“Barker,” he said, bowing his head respectfully, then took a delicate sip from his cup.
“Henri, may I present my assistant, Thomas Llewelyn? Thomas, Mr. Henri Le Caron. He was spying on us earlier from the second-floor rooms across the street from Claridge’s with the aid of a telescope.”
“Was I that obvious?”
“Not at all, but, then, I was looking. I suppose you could just as easily have been the Special Irish Branch.”
“They were in the attic above me, watching Parnell until last night, but they shut down their operation this morning. I do not believe they consider Parnell a suspect.”
“Do you?”
Le Caron took another sip of his tea to sum up his thoughts. “Probably not, as far as the bombings are concerned, but I’m throwing my net a bit wider. Anderson wants to know how capable he is, and whether he has any weaknesses that can be exploited, if necessary. I believe Parnell quite capable of persuading Gladstone to sponsor a bill for Home Rule, but he is not without flaws. He’s living above his means and has an English mistress, a married one, at that. If the Irish intend to throw all their eggs in his basket, I believe they shall find them dashed to the floor.”
“Have you spoken to Mr. Anderson since last night?”
“Yes, by telephone. He’s apprised me of the situation. I must say, I don’t envy you or the Special Irish Branch your deadline. It has taken me years to earn the trust of the Irish Brotherhood, and that is merely in a general way. The factions themselves are very close-knit.”
“How many groups would you estimate are functioning at the moment in Ireland and England?”
“I’d say two dozen or more, but some are merely Irish youths looking for a reputation. Less than half that are true terrorists, radical enough to bomb and kill, or to die in the attempt.”
“Parnell has given me a few names of possible candidates for leadership of the faction who planted last night’s bombs. One of them is a dangerous Frenchman named Le Caron.”
Le Caron laughed, revealing a space between his teeth. He seemed the total opposite of a successful spy, but then, I suppose, a ruddy-cheeked, solid fellow looking like an Eton and Cambridge graduate would have raised the Irish hackles in a heartbeat.
“Yes,” Le Caron said. “Watch out for the Frenchman. He’s a dangerous fellow. Who were the others?”
“Davitt, Cusack, Dunleavy, and Rossa. Oh, and O’Muircheartaigh.”
Le Caron emptied his cup and set it down. “For a politician, Parnell has more acumen than I would credit. Unless the faction leader is a new fellow we haven’t heard of, it will be one of the five. I’ve worked with the rest before, but I only know of O’Muircheartaigh by hearsay. He contributes heavily to the Irish cause, but his organization is mostly composed of Irish criminals. His base is here in London.”
“I’m familiar with Seamus,” Barker stated. I noticed Le Caron gave him a shrewd glance, flicked a second one my way briefly, and went on.
“That leaves Davitt, Dunleavy, Rossa, and Cusack,” Le Caron continued. “All of them are green with envy over Parnell’s hopes, though between you and me I don’t think the Crown will ever countenance state visits from a former prisoner.”
“Rossa has schemes of his own. He’s being funded by groups such as the Ancient Order of Hibernians, but he’s got them so confounded, they don’t even realize they are funding a terrorist. Davitt’s more a politician, a great orator, but not the sort for this kind of mission. As for Cusack, he’s attempting single-handedly to bring back the Irish language and sports. I think his plate is full already, and he rarely leaves Dublin.
“Dunleavy’s an old Irish-American warhorse, who fought as a colonel on the secessionist side during the American War Between the States. He saw action at Antietam and Vicksburg. I was on the opposing side, but after the war, we worked together on an Irish raid into Canada, in an attempt to trade Toronto for Irish freedom. Of course, I sent word ahead and the attack was scuttled. I think Dunleavy still seethes over the losses of the Southern states but having a role in the new Irish government would more than make up for it. He’s ruthless and wily enough for a campaign like last night, when he’s not on the bottle. He’s got his share of the Irish melancholy and occasionally goes on bouts of drinking.”
“Thank you for the information,” Barker said. “You don’t think Parnell capable of subterfuge?”
“It is possible,” Le Caron acknowledged, “but I’d sooner suspect one of the others. Parnell is already in a good position politically, not that we couldn’t bring him down, if we needed to. The mistress alone is enough to discredit him. For one thing, she’s married to an English officer.”
I got a glimpse then of the kind of politics that went on in the rarefied circles the Home Office worked in. I had to say, I didn’t care for it and hoped that working for the government was not something my employer would do often. I felt as if we, as pawns, could be too easily sacrificed.
“I must get back, as boring as it is to watch him read newspapers and wring his hands,” Le Caron said, preparing to leave. “I wish you both bonne chance in your search for the faction. I hope you get to them before Munro and his boys do. The Home Office has no love for the Special Irish Branch and their tactics. They may be new, but they have already stolen several of our informants and scared off or worried others. Strong-arm bullyboys is what they are. Is this little fellow going with you? Is he being trained in faction fighting?”
“I am having Vigny give him lessons this week.”
“Close enough. Good day, and good hunting.” Le Caron rapped his knuckles on the table and was off.
Outside, Barker whistled again for a cab, while I pondered the last exchange. Who was Vigny, and what was faction fighting?
“Why do I feel as if you’re not telling me everything?” I asked.
Barker gave that short cough that passes for his chuckle. “Lad, you don’t know the half of it.”
5
We returned to our offices and helped Jenkins with the cleaning for an hour or two, and then went to lunch at Ho’s, an Oriental restaurant and Barker’s base of operations in the East End. I speculated he was part owner of the place, as he was of Dummolard’s Le Toison d’Or. The cab let us out in front of what I’ve come to call Ho’s alley. It is one of the most desolate spots in London. Old stone arches, like the bare ribs of an antediluvian dinosaur, vaulted overhead. Bills, placards, and advertisements had been plastered to the walls and tattered by wind and rain. We stepped over rubble that was good for nothing-that could not be sold or burnt for fuel-until we arrived at the nondescript door at the far end. There is no sign over Ho’s entrance. He caters to a specific clientele. If one did not know where it was, one was not welcome.
We plunged through the door and down the steps. Ho’s restaurant is reached by means of a walkway under the Thames. Beside the entrance there are lamps to light your way, but regulars go through to the restaurant at the far end blind. So far, I had not broken my neck, but it only needs to happen once. Several minutes later, we were seated at a table over our first course.
“There’s a chicken head in my soup, sir,” I said, nudging it with a dubious finger.
“It is just garnish, Thomas. You do not have to eat it.”
“What is that in yours?”
“This is bird’s nest soup. What do you suppose is in it?”
There is always a moment before I begin to eat when I think Ho is trying to poison me. Then I taste my food, and realize what a master chef he is. Ho is a true Chinaman. He’ll serve anything that lives, from seaweed to elephant. In the West End there are restaurants that will take a breast of fowl, cut it from the bone, stuff it, bread it, cook it, cover it in sauce, and garnish it until one is not sure what kind of animal it was to begin with. With Ho, like as not, there will be eyes regarding you from your bowl.