Authors: Mark Latham
‘Jim… there is more that I ought to tell you.’ I did not want to disclose any information about the stranger aspects of the investigation, but I felt that if Jim was set on helping me, I must be honest with him.
I let the information pour out of me, knowing as the words left my lips that it sounded insane. The list of psychics and spiritualists; the medium who had seemed to have a message for me; and, finally, the weird, shifting room at 143c Commercial Road, and the woman in black who I was certain was behind the explosion. Through it all, Jim listened intently, head inclined, interjecting only to clarify certain facts, and seeming not to judge anything that I said. I still was not sure that my state of mind was sufficient for my duties, and it was entirely reasonable that my recent injuries coupled with the morphine administered by McGrath had induced some temporary madness or hysteria that even now affected me. I craved assurance to the contrary.
‘So then,’ I said when my account was complete, ‘do you think me mad?’
‘Mad?’ Jim looked thoughtful once more. ‘No. However, I cannot rule out the possibility that a series of trying events may have taken their toll on you. But, regardless, yours is the only first-hand account that anyone has of an anarchist attack, and so it would be negligent of me not to take your word in earnest, your word as a gentleman.’
‘Oh, you have that, most certainly!’ I exclaimed, grateful and relieved that he intended to help me still.
‘Now, assuming that every detail was as you said,’ Jim continued, ‘there must be a rational explanation. My first thought is that the use of spiritualists is merely a convenient cover for these criminals. The number of mediums and such like in London grows with each passing week it seems, and from what I read in the dailies most of them are little more than petty swindlers—just the type of people who would aid and abet our culprits. As to one of them knowing something personal about you—it is a well-known fact that these ‘mediums’ employ confidence tricksters to elicit private information from their victims. It may seem unlikely, but these folk make a career out of knowing all they can about their next target. Do you follow?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘but why on earth would I be targeted at all? How could Madam Walpole have known I would be visiting her?’
Jim seemed to ponder this for a moment, and then nodded with some surety. ‘These people you are working for—they do not seem terribly careful in concealing their movements. For a secret organisation, they are a mite clumsy. You and Ambrose were openly investigating this case, using your own names rather than nom de plumes. You could have been followed with no small amount of interest from the moment you left your first meeting with whoever-they-are. Why, for all we know, those thugs who assailed you in the alleyway that night could even have been sent by some foreign agency to deal with you!’
I tried to hide my feelings at this great leap of logic from Jim, for it mirrored my own thinking on the matter, but I did not want to confirm it. ‘All the more reason to leave these lodgings,’ I said instead. ‘I would not like to think I was inviting danger to poor Mrs. Whitinger’s door.’
‘Nor shall you be, I am certain, but we shall take things one step at a time. I shall have a word with some friends of mine when I leave here today, and make sure that someone keeps an eye on the house until you’re ready to move on. If I can’t secure an extra bobby on the beat, I’ll see if I can’t pull a few strings at Horse Guards.’ Jim stopped and looked at me with concern. ‘You seem tired, and perhaps overly worried—I have taken up too much of your time when you should be resting.’
‘No, no—it has been good to talk of work to take my mind off my injuries.’ Yet even as I protested, I realised that I was very tired, and my joints seemed to ache.
‘Never mind. You have a plan of action, and there is nothing more to do except for you to get better. I would like to help you with the investigation, John, but I fear that my involvement will only get you into trouble. I urge you not to rush back to activity. You have taken several nasty turns, and you need to be right as rain if you’re to crack this case.’
I felt guilty that I had rebuffed Jim’s offer of assistance; after all, the army was all I’d known for so long. Deep down I felt more loyalty to the army than to the club, and my father had worked for both… hadn’t he? ‘Jim… I might not be able to investigate the case with you, but that does not mean we cannot work together, for the mutual benefit of the Crown.’ I found myself saying it almost without thinking.
‘What do you suggest?’ Jim asked, looking less put out all of a sudden.
‘I’m suggesting that I keep you informed of any major developments, especially such intelligence as might require military intervention. In return, you let me know if you find out any more information at your end… and put a good word in for me at Horse Guards when all of this goes belly up.’ We both laughed at that, partly because we both suspected it might come true.
