VERY BUSY WITH PARTICULATE FOULING BUT YES DO VISIT STOP WAKEFIELD ENDIT
Bligh entered with a tray of sliced mutton and pickle. “I’ve brought a bottle of ale, sir,” he said, setting out linen and silverware on a section of the table kept cleared for this purpose. “Thank you, Bligh.” Oliphant raised the tape of Wakefield’s message with his fingertip, then let it droop back toward its wire basket. Bligh poured the ale, then departed with his tray and the empty ceramic bottle. Oliphant trundled the office-chair around the table and sat down to spread his mutton with Branston pickle. He was startled from his solitary meal by the clatter of one of his three receivers. He glanced down the table and saw the tape beginning to unspool in the machine to the right. The machine to the left, on which Wakefield’s invitation to lunch had arrived, was on his personal number. Right meant police business of some kind, likely Betteredge, or Fraser. Putting down knife and fork, he rose. He watched the message emerge from its brass slot.
RE F B YOU ARE REQUIRED AT ONCE STOP FRASER ENDIT
He took his father’s German hunter from his waistcoat to note the time. Tucking it away, he touched the glass that domed the centermost of the three receiving-telegraphs. There had been no message on that one since the death of the late Prime Minister.
The address to which the cab earned him was in Brigsome’s Terrace, off a thoroughfare of the sort that speculative builders delighted in carving through the ancient and still largely unexplored wilderness that was East London. The terrace itself, Oliphant decided as he alighted from his hansom, was as dismal a block of buildings as had ever been composed of brick and mortar. The builder who had speculated on these ten dreary prison-houses, he thought, had likely hung himself behind the parlor door of some adjacent tavern before the hideous things were finished. The streets through which the cab had conveyed him had been those one seemed to traverse at times such as these — all those thoroughfares seemingly unknown to day and the ordinary pedestrian. A thin rain was falling now, and Oliphant momentarily regretted not having accepted the water-proof that Bligh had offered at the door. The two men before No. 5 wore long drooping black cape-like articles of waxed Egyptian cotton. A recent innovation from New South Wales, Oliphant knew, much praised in the Crimea and precisely the thing for concealing weapons of the sort that these two most certainly concealed. “Special Bureau,” Oliphant said, briskly climbing past the guards. Abashed by his accent and manner, they let him pass. It would be necessary to report that to Fraser. He entered the house, finding himself in a parlor lit by a powerful carbide-lantern, atop a tripod, its merciless white glare magnified by a concave round of polished tin. The parlor was furnished with scraps salvaged from the ruins of gentility. There was a cottage-piano, and a chiffonier several sizes too large for the room. The latter struck him as pathetically gorgeous, with its tarnished gilt moldings. A threadbare patch of Brussels carpet swarmed with roses and lilies, amid a desert of colorless drugget. Knitted curtains shaded the windows overlooking Brigsome’s Terrace. Beside the glass, two hanging wire baskets were festooned with plants of the cactus species, which grew in prickly and spider-like profusion. Oliphant noted an acrid stench, more penetrating than the reek of carbide. Betteredge emerged from the rear of the house. He wore a high-crowned derby hat that made him seem altogether American, so that he might easily have been mistaken for one of the Pinkerton operatives he shadowed daily. Likely the effect was deliberate, down to the patent boots with their elasticated side-gores. His expression, quite uncharacteristically, was one of grave anxiety. “I’ll take full responsibility, sir,” he stammered. Something was very wrong. “Mr. Fraser’s waiting for you, sir. Nothing’s been moved.” Oliphant allowed himself to be led through the doorway, and up a narrow, perilously steep flight of stairs. They emerged in a barren hallway, illuminated by a second carbide-lantern. Great spreading continents of niter marred the bare plaster walls. The burnt smell was stronger here. Through another doorway, into yet brighter glare, and Fraser’s dour face looking up from where he knelt beside a sprawled body. Fraser seemed about to speak; Oliphant silenced him with a gesture. Here, then, was the source of the reek. Upon an old-fashioned coaching-case stood a compact modern Primus stove of the sort intended for camp, its brass fuel-canister gleaming bright as a mirror. Upon its ring rested a pannikin of black cast-iron. Whatever had been cooking in this vessel was now a charred and bitterly odorous residue. He turned his attention to the corpse. The man had been a giant; in the small room, it was necessary to step over his outspread limbs. Oliphant bent to study the contorted features, the death-dulled eyes. He straightened, facing Fraser. “And what do you make of this?” “He was warming tinned beans,” Fraser said. “Eating them straight out of the pot there. With this.” With the toe of his shoe, Fraser indicated a kitchen-spoon of chipped blue enamel. “I’d say he was alone. I’d say he managed to choke down a good third of the tin before the poison felled him.” “This poison,” Oliphant said, taking his cigar-case and sterling cutter from his coat, “what do you suppose it was?” He extracted a cheroot, clipped and pierced