Season of death, p.23
Season of Death, page 23
“Sir?” the sergeant at the desk asked with a raised brow.
“I’ve got a package here for Inspector Lang,” the Guv said. “He left it the last time we were here. I’m Cyrus Barker, and this is my partner, Thomas Llewelyn. We’ll wait here if you will let him know.”
He crossed to a bench and lay Havelock down beside him like a coat. The poor fellow was fully off in dreamland, although I didn’t feel sorry for him. It was his fault that we were thrown into the ghastly Thames.
Looking down the hall, I saw a constable hare it down to the inspector’s office and a verbal explosion followed. A minute later Lang burst into the hall and came toward us like the express to Edinburgh. His face was purple with anger.
“Barker, I thought we’d seen the last of you,” he snapped. “Back for more, are you? Seize him, men. And I see you’ve brought your partner with you. Excellent. So, Barker, would you like to come into the interrogation room again, or would you prefer to step outside?”
“I’m not certain,” the Guv replied. “What do you think, James?”
The door to the constabulary opened and Commissioner Munro of Scotland Yard walked inside and removed his gloves.
“What’s going on, Cyrus?” he asked, but I knew better. Barker must have called him on the telephone in his bolt-hole while I was gone.
“Nothing of much import,” the Guv replied. “I brought this man in under suspicion of criminal activity, but I expect he and the inspector are already acquainted.”
“I find that difficult to believe,” Munro answered. “I thought the gentlemen at this constabulary were exemplary officers. I understand there was an altercation here an hour or so ago. Is that so, Mr. Llewelyn?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, surprised to be called out without warning.
“Could you point out the men involved?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied. “That one, the two there, the one in the corner. That fellow with the short beard. Are there any more, sir?”
“Aye, the big one there,” Cyrus Barker replied. “He’s a kidney puncher. I hate kidney punchers.”
Munro nodded sagely.
“Someone toss Mr. Lang in a cell,” he ordered. “I cannot abide the sight of him. I’d hang the man if I could, for bringing the name of this division and the whole of the Met into disrepute.
“As for the rest of you, this will go on your record, pending your next evaluation. You have been a disgrace to this city and to our noble profession. Where is Detective Constable Dew?”
“He works the night shift, sir,” the sergeant said behind him.
“No longer. I’m making him an inspector, temporarily in charge of this station. I suspect he alone is above the taint which has infected these halls.”
Munro passed along the hall, examining the men who stood about, not certain of what to do.
He reached Lang’s office and stepped inside.
“Look at this,” he said. “Have you ever seen such a slovenly office? You can count the rings on that corner where pint glasses have been set! The man must have been drunk here every day!
“It’s what comes of having public houses near stations,” Barker said.
I could count six or seven pubs between our offices and Scotland Yard, but it thought it politic not to mention it.
“Calm yourself, James,” Barker said. “You know what your doctor said.”
Munro sat behind Lang’s desk, like a man deciding whether to purchase it.
“Mr. Llewelyn, would you be so good as to see if there is a bucket of water in this wretched hovel?”
“Yes, sir!” I said, leaving the small office. On the one hand I’d like to have heard what was being said, but on the other it felt good not to sit so close to the fire, so to speak. I asked the sergeant at the desk, and soon returned with a full bucket. Havelock now occupied the seat I had taken, but he was welcome to it. Munro dashed the contents of the bucket in his face. The young man coughed and sputtered, then looked about him. The last thing he recalled was speaking with his Polish workers. Now he was among strangers. Sober-looking strangers, at that.
“Sir,” Munro said, “I am the superintendent of the Metropolitan Police. You are under arrest for fraud. I have reason to believe H and D Associates is the headquarters of a number of illegal activities. Do you have anything to say to this allegation?”
“I wish to speak to my solicitor,” the young man mumbled. He was soaked to the bone and shivering. I felt no sympathy, however. It wasn’t river water.
“You may, certainly,” Munro stated amiably. I’d never seen him so agreeable. “What is your name again, boy?”
“Havelock, sir.”
“There may be more than one of you responsible for this situation. However, someone must receive a slap on the wrist, so we’ll pin the crimes on your pocket. Of course, I am not a judge, but I don’t see why five years in Princetown would be unreasonable.”
“Five years?” Havelock gasped, as if seeing an eternity of punishment ahead of him.
“That’s if you find a sympathetic judge,” Barker said, putting in his oar.
“Of course,” the commissioner continued. “Let us say you pay your debt to society by the time you are forty. You’ll still have plenty of years to live. Of course, you’ll have to find steady work after prison, which can be difficult at that age. You’ll have to learn to be economical, but I’m sure you’ll acquire the skills as you go along.”
Munro was looking for a knife to pry open this particular oyster. Perhaps he had found it.
“Is that the only way?” Havelock asked, beginning to look desperate.
“You could cooperate with the Yard and tell us if anyone is colluding with you. If you are aiding Her Majesty’s Government, you cannot be punished.”
“It’s really your only choice,” I added. “That is, if you wish to avoid prison.”
The commissioner turned and looked at me as if he hadn’t known I was in the room. However, I had something to contribute to the conversation.
