Honor's Kingdom (28 page)

“But why should the son make her out to be his wife at all?”

“Perhaps that was a lie told only to me. Because my role was to take away the letters. So the man in the red mask could take them from me. Twas only to send me off in a false direction. For whatever else he may or may not be, the son is under the thumb of Mr. Disraeli somehow. Nor is there any love lost between father and son. The boy himself could be the engine of the plot. Blackmailing his own father through a second party.”

I let Mr. Adams ponder a bit while we watched a boy roll a hoop. That always seemed a tedious game to me, meant for boys who lacked the impulse to manliness.

“Yes,” Mr. Adams said at last. “That must be the explanation. Sordid, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the rest of the business, the greater part, will have to wait until you visit Glasgow. And make further discoveries.”

“So I would think, sir.”

“Good, then. Well done, Major Jones. Seward knew his man when he sent you out.”

I was pleased by our Minister’s praise, as you would have been. Of course, I had gotten the matter entirely wrong, leaping to the false conclusion that the old man of whom the Dutch-capped boy in Lambeth had spoken was the elder Mr. Pomeroy, and that the affair of the letters was the lesser concern. Neither of us saw what was right in front of our eyes. In a manner of speaking, I mean, for twas not there on the lawns of Regent’s Park. But we were colossally wrong, the two of us, and time was running out to make things right.

“So,” Mr. Adams said, “tomorrow you’re off to Glasgow. A shame our consul’s on the Continent. Gone to Homburg for the waters. He might have been of assistance with the Scots.” He shifted to face toward me again, as he did each time he meant to change the subject. “What about Miss Perkins and the letters? Do you think we should simply extract ourselves from that particular affair?”

I had been coming to that. May the Good Lord forgive me, I was up to a bit of mischief. For I felt a bit of comeuppance was overdue.

“I must ask a great favor of you, sir,” I began. “I feel we should not let those letters go, see. Soiled as they appear to be in their purpose. For we cannot say with certainty what is in them, and we may be in error. Worse, the lass may be in danger of her life, and only because she come into contact with me.” I looked at the great man beside me, wondering if he would penetrate my deviltry. “I believe it worth our while to have the letters. If only to keep Miss Perkins from coming to harm.”

“Well, then, I suppose you’ll have to go and fetch them from her.”

“I cannot do that,” I explained. “For I am positive that I am being watched. Were I to go, it would only tell the world she has the letters, see. And maybe cost her life. No, sir,” I said gravely, beginning to work my mischief upon that good man, “I think your son would be the man to go.”

“Henry? Go to a penny gaff?”

“No one would suspect him, sir. And he’s such a gentleman he would be admitted anywhere. Miss Perkins would be more trusting of such a one as him, since she would fear the sight of me, knowing I was after the letters. She might even flee. But your son could do it all in a wink, sir.”

Oh, couldn’t I picture the smug young pup packed into a penny gaff? I relished the thought of it, I did.

“I don’t quite know if Henry’s the man to deal with anyone as formidable as this Miss Perkins of yours,” Mr. Adams said doubtfully. “He’s something of a retiring young man.”

“I would do it myself, sir, if only I could. But I cannot, and that’s plain. Nor could you very well go yourself, Mr. Adams.”

“No.”

“He should offer her twenty pounds to start,” I said. “But she might hold out for fifty.”

“Good Lord!” he said, with such alarm I almost thought him Welsh. “Fifty pounds?”

“We do not know what the letters may contain, sir. But, doubtless, she will have read them, and she may sense their value. Their possession may bring us an advantage we cannot foresee. In other domains entirely.”

It was my winning argument, and he agreed as we parted that his son would go to Eastcheap Street that night. Had we known what those letters had to say, we would have all gone together, and taken a hired army along, besides.

There is strange. I meant to have my joke on young Mr. Adams, and it come out the only thing that I got right.

I DINED ON A CUTLET where working men ate, and had my fill at a price that was almost reasonable. Thus fortified, I took
an omnibus in the direction of Hampstead. For I had another visit to make before I departed London, although it had naught to do with masks and murders, or with letters and immorality in Lambeth. I wished to call on Mr. Karl Marx, the philosopher, for I felt myself in need of moral solace.