‘Send me a message as soon as you think you’re able. If the army makes any discoveries, I’ll keep you appraised unless I’m expressly ordered otherwise. And remember, I was ordered to look after you; that still stands, John. Whatever mischief you and that Hanlocke fellow get into… whatever you need, you know?’
Jim took up his hat and coat and prepared to leave.
‘I’ll smooth things over with Mrs. Whitinger for you on the way out,’ he reassured me. ‘She pretends to be a tough old thing, but she’s a sensitive soul beneath it all. I know how to talk her round. I’ll have her bring some broth for you later, too; you must try to eat, to stave off a relapse.’ I nodded cheerfully and bade him good day. He turned just before stepping out onto the landing, saying, ‘Oh, I almost forgot—I brought you some reading material to stop you stagnating. Cheerio!’ He nodded towards the side-table, then with a smile and a wave he was off.
Jim’s positive nature was infectious, and as he left and his footfall on the stairs faded away, I managed to get out of my chair and walked over to the table, leaning heavily on my cane, to find a pile of
Punch
magazines bundled together with twine. The topmost issue was the latest edition, and the caricature on the front cover was of a policeman, a judge and a politician fumbling around in the dark whilst leering Fenians and foreign-looking dynamiters looked on, and the fuse of a comedic blackpowder bomb burned down. I turned around and stared down at the map and the scattered papers on the floor with a grim determination. Dark forces were at work—of that I was certain—and they had got the better of me twice already. It was time to turn the tables.
* * *
I felt rested the next day, and though I wasn’t sure I could face adventuring around London, I knew I could not remain cloistered away for ever. I sent a brief missive to Sir Toby, informing him that I was on the mend, and was planning to continue my association with the order, and by extension with the investigation. I penned a second note to Ambrose, informing him that we should resume our duties at his convenience. Afterwards I breakfasted with Mrs. Whitinger, who acted as though nothing was amiss—I could only presume that Jim had had words with her, for she did not seem in the least bit cool towards me, and I was grateful for it. After breakfast I felt fit enough for a morning stroll, but even that proved tiring. I had hoped perhaps to use this unexpected recreational time to visit the British Museum, but just the thought of climbing all of those marble stairs and traversing the great exhibition halls defeated me. So, downhearted, I returned to my rooms and tried to make industrious use of my time.
My father’s papers still sat in a large box in my lounge, and I had only sorted half of them so far. This, then, would be my first task. I set about organising them methodically into piles, and writing brief instructions for any outstanding business concerns to my solicitor, Mr. Fairclough. I came once more upon the address near Faversham, which had once been my home, and lingered over it. My late father had taken on an estate manager to look after the house, though I had long thought it sold, and as far as I could tell it was still being maintained thus. I took great pains to balance the books so that my old home could remain in my keeping, and sent instruction to Mr. Fairclough to acquire for me a key to the property, and transfer all of the relevant paperwork to my name and notify the manager of the change, so that I could visit it as soon as my business in London was concluded.
Ah, if only it was so simple
, I remember thinking; the case looked unlikely to be resolved any time soon, and was already absorbing so much of my time that a return to the quiet countryside of my youth seemed a pleasure far beyond my reach.
It was late in the afternoon when Archie McGrath called on me. I took tea with him and he checked on my wounds, encouraging me greatly with his appraisal. I was, it seemed, recovering rapidly, and he changed my dressings, passing comment that perhaps this time I could get some bed-rest and allow my stitches to heal fully. Although he was an earnest fellow, I still felt guarded and suspicious of everyone; my conversation with Jim the previous day had left me feeling slightly paranoid, and I was beginning to long for army life again, for the embrace of the only family I had known for many a long year.
After some awkward small-talk, mercifully interrupted by Mrs. Whitinger’s collection of our tea things, Archie made his excuses and left me to my thoughts. I realised after he had gone that I had done little to extend the hand of fellowship to him, even though he really did seem amiable enough. I wondered if perhaps I had become too used to isolation, and forgotten the simple pleasures of good company. I contemplated dressing for dinner and taking a cab to the club, but reminded myself of Jim’s warning not to return to duty so soon, and so with a weary head I hobbled off to bed.