“I did eight months in Oxford Prison once,” I told the secretary. “It was hell. The food, the beatings, picking oakum until your fingers bled. The treadmill. I can’t believe I lived through it. Then I was ruined after.”
“Ruined?” Havelock asked. “Ruined in what way?”
“Who would hire you after prison?” I asked. “What woman would marry you? Who would wish to be your friend? Then there are the memories that haunt you afterward, that steal your sleep. Mate, believe me, it breaks you for any kind of normal life.”
There was a long pause in the room. I found myself holding my breath. Come on, Havelock, take my advice, I thought.
“Very well, sir,” he said at last. “I can give you the names of all the men who have been doing these crimes, as well as provide evidence. Most of our paperwork is in a safe in the office. Records, receipts of payments, that sort of thing. I keep meticulous paperwork.”
“Take him to ‘A’ Division,” Munro said to a pair of constables who had come with him. “I’ll need a stenographer for his confession.”
G. C. Havelock gripped the edge of the desk. “Is there another place we could go? I can see the building from the steps of the Houses of Parliament.”
The commissioner nodded. “True. There should be a closed Maria nearby. I’ll have an officer transport you to a southern division across the river in Surrey. You cannot be seen inside the vehicle. You should be safe there.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Havelock was soon placed inside the closed van and taken south to safety. Two constables were sent to seize the offices of H & D. The door suddenly burst open, and Detective Constable Dew stepped in, having arrived early for his shift. I wondered if someone had warned him about Munro.
“What in the world?” he asked.
“Good afternoon, Inspector,” I said. “They say a new broom sweeps clean.”
He gave me a puzzled look.
“You’ve earned your inspector’s badge due to your excellent work and because you’ve stood above your colleagues,” Munro said. “I have here a note from last year that you complained about several issues. All the complaints have turned out to be true. Wait for me in the hall. You have a promotion coming.”
After Dew had stepped out, the commissioner turned to me.
“Mr. Llewelyn, your partner and I have Templar business to discuss. It may take some time. I suggest you go home to your wife. You have been ill-used today, much of which is my fault, I’m afraid. You look like you need some rest.”
I looked at Barker and he nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
I wasn’t about to argue with him, and I certainly couldn’t stay when secret society business was being discussed. I had promised my sainted mother that I would not mix in such questionable circles. Therefore, I found a cab and did my best to put some distance between myself and Spitalfields. Perhaps I was nervous, but I didn’t feel safe exposed in the open carriage, knowing the Polish workers were still nearby. I kept a pistol in my hand all the way home, just to make myself feel safer.
“Darling!” Rebecca said, coming into the hall from the study. She kissed my cheek and I winced.
“Oh dear, I think you may have broken your nose again. It has the same look as last time. Your eyes will puff up overnight and you’ll look like a ferret. Or a burglar.” She gave a mischievous grin.
“You should be in the music halls,” I said, grimacing in pain.
I’d attempted to remove my coat unaided. There was no telling what I had been thinking.
“You get into bed, and I will bring you some liniment,” she said. “Go!”
She waved a cushion at me as if I were an insect that had wandered in an open window.
I climbed the stairs to change. Of course, everything began to ache again. Even the act of undressing made the pain increase.
“Rebecca?” I called.
She returned with a brown glass jar and unscrewed the lid. “This is from Mr. Barker.”
“It smells of camphor and tea,” I complained. “Probably snake spleen as well if they have spleens. I think Barker’s precious Dr. Wong is some kind of sorcerer.”
“He told me you’d say that, almost word for word. Now let me apply this or no dessert tonight!”
“What kind of dessert is it?” I asked.
“Gooseberry fool. If you’re good, I’ll let you have a second helping.”
Suddenly, the telephone jangled down in the hall. I thought of not answering it but bounded down the stairs before the final ring. The Guv was already there.
“Sir?”
“He’s smarter than we realized, Thomas,” Barker growled. “The H and D building was on fire when we arrived. Every shred of evidence gone. And that’s not the worst of it.”
“Havelock?”
“The Maria never arrived. I suspect he’ll be found in the river tomorrow morning. Possibly the two constables, as well.”
“Should I return to the office, sir?” I asked.
Suddenly, the thought of that liniment, snake spleens and all, sounded tempting.
“No, Thomas,” he replied. “There’s nothing more we can do tonight. We’ll let Scotland Yard do their work. I’m sure the Black Maria will be found. Did Mrs. Llewelyn use the liniment I gave her?”
“Of course she did,” I replied.
“You’ve got a good woman there, Thomas,” he replied.
“Don’t I know it!”
CHAPTER 27
The following morning, there was a dull thrumming in our offices for which I could not account. Then I saw that it was the pads of Cyrus Barker’s fingertips drumming on the glass sheet that covered his desk. They moved one at a time, like a pianist playing a sonata. He was trying to reconcile the events that had occurred over the last week, to see if they made sense. There was the very real chance that all the events we were dealing with were unconnected to our enquiry. That was my opinion, but then, he had not asked for it.
“Lad, type a letter for me,” he said. “The good paper. I desire an interview with Mrs. Maud Kemple.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice.