Of course, the fellow was a Communist, which meant he had an appetite for uproar. But dear Mrs. Schutzengel, my Washington landlady, had always made him out to be a saint. And the lion in his den may prove less fierce.

I was curious, see. And hoped to have a pleasant conversation. I wanted to take my mind off other matters and grant myself an interval of refreshment. And what could be a greater source of renewal than drawing wisdom from a great man’s lips?

Now, I was not familiar with all the boroughs and hierarchies of London, and knew only that
Herr
Marx had been frightfully poor—indeed, a child or two had died of want in the misery of his London lodgings, and I suspected Mrs. Schutzengel of sending him funds. But Kentish Town, when I stepped down, did not seem quite the vale of poverty I had anticipated. In fact, it looked quite nice and most respectable.

I asked my way to Grafton Terrace and spied out number 9. And didn’t the sight of the place make me wonder? Twas handsomer three times over than my own little home in Pottsville, which was nothing to be ashamed of, though not grandiose. The house looked fine and new and suited more to a young barrister and his bride than to a driven, starving revolutionist.

A dark-haired lass, plain but pleasant, answered the door and looked me over with a certain trepidation. Now, I know it is rude to call unexpected, but my days and nights had not allowed me time for writing notes and asking permissions.

I cleared my throat and said, “Begging your pardon, missy . . . my name is Jones and I am from America, see. If a Mr. Marx lives here, I believe we have a mutual friend in
Frau
Hilda Schutzengel, who is my—”

She did not let me finish but fair dragged me into the hall.
“Mutti! Mutti!”
she cried to a presence somewhere behind the
walls,
“der Hen kommt von der Hilda, von Hilda Schutzengel! Er kommt aus Amerika . . .”

And wasn’t there a great rushing to and fro after that? I heard a cry of
“Gott sei Dank! Vielleicht hat sie Geld geschickt
. . .” as I stood about, examining my environs. Now, quite the fashion the house may have been in itself, but the interior had a picked-over look, with rectangles pale on the walls where pictures were missed and a general sparseness of furniture, almost as if items had been sold off or pawned.

In a bit, an older woman emerged from back of the stairs to greet me—I fear I thought
Frau
Marx was the maid, so careworn she looked, with her hands all wet and raw. And her English had a want of specificity. She managed to pull up a certain dignity, though, as soon as she finished drying her fingers on a cloth. Your German keeps a straight back in adversity, see. We smiled at one another and jabbered a bit, but I fear we made little sense of one another.

The daughter—for such the plain girl seemed—insisted I was as welcome as a sunny day, although a Mr. Lassalle had been expected in my stead. A serving girl was dispatched to fetch the father, who was at a location I did not comprehend. I had lately applied myself to the German tongue, which I believe will become America’s second language in the years to come, but my grammar book had not yet lifted me up to significant understandings.

The serving girl went off in a huff and a fluff, complaining of Heaven and earth. Even Communists have serving maids, see, and they are no happier than girls in service elsewhere.

Her mission proved unnecessary, for hardly a moment after she disappeared through the front door,
Herr
Karl Marx himself burst into the hall.

He was drunk. On a Monday night.

When he heard I enjoyed an association with Mrs. Schutzengel, he wrapped me in his great bear arms and slobbered over me. I fear he stank and wanted a proper scrubbing. His embrace drew me into his musty beard and showed me the violet
carbuncles on his neck. He declared my arrival an event of notable magnitude, then he led me into his study, which was cluttered like an enchanted cave in a story, although his treasures were books and papers, pens and pipes. Dropping into an arm-chair that wanted pensioning, he barked out questions about America’s readiness to dispose of the monied classes, whom he associated with a place called the Bushwa Sea, of which I knew nothing. I suspect it may be somewhere near Lake Erie.

Instead of listening to my attempted answers, he prophesied that our present war would spark a world revolution. He seemed a lively fellow, if smelly and dirty, but when he learned I had brought no funds from Mrs. Schutzengel, he turned grumpy and implied that America was a backward place, after all. He asked to borrow ten pounds, then five, and did not take my refusals in a comradely spirit. Though heavily filtered through his German origins, his English was not bad, but when I tried to put a question to him on moral philosophy, he merely belched and fell asleep in his chair.