When I awoke at the start of yet another day, I felt stronger and full of optimism, and mercifully free from the opium cravings that had marred my recovery. I washed, shaved, and dressed for breakfast. I ate heartily, and even managed cheerful conversation with Mrs. Whitinger, at least partly restoring some of her trust in my good nature.
At nine o’clock sharp there was a rap at the door, and soon after the maid brought in a letter addressed to me. It was a short missive, written on headed club notepaper.
John
,
I hope this note finds you in good health. I have today received fresh instructions regarding our investigation. Suggest we meet later today. Please accept my invitation to luncheon at the Mitre on Aldgate. Shall we say midday? I hope to see you shortly.
Your Friend,
A.H.
I felt oddly cross; Ambrose had not deigned to visit these past few days, though of course it was likely that the investigation had taken up all of his time in light of the new attacks. Aldgate seemed an odd choice of venue for a meeting, however—did he somehow know that I wished to revisit the East End, I wondered? Or was it just one of Ambrose’s regular haunts? Regardless, I was eager to begin work, and so I scribbled an acceptance note, making brief mention of my intention to return to Whitechapel, and instructing Ambrose to dress down for the occasion. When it came time to depart I took up my cane, which I still needed for support, and placed a notebook and pencil in my breast pocket. As I had mentioned to Ambrose, I was careful to select clothing that would not draw undue attention in the East End, especially in the poorer Spitalfields area. I dressed casually, ready for luncheon at Ambrose’s chosen eatery, but carried my battered overcoat over my arm so that I could don it when required to travel
incognito
.
I arrived at the Mitre to find it was not quite the modest dining room I had envisaged. It had clearly once been a tavern, and from the outside might still have passed as one, but the current proprietor had transformed it into a more up-market establishment, no doubt to serve the growing number of senior clerks and bankers that laboured each day in the district. I was shown to Ambrose’s table, and I held onto my overcoat, slightly embarrassed to hand the tatty article to the waiter.
Ambrose was already waiting for me, having reserved our table ahead of time, taking care to secure a booth where we might conduct our business privately.
‘Ah, there you are, old chap,’ Ambrose said as I took my seat. ‘You look fit as a fiddle. Mind you, you’ll forgive me if I don’t embrace you, in case you break.’ He laughed and took a sip of wine from a glass that was almost empty.
‘Go easy, Ambrose,’ I said. ‘We’ll need clear heads today. Business before pleasure.’
‘When have I ever done anything in moderation? Face it, old chap, you really yearn to resume our partnership. Your life must have been tiresome dull these last few days without me.’
‘“Tiresome dull”… that’s one way of putting it, yes,’ I replied. ‘And you? I presume you have been busy with club duties?’
‘For the most part, although not as much as I’d have liked. Old Toby was keen to keep you in the loop for some reason, hence we are here.’
I expected him to explain why he hadn’t visited me on my sickbed, but he merely drained his glass and suppressed a burp. It was all I could do not to smile despite myself. This was the Ambrose I had come to know—unashamed and unabashed. And singularly selfish in his own roguish way. Were we really friends? I felt we were, although for the life of me I couldn’t work out why.
We ordered a modest lunch of chops and vegetables, and began to formulate our plan of action, using my map to aid us.
‘So, we begin at the Ten Bells,’ began Ambrose, ‘and question the landlord and some of the locals.’
‘I agree, but we must also be on the lookout for anything unusual in the pub,’ I added. ‘Perhaps I am becoming too untrusting, but I cannot rely on the statements of anyone—who knows how far the influence of the anarchists has spread?’
Ambrose nodded as he sipped his beer. A waiter set down our food, and there was a momentary bustle of activity, before we were once again left alone. I was nervous about the coming day’s activity, but at the same time I still felt a determination to further the case and bring the anarchists to justice. I could barely sit still during lunch, instead feeling an agitation to set down knife and fork and begin the investigation immediately.