Fatal Enquiry (8 page)

“Who’s the fellow speaking?” Barker asked a constable at the checkpoint on the other side.

“That’s Inspector Abberline. He’s in charge of the hunt.”

“Any leads? Where was he last seen?”

“You’ll have to ask him that,” he said, pointing his thumb at his superior on the bank.

“Don’t think I won’t,” my employer said. “Come along, boy. Pick up your feet.”

We descended the steps and found a mixed crowd of would-be man-hunters and newspaper reporters, pestering the officer with questions. Abberline was about thirty, of less than medium height, with good features, a small mustache, and black hair beginning to recede. He looked bright as a new penny and very capable of running such a large-scale operation. The questions with which they peppered him he answered back with aplomb and logic.

“What about the rumor that after mowing down your constables like skittles, he turned back and is hiding somewhere in his rooms?” a reporter asked.

“Absolutely unfounded. We thought of that possibility and have tossed every room in the immediate area from cellar to attic.”

“How are the injured constables?”

“All three of them were admitted to Charing Cross Hospital. As I understand, two have been released, while the third will remain with a broken knee.”

“Is it true that his assistant is with him?”

“Yes, it is. Initially, he was not charged, but now we have reason to believe he is also a fugitive of the law. Mr. Thomas Llewelyn is considered dangerous and was the one responsible for breaking PC Raife’s knee. He was imprisoned three years ago, I understand, for attacking a nobleman with the intent of robbery.”

So much for British justice,
I thought bitterly. Though I had paid my debt to society, my past would be brought up repeatedly throughout my life. There are events in our lives that define us. Mine was lifting a single coin from a stack on the mantelpiece of an upperclassman at Oxford at the precise moment he walked in. The coin meant life or death for my young wife, lying ill in a garret on the other side of town. As it turned out, ’twas death for her, and eight months in Oxford Prison for me on a charge of theft. When I claim Life is a cruel taskmaster, believe me that I know whereof I speak.

“How long will the bridges be cordoned off?” one of the reporters asked.

“Until noon tomorrow, at Commissioner Warren’s discretion.”

“What makes you sure Barker done it?” the Guv called out. “Were there witnesses?”

“No,” Abberline answered. “But he left behind one of his calling cards. I cannot comment further.”

Barker turned away and walked to the river’s edge, raising his lantern to light it. I backed away from the crowd casually and followed. The sun was starting to set and the Thames looked as black and thin as india ink. Barker scratched under his chin, which I knew to be a sign he was thinking fiercely while the crowds behind us continued to pelt Abberline with increasingly inane questions. My employer turned and headed south along the embankment.

So,
I thought,
the victim had one of Barker’s business cards on his person
. That did not sound so damning. They were readily available in a pewter stand in our outer office for anyone to take, and he handed them out whenever he had the opportunity, believing that advertisement resulted in clients. It took me a minute or two to realize that it wasn’t those cards to which he referred. The victim must have been found with one of Barker’s sharpened pence buried in a hand or leg. I couldn’t think of a single thing that would point more strongly in Barker’s direction than one of his sharpened coins, a novelty that to my knowledge the Guv alone employed, and which he’d just used that very day in Threadneedle Street, thereby damaging his case further.

“Let’s separate, lad,” my employer ordered, as he helped me light my lantern. “Stay just in view of my light.”

“Do you have a destination in mind, sir?”

“I do.”

“Might I hope there is food there, and that it isn’t far?” I asked, dwelling on the fact that we hadn’t had lunch or dinner.

“Aye,” he said, turning around and marching along the embankment. “You’re entitled to hope as much as you like.”

With that less than encouraging news, I followed behind. At first, I was forced to push my way through the crowd, lantern held high, but as we headed south most of them dispersed over Westminster Bridge or into Whitehall. In ten minutes’ walk we were the only two men that I could see following the Thames, but I still hung back, because if I understood him at all, he needed to think.

Perhaps there will come a time someday when there will be a paved path along the Thames in London, a promenade that will go on for miles, but for now it was rough going. I was constantly stepping up and down, barking my toes on something or backtracking and going round. A couple of times I lost sight of the lantern for several minutes. Free though I was, I did not enjoy my solitary walk along the river. Normally at that time, I’d have already eaten a wonderful supper prepared by Etienne Dummolard, our cook, enjoyed a hot soak in the bathhouse, and would currently be reading or going out with my friend Israel Zangwill to a concert or coffeehouse. Now my life was in ruins. Why bother wasting time and effort climbing out of the muck if you’re fated to be tossed back in again?

