno’s metal shoes upon the cobblestones. My disjointed thoughts were that surely somewhere there was a position for a failed scholar, a clerking position, perhaps, or one in a quiet library somewhere, something nice and safe, and free of infernal devices and bridges. Yes, in some nice village that had no bridges at all.
There is generally a feeling of satisfaction when one returns from a journey of some duration, but I felt numb as I stumbled out of the cab and into our home in the Newington. At the time, I thought there was nothing that could ever make me feel better again. I had not reckoned on Harm.
The dog came charging in from the back library, his black fur rippling. He skidded across the wooden floor and bunched up the rug in front of me with his momentum. He jumped up and tapped me with his paws. He went up on two back legs and danced in a circle, his tongue lolling. He barked and howled his clarion cry, informing the district that the conquering hero had returned.
“Harm, you idiot,” I said, scratching him behind the ears. I had to admit, it did feel good to be home. After a hot soak in the bathhouse in Barker’s garden, I went upstairs to change into proper clothes. Even I was appalled at how ghastly I looked in the mirror. My eyes were black, my nose as swollen as a prize-fighter’s, and my Thames-befouled hair made me look like the worst dregs off the East India docks. After Mac had brought up a ewer of steaming water, I shaved and beat back my hair with a comb, promising myself a good haircut in the morning.
When I went downstairs a half hour later, Mac had set out a supper consisting of cold goose liver pie, salad, and Stilton, finishing off with port and walnuts. It was a far more civilized meal than the colcannon and peas I’d eaten during the case, but I ate like an automaton, despite Dummolard’s expertise. Afterward, I went upstairs.
Mac came up to collect my filthy clothing and took pity on me yet again. He lit a fire in the grate and sat me down in front of it before leaving. Harm whined until I let him crawl into my lap.
It was building, I knew it. I’ve always been one of those who see a man crying as a sign of weakness, but then, I’d just blown up a woman I cared for. One must make allowances. One minute, I was stroking Harm’s fur abstractedly and the next, I was sobbing into it. Pekingese are very proud and vain creatures, and normally I would have expected him to object to his coat getting wet; but like Mac, he, too, took pity. He put up with my storm of emotion until it passed as quickly as it had come. I let out a shuddering sigh and finally let the dog go, watching as he scuttled quickly from the room.
Changing into nightclothes, I crawled into bed, though it was just barely nine o’clock. One would think that the events of the past evening would have kept me awake, tossing and turning, reliving them again and again. Instead, I fell into a profound sleep, as if trying to make up for all I’d lost over the past few weeks.
Sometimes when a bad event occurs-the death of someone one cares about, for example-there is a period just when one is waking up before one remembers. One has a general feeling of well-being, a cheery optimism. The day is full of myriad choices. Then the terrible memory returns, and one’s entire world comes crashing down about one’s ears. At least, that was my experience the next morning. I didn’t know which hurt more, that she was dead or that she’d played me for a fool.
Mac was busy opening curtains and greeting my morning. I don’t know why he did it, since I was not the master of the house, but a hired employee. Perhaps Barker had asked him to do so. As usual, Mac disguised whatever feelings he might have about me in a professional manner, solicitous but remote.
“I trust you slept well.”
“Very well, thank you,” I replied automatically. My mind was back on the Charing Cross Railway Bridge.
“Mr. Barker requests your presence in his room at your earliest convenience.”
Dressing was not too complicated, and it took only a few moments to run a brush through my thick hair, but during the night my nose and eyes had swollen even more. Barker could not help but comment on it.