He was actually doing something besides brooding. And the good paper! I rarely had the chance to use it. It was a stiff vellum of pale cream, with the agency’s name and address embossed upon it, and his name in smaller letters. I had some with my own name, but I surmised he was only being kind when he ordered it. As beautiful as it was, I’d never used it and saw no likelihood that I ever would.
I lifted my old Hammond typewriter and placed it on my desk, where it fit exactly. I crossed to his, opened a drawer, and removed a single sheet of the vellum. Then I carefully placed it in the typewriting machine and adjusted it.
It is preferable in such a situation to write the letter in longhand, but the Guv’s handwriting looks as if he has some form of nervous condition. The last time we faced a similar situation we considered me writing the note for him, but we settled on this compromise.
We knew what Mrs. Kemple was. She was an adventuress. I didn’t know the particulars of her life, but I could probably imagine them with some accuracy. She was separated from her husband, who had settled a certain amount upon her for long-term living expenses. She had been seen with various nobles, some married, some not, and even had an acquaintance with the Prince of Wales. There had been at least two court trials and divorces because of her, and according to Rebecca, several scandals. She had frightened most of the important women in good society at one time or another. They could not refuse her, however, because she was witty and gay, and everyone was intrigued; no party was complete that season without her. In other words, she was a societal thorn in the flesh, and the sooner some minor member of royalty from across the Channel took her away, the better. All of Belgravia would breathe a sigh of relief.
“Ready, sir,” I said.
“To Mrs. Maud Kemple,” he said, settling back in his chair and looking up at the ceiling. Dull light from the window was reflected in his brass-framed black spectacles. “You have her address?”
“It’s in the Kelly’s Directory, sir.”
“Excellent,” he replied. “Let’s begin. ‘Dear Mrs. Kemple, Please forgive the impertinence of a perfect stranger’s request to see you on such short notice. I am a private enquiry agent, and your name was mentioned in relation to an enquiry we are investigating, and I hoped you might be available to answer a question or two. The matter is of some delicacy, but I assure you this is in no way a threat to you. Lady Philippa Ashleigh of Seaford, Sussex, will vouch for my character and discretion, and I shall bring my partner, Mr. Thomas Llewelyn, along with me. I am, your humble servant, Cyrus Barker.’
“Is that satisfactory, Mr. Llewelyn?”
“A bit antique, sir,” I replied. “But I think it proper in this situation.”
“Do you suppose she is aware of Lady Ashleigh?”
“A woman who trades in her social circle would most certainly know of her,” I replied. “I imagine she is aware of everyone of consequence, and Philippa is important.”
Lady Ashleigh had been Barker’s partner in life since before I met him. She and Rebecca had become friends, as well. The matter had become complicated. The Guv does not like complications in his world, and yet they keep coming, unbidden.
As for me, the last thing I wanted was to speak with Maud Kemple. A mere photograph of the woman had sparked an argument in my house. I had no desire to meet her. I even considered asking Barker to allow me to miss this interview, before I realized he had asked me because he too needed a witness, a chaperone, and a recorder. Perhaps all at once. None of the common weapons or defenses will work on a woman.
For the briefest second, I considered not telling my wife. Then I realized I couldn’t help but tell her, and if I didn’t, she would probably learn about it anyway, or intuit it on her own. I could not call her and warn her. There was no option but to see it through and then confess, putting myself at the mercy of the court. I’m by no means a great prize, but a certain kind of woman enjoys sharpening her claws on me. Barker hired a commissionaire to deliver the letter and brought back an answer shortly. She would see us at three o’clock.
Mrs. Kemple’s address was in Holland Park. The cabman took us right to the front door, where we were passed to the butler, who ushered us to an informal sitting room with a roaring fire and rococo furnishings. Our hostess was awaiting us, draped across an overstuffed chaise longue like a painting I’d once seen of Sarah Bernhardt.
She was not extremely beautiful, but she had a way of captivating one without being obvious about it. She didn’t play the coquette because she didn’t need to. Most women, seeing visitors, would jump to their feet, but Maud Kemple was not most women.
“Gentlemen, good afternoon,” she said. “Mr. Barker, what a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you, yet absolutely nothing of value. London society knows not what to make of you. It’s as if their opinions don’t matter a jot to you or your work.”
Barker took the hand offered to him and bowed over it.
“Madam,” he said, “they don’t.”
“And Mr. Llewelyn,” she said, turning to me, “you are far too handsome and innocent-looking to be an enquiry agent, but I’ve heard about you, as well. I’ve had my spies collecting information since your message arrived. I must say, you put me all aflutter.”
She was perhaps forty, with blond hair that to my untrained eye looked dyed. There was too much yellow about it. Her eyes were green, and her nose aquiline and aristocratic, but I suspected that, like most women of her kind, she did not come from a good family. What she had acquired in order to survive in this hateful world was due to her own wiles and initiative, and even hate. I suspected this meeting had been a rare miscalculation on Cyrus Barker’s part. We had stepped into a cage with a viper unawares and our chances of emerging unscathed were small.