At one point, I was stopped by a constable who asked me if I’d seen anything unusual or anyone hiding along the waterfront. I told him that with all the activity along the river that evening, it didn’t seem possible for anyone to escape being found. I was even so bold as to ask if the rumor of a reward was true. He responded that he doubted it, and in any case, it wouldn’t be going into the pocket of his tunic, anyway. I lit a cigarette for him, wondering what the commissioner or Inspector Abberline would say to this officer casually chatting up one of the suspects they were presently hunting all over London.

Not long after, I nearly stumbled over Barker. He was sitting on the edge of a dock with his feet dangling over the water, and his candle had guttered and gone out. By then the moon had risen and we were bathed in a cool blue light. I put down my lantern and shook out my arm, for it had been a chore to carry it all that distance. I was tired and hungry and despondent about our predicament.

“Why have we stopped?” I demanded, though it felt good to rest for a moment and stretch my aching limbs.

In response, Barker looked over his shoulder. I turned my head and barely discerned a pair of heavy boots in the moonlight, the man inside them obscured by the shadow of an outbuilding.

“Who’s there?” I asked, half to Barker and half to whoever had stopped him.

A man I had never seen before stepped forward into the moonlight. He was massive, over eighteen stone, and taller than Barker, with the misshapen nose of a boxer, and ears that were mere lumps on the side of his head. He had very large black side whiskers and looked capable of thrashing even Cyrus Barker.

“James Briggs,” my employer said.

“Not ‘Bully Boy’ Briggs?” I asked. The latter had been one of the Guv’s associates. Barker had occasionally recommended Briggs as a bodyguard to clients.

“Sorry, Barker.” The huge man spoke at last, taking off an enormous bowler hat that still managed to look too small for his large head. “I’ve fallen on hard times. I know we been friends for years, but I could really use that reward.”

Barker reached for a piling and pulled himself up. “It was very shrewd of you to work out where I was going, James.”

“You always was a water man, Cyrus. It’s the sea captain in you. It weren’t that hard to figure out where you might go.”

“Perhaps not,” Barker conceded, “but I don’t intend to make things easy for you.”

The man’s face creased into a grin. “Wouldn’t have it any other way. Haven’t had me a proper scrap in two years or more.”

“But you’re hardly unarmed. I assume the priest is with you?”

“Aye, his holiness is by my side as always.” Briggs shook his arm and something slid out of his sleeve, a lethal-looking metal club with a bulbous knob at one end and a leather thong at the other. Though a priest is used to club salmon in fishing, Briggs had converted his to become a clubber of men. He went into a crouch and moved toward the Guv.

“Toss me a weapon, lad,” Barker ordered. “Look behind you.”

I reached for the first thing that came to hand, a boat hook about six feet long, sticking out of a beached dinghy, and tossed it to my employer.

“That don’t seem quite fair, Cyrus. It’s too long,” Briggs complained.

“You never used to be so particular, Jimmy. There’s an oar behind you. It’s your choice.”

Briggs hefted the oar as if testing it, and then without warning, swung it at my employer’s head. The Guv ducked backward out of reach, avoiding it so narrowly I would swear it rustled his newly shorn head. Then as its arc cleared him, he stepped forward again and smacked the wooden end of the pole hard into Briggs’s rib cage. The man let out a woofing sound and bent double. Barker wrapped the boat hook around his neck and pulled him forward so quickly that he was forced to trot to keep his balance. With a sharp crack, Briggs’s forehead came in contact with a piling. He fell back like a stone, spread-eagle on the dock. The entire fight, if one could even call it that, had lasted less than five seconds.

I hurried over to see if he was alive. He was bleeding and unconscious, but he would live. As I debated whether to tend his wounds, the Guv seized him by the wrists and began to drag him across the dock.

“What are you doing?” I exclaimed.

Barker didn’t answer, struggling with the heavy load. When he reached the edge, he unceremoniously kicked his friend over into the water with a splash.

