“My word! It’s the size of a calf. Have you ever seen such an ugly creature?”
I looked down at my suit. The monster had doused my lower limbs in strands of phlegm, making me yearn for a change of clothes, but I was not in a situation where such a thing was possible. We hurried away along a quiet street of shops.
“How much money have we got left, Thomas?”
“No more than a few shillings, sorry to say.”
“Give me one.”
Reluctantly, I handed it over, knowing I’d seen the last of it. Though a Scot, Barker has the generous nature of a rich man. He has me, as his almoner, tip cab men liberally and never expects change back from whatever he gives. It had been some time since he had been in such reduced circumstances, I was sure. He stopped at the door of a butcher shop and turned to me.
“Go across the street to that chemist’s and get a small bottle of Thompson’s Licorice Elixir,” he ordered.
He was standing at the corner with a packet from the butcher in his hands when I returned.
“I assume the meat and the Thompson’s are for that roving gargoyle back at Clayton’s,” I said, turning the bottle over and reading aloud the label pasted on the back. “‘A universal panacea for the relief of pain, irritation, diarrhea, coughs, colds, cramps, catarrh, excessive secretions, and vague aches. Efficacious in the treatment of meningitis and yellow fever. Analgesic, soporific, and antitussive.’ It sounds like the cure for everything.”
“It’s almost pure laudanum. Half the East End doses their children with it regularly,” my employer said. “It is cheaper than alcohol and the licorice syrup cuts the bitter taste of the tincture of opium.”
“What is catarrh, exactly?”
“It is an inflammation of the mucous membranes of the nose, but laudanum will not treat it successfully.”
If I have given the impression that Barker is a know-all, let me disabuse you of the notion. As an autodidact, he either knows a good deal about a subject or nothing at all. He is well versed in medicine, which I believe is due to his working and training under a certain Dr. Wong of Canton, China. Knowing him as I do, the Guv is probably more interested in using his anatomical knowledge to bring down a fellow rather than to cure his head cold. Barker opened his package and decanted the dark green liquid over the raw meat. Kneading it repeatedly before we walked back to Clayton’s estate, he made the mutton absorb a good portion of the liquid, then rewrapped it carefully and flung the package over the fence.
“Why did you rewrap it?” I asked.
“I want him to work for his reward. It will ensure that he will eat all of it and possibly even lick the wrapper. Shall we get some tea while we wait? Tell me we still have enough for a cup of tea.”
“Just barely, I’m afraid. It won’t kill the dog, will it?”
“No, it will merely put him into a sound sleep for most of the day.”
We found a tea shop, where I regretfully parted with our last few pence. The buns newly pulled from the oven smelled especially good and the cakes on the counter made my eyes water.
“Stone-broke?” Barker asked, regarding me.
“Not so much as a farthing,” I said. “Unless you count the Chinese coins in my pocket.”
“I used the last of my pennies at the Bank of England, I’m afraid. It’s maddening. I’ve got money secreted away in half a dozen places in London and I cannot get to any of them. Still, I’ve been in worse situations in my life than this, or at least as bad.”
I drained the teapot, adding extra sugar to my cup for the energy it would bring.
“How will we make it through the day without money, sir?”
“God will provide. Mark my words. By midnight tonight, you’ll go to bed with a full belly. Fair enough?”
“If you say so.”
“Doubting Thomas. Your mother named you well. Let us see about a dog, shall we?”
When we returned to the Clayton estate, the bullmastiff lay prone in the corner of the lawn, its limbs sprawled and its tongue lolling from its mouth. It was not completely unconscious, but when we climbed over the gate and crossed the lawn, it gave no protest beyond a cough and a shake of its head. We walked around him, a black spot upon the green, and made our way across the lawn. Before we reached the house, we passed an ancient-looking edifice that was something in between a mausoleum and a temple. Its roof had crumbled and it was overgrown with ivy, and yet I recognized it for what it was, a folly, recently built to give the property an aesthetically pleasing air of age and sanctity. I was starving and this family was throwing its money away on buildings with no purpose. Folly indeed