It proved a less than satisfactory evening.

I SHOULD HAVE FORESEEN just what would happen next. For when plans go awry, men try to fix them.

As I strolled the last steps to my hotel, through air damp as a scrub rag, a long face hailed me from a fancy carriage.

Twas Mr. Disraeli.

“Ah, Major Jones!” he said. “Might I desire the honor of your company?” He opened the carriage door toward me.

I had half a mind to tell him he might desire my company for a year and a day, for all the good it would do him. But we must not allow our feelings to become our masters. And he would be after the letters, see. Much is to be learned from men’s excuses. Even when those men come short of honesty.

Get in I did, only to be surprised. For Mr. Disraeli had not come out alone. Young Mr. Pomeroy sat in a plush corner, just
by a lamp, with a look on his face like a child in the midst of a whipping, as his master pauses to catch his breath and freshen his grip on the rod.

Mr. Disraeli tapped on the forward panel and the coachman bid the horses walk on. For a street or two, he and I only regarded each other, while young Mr. Pomeroy cowered.

“Last night,” Mr. Disraeli began at last, “I suffered from an excess of generosity and entrusted you with letters not rightly mine to bestow. The gesture has cost me not a little embarrassment.” His expression did not change as he spoke, but remained cool as a cobra’s. “I must presume upon your good will and ask for the return of what I gave you.” He sent the briefest of glances toward young Pomeroy. “Our mutual friend, Mr. Pomeroy, has applied to me for the return of his intimate property. Which no gentleman would deny him.”

I was relieved. It meant they did not know Miss Perkins had the letters. Instead of replying, I let the carriage rock on.

“To reward your inconvenience,” Mr. Disraeli continued, “I renew my offer to protect your personal and professional reputations from any misconstructions past events might inspire.” His gaze tightened. “I should even provide you with documents the India Office need not retain. Papers . . . of which there would be no second copies available.”

“There is nothing I am ashamed of,” I told him. “Take your papers and hand them out to every scribbler in Fleet Street.”

My reply was a degree too heated and only reinforced Mr. Disraeli’s composure. Patiently, he drew out the finest of cambric handkerchiefs, embroidered white-on-white along the edges, and touched it to his nose, as if to remove a single drop of sweat. He shook it out with an artful snap and slipped it back into his pocket.

“Nothing of the sort! I shouldn’t betray a friend in a thousand years! Not in an hundred-thousand!” He smiled, gone from cobra to a cat. “I must be frightfully poor of speech—you never fail to mistake my offers of friendship for something else
entirely. On the contrary, I think,” he renewed his smile, “we would all desire absolute discretion in these matters.” He turned delicately. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Pomeroy?”

Pomeroy looked at him warily.

“No, no,” Mr. Disraeli insisted. “Far from wishing to annoy you, Major Jones, I only wish to offer my good offices. In return for the letters.” His smile dissolved. “Which you certainly cannot construe as your own property.”

“I do not have them,” I said.

“Where are they?”

“Under the control of the United States Government.” It was not true, not yet. But I hoped young Mr. Adams would acquire them before the night was up.

“That,” Mr. Disraeli said, with a look of pain his efforts failed to disguise, “is a great relief to me. Surely, Mr. Adams will wish to return such an indelicate property to the only legitimate possessor.”

“And wouldn’t that be the wife?” I asked. “This Mrs. Pomeroy of Lambeth? Didn’t he send the letters to her, making them her property ever after?”

“A wife’s property is the husband’s property. Under law.”

“You told me yourself she sold them.”

“I was in error.”

“And you implied—”

“Ah, that troublesome word again!”

“Then I will not use it. Tell me this: Is your Mrs. Pomeroy even a Jewess? Or is she Betty Green, born in Camden Town and raised a Methodist?”

“Surely, Major Jones, given your own evolutions in life . . . you wouldn’t deny a young woman the opportunity to amend the course of her life? To begin anew?” He flicked his fingers as if ridding himself of crumbs. “Let us say, she is a woman born without certain advantages, and who has made certain errors in the past.”

“If I looked through every register in this city, would I find a mention of her marriage under any name at all?”