“But he’ll drown!” I cried, wondering if my employer had gone temporarily mad. I couldn’t imagine a situation where Barker would kill in order to protect himself, even in these dire circumstances. Instead of replying, he jumped in after him.

“We’re taking him with us!” Barker called, when he surfaced.

“Why?” I demanded.

“He knows where we’re going, and I can’t carry him far. Are you coming?”

Before I could protest, he flipped Briggs over onto his back and began swimming, one meaty arm around the man’s throat. It was April, and though the weather was agreeable enough, it would be a few months until the Thames was warm enough for a proper swim.

“But—” I said, and then gave it up.

Barker and his heavy load were already being swept along with the current. I ran down the bank and took my first tentative step into the icy water, which sloshed over the tops of my boots. There was no time for complaint.

I dived in, every part of my body protesting, and began swimming after him as fast as I could.

“H-how far?” I called a few minutes later, my teeth beginning to chatter.

“Not far,” he called. “Half a league or so.”

My brain tried to recall exactly how far a league was. Was it half a mile? Two miles? I hadn’t the slightest idea.

Ahead of me in the darkness, I heard a thrashing sound and then a dull thump.

“What happened?” I asked.

“He tried to wake up.”

“The cheek,” I murmured, though I was too tired to say it aloud. The frigid water was quickly draining me of all energy.

When I caught up with Barker, he looked as exhausted as I felt, but he stroked along in the Thames doggedly, keeping Briggs’s head above water. The exertion in the cold river was almost more than I could take, and I wasn’t dragging a huge man behind me. After what seemed an interminable time, Barker motioned me toward the bank as a police steam launch came around a bend into sight. We hid in the shadow of a barge, treading water weakly, and watched the launch pass slowly by. Being caught would have been a bad end to the day after all we’d been through, but on the other hand, I realized, the police would have dry blankets, a hot boiler, and maybe even mugs of cocoa. The Thames River Police do know how to make an excellent cup of cocoa. For a moment, I thought it might almost be worth getting caught. Instead, I bit my tongue as we waited for the launch to pass.

“I don’t think I can go much farther, sir,” I confessed, when it was finally gone. “I’m knackered. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. We’re here.” Barker seized a ladder attached to the side of the barge while I took possession of the limp Briggs. When he’d climbed aboard, he disappeared for a minute and came back with a rope to haul the man’s outsized body out of the water. After ten minutes of struggle, the three of us lay supine on the deck, gasping for air.

Finally, I sat up and looked about. We were on a decrepit old barge with a homemade structure of castoff wood atop it, festooned with wind chimes that clamored lackadaisically in the river breeze. I hadn’t been so naïve as to expect a hotel for the night, but I had at least hoped for a proper room.

A door opened behind us and a boy emerged, guarding a candle with the palm of one hand. He was Chinese, with a queue down his back, a small pillbox hat, and no shoes. He took in the sight of the three of us lying on his barge with the kind of stoic calm I’ve seen his people exhibit in the face of disaster. Coming forward, he engaged Barker in low conversation in what I assumed was Cantonese.

I wanted to ask where we were, but couldn’t muster the strength, or perhaps I simply saw the futility of asking. Barker looked in no mood to answer questions, and I doubted the boy spoke English. Luckily for me, Bully Boy Briggs had awakened and favored a more direct approach.

“Where the hell am I?” he suddenly bellowed into the night.

I couldn’t have put it better myself.

CHAPTER NINE

Within minutes, the boy pressed small cups of strong, black tea into our hands, and I began to suspect that, all things being considered, I just might live. Briggs had fallen into a sullen silence, probably irked at how easily he had been overcome by my employer. In spite of what he’d called out, he appeared incurious of his surroundings, or of his sodden clothing, but then, he was likely nursing a concussion.

The boy soon returned with bowls of rice flavored with egg but with neither spoons nor chopsticks to eat them with. Barker dug his fingers into the bowl and shoved a handful into his mouth. Briggs sniffed the bowl suspiciously, decided the contents wouldn’t kill him, and began to do likewise. I followed suit. When we were done, Barker patted his pockets, then remembered his pipe lying on the floor in our offices with its stem broken. He frowned and sniffed, mentally tightening his belt.