it. “Something potent,” Fraser said, “by the look of him.” “Yes,” Oliphant agreed. “Big chap.” “Sir,” Betteredge said, “you’d best see this.” He displayed a very long knife, sheathed in sweat-stained leather. A sort of harness dangled from the sheath. The weapon’s handle was of dull horn, its hilt of brass. Betteredge drew the thing from its sheath. It was something on the order of a sailor’s dirk, though single-edged, with a peculiar reverse curve at the tip. “What is that bit of brass along the top?” Oliphant asked. “To parry another man’s blade,” Fraser said. “Soft stuff. Catches the edge. American business.” “Maker’s mark?” “No, sir,” Betteredge said. “Hand-forged by a smith, from the look of it.” “Show him the pistol,” Fraser said. Betteredge sheathed the knife, set it atop the coaching-case. He produced a heavy revolver from beneath his coat. “Franco-Mexican,” he said, sounding remarkably like a salesman, “Ballester-Molina; cocks itself automatically, after the first shot.” Oliphant raised an eyebrow. “Military issue?” The pistol was somewhat crude in appearance. “Cheap stuff,” Fraser said, with a glance for Oliphant. “For the American war trade, evidently. The Metropolitans have been confiscating them from sailors. Too many of them about.” “Sailors?” “Confederates, Yanks, Texians . . . ” “Texians,” Oliphant said, and tasted the end of his unlit cheroot. “I take it we agree in assuming our friend here is of that nationality?” “He’d a sort of nest, in the garret, reached by a trapdoor.” Betteredge was wrapping the pistol back into its oilcloth. “Terribly cold, I imagine?” “Well, he’d blankets, sir.” “The tin.” “Sir?” “The tin that contained the man’s last meal, Betteredge.” “No, sir. No tin.” “Tidy,” Oliphant said to Fraser. “She waited for the poison to do its work, then returned, removing the evidence.” “The surgeon will have our evidence out for us, never you fear,” Fraser said. Oliphant was overtaken by an abrupt nausea — at Eraser’s manner, at the proximity of the corpse, at the pervading stink of burnt beans. He turned and stepped out into the hallway, where another of Eraser’s men was adjusting the carbide-lantern. What a foul house this was, in a foul street, harboring the foulest sort of business. A wave of loathing overtook him, a fierce hopeless detestation of the secret world, its midnight journeys, labyrinthine lies, its legions of the damned, the lost. His hands were trembling as he struck a lucifer to light his cheroot. “Sir, the responsibility –” Betteredge was at his elbow. “My friend at the corner of Chancery Lane hasn’t given me such a good leaf as usual,” Oliphant said, frowning at the tip of his cheroot. “One must be very careful how one chooses one’s cigars.” “We’ve been over the place top-to-bottom, Mr. Oliphant. If she was living here, there’s no trace of her.” “Really? And to whom does that handsome chiffonier downstairs belong? Who waters the cacti? Does one water cacti? Perhaps they reminded our Texian friend of his homeland . . . ” He puffed resolutely on his cheroot and descended the stairs, with Betteredge on his heels like an anxious young setter. A prim-looking sort from Criminal Anthropometry was lost in thought in front of the piano, as though trying to recall a tune. Of the various articles carried in this gentleman’s black case, Oliphant knew, the least unpleasant were the calibrated linen tapes employed in taking Bertillon measurements of the skull. “Sir,” Betteredge said, when the anthropometrist had moved upstairs, “if you feel I was responsible, sir . . . For losing her, I mean –” “I believe, Betteredge, that I dispatched you earlier to a matinee, at the Garrick, to report on the acrobatic ladies of Manhattan, did I not?” “Yes, sir . . . ” “You saw the Manhattan troupe, then?” “Yes, sir.” “But — do let me suppose — you saw her there, as well?” “Yes, sir! And Mackerel and his two as well!” Oliphant removed his spectacles and polished them. “The acrobats, Betteredge? To attract such an audience they must have been quite remarkable.” “Lord, sir, they batter one another with brickbats! The women run about in their dirty bare feet, and, well, scarves, sir, bits of gauze, no proper garments to speak of . . . ” “And you enjoyed yourself, Betteredge?” “Quite honestly, sir, no. Like a panto in Bedlam, it was. And I’d the job of it, with the Pinkers there . . . ” “Mackerel” was their name for the senior Pinkerton agent, a side-whiskered Philadelphian who most frequently presented himself as Beaufort Kingsley DeHaven, though sometimes as Beaumont Alexander Stokes. He was Mackerel by virtue of his seemingly invariable choice of breakfast, as reported by Betteredge and the other watchers. Mackerel and two subordinates had been regular London fixtures for some eighteen months now, and Oliphant found them remarkably interesting, and a solid pretext for his own Government funding. The Pinkerton organization, while ostensibly a private firm, served as the central intelligence-gathering organ of the embattled United States. With networks in place throughout the Confederate States, as well as in the Republics of Texas and California, the Pinkertons were often privy to information of considerable strategic importance. With the arrival in London of Mackerel and his cohorts, certain voices in Special Branch had argued for the various classic modes of coercion. Oliphant had quickly moved to quash this suggestion, arguing that the Americans would be of inestimably greater value if they were allowed to operate freely — under, he made it clear, the constant surveillance of both the Special Branch and his own Special Bureau of the Foreign Office. In practice, of course, the Special Bureau utterly lacked the manpower for any such undertaking, which had resulted in Special Branch assigning Betteredge to the task, along with a steady rota of nondescript Londoners, all of them experienced watchers, personally vetted by Oliphant. Betteredge reported directly to Oliphant, who assessed the raw material before passing it on to Special Branch. Oliphant found the arrangement thoroughly agreeable; Special Branch had so far refrained from comment. The movements of the Pinkertons had gradually revealed minor but hitherto unsuspected sub-strata of clandestine activity. The resultant information constituted a rather mixed bag, but this was all the more to Oliphant’s liking. The Pinkertons, he had happily declared to Betteredge, would provide the equivalent of geological core-samples. The Pinkertons would plumb the depths, and Britain would reap the benefits. Betteredge, almost immediately and to his considerable pride, had discovered that one Mr. Fuller, the Texian legation’s sole and woefully overworked clerk, was in Pinkerton pay. In addition, Mackerel had demonstrated a profound curiosity about the affairs of General Sam Houston, going so far as to personally burglarize the country estate of the exiled Texian President. Some months subsequently, the Pinkertons had shadowed Michael Radley, Houston’s flack, whose murder in Grand’s Hotel had led directly to a number of Oliphant’s current lines of inquiry. “And you saw our Mrs. Bartlett, attending the Communard performance? You’re entirely positive?” “No question, sir!” “Mackerel and company were aware of her? She of them?” “No, sir — they were watching the Communard panto, hooting and jeering. Mrs. Bartlett crept back-stage between acts! She kept well in the rear, afterwards. Applauding, though.” Betteredge frowned. “The Pinkertons made no attempt to follow Mrs. Bartlett?” “No, sir!” “But you did.” “Yes, sir. When the show was done, I left Boots and Becky Dean to ghost our chaps, and set out to dog her alone.” “You were very foolish, Betteredge.” Oliphant’s tone was exceptionally mild. “You should rather have dispatched Boots and Becky. They’re far more experienced, and a team is invariably more efficient than a single watcher. You might easily have lost her.” Betteredge winced. “Or she might have killed you, Betteredge. She’s a murderess. Quite appallingly accomplished. Known to conceal vitriol about her person.” “Sir, I take full –” “No, Betteredge, no. None of it. She’d already killed our Texian Goliath. Highly premeditated, no doubt. She was in a position to provide him food, aiding and abetting him, just as she and her friends did, during that night of terror at Grand’s Hotel . . . She’d bring him round his tinned beans, you see. He depended on her; he’d gone to ground in a garret. Simply a matter of doctoring a tin.” “But why should she turn on him now, sir?” “A question of loyalties, Betteredge. Our Texian was a nationalist zealot. Patriots may league with the very devil in pursuit of a nation’s interest, but there are matters at which they balk. Likely she demanded some deadly service from him, and he refused.” He knew as much from the confession of Collins; the nameless Texian had been a fractious ally. “The fellow crossed her, spurned her schemes; as did the late Professor Rudwick. So he met the same fate as the man he killed.” “She must be desperate.” “Perhaps . . . But we have no reason to believe you alerted her by following her here.” Betteredge blinked. “Sir, when you sent me to see the Communards, did you suspect she might be there?” “Not at all. I confess, Betteredge, I was indulging a whim. Lord Engels, an acquaintance of mine, is fascinated by this fellow Marx, the Commune’s founder . . . ” “Engels the textile magnate?” “Yes. He’s quite eccentric about it, actually.” “About those Communard women, sir?” “About Mr. Marx’s theories in general, and the fate of the Manhattan Commune in particular. Friedrich’s generosity, in fact, made this current tour possible.” “The richest man in Manchester, funding that sort of tripe?” Betteredge seemed genuinely disturbed by the revelation. “Peculiar, yes. Friedrich is himself the son of a wealthy Rhineland industrialist . . . In any case, I was curious for your report. And, of course, I did rather expect our Mr. Mackerel to put in an appearance. The United States take the dimmest possible view of the Red revolution in Manhattan.” “One of the women gave a sort of, well, sermon, sir, before the panto, and ranted like sixty! Some business about ‘iron laws’ –” ” ‘The iron law of history,’ yes. All very doctrinaire. But Marx has borrowed much of his theory from Lord Babbage — so much so, that his doctrine may one day dominate America.” Oliphant’s nausea had passed. “But consider, Betteredge, that the Commune was founded during city-wide anti-war riots, protesting the Union conscription. Marx and his followers seized power during a period of chaos, somewhat akin to last summer’s affliction in London. Here, of course, we’ve come through in good form, and that in spite of having lost our Great Orator in the very midst of the emergency. Proper succession of power is everything, Betteredge.” “Yes, sir.” Betteredge nodded, distracted from the matter of Lord Engel’s Communard sympathies by Oliphant’s patriotic sentiments. Oliphant, suppressing a sigh, rather wished that he himself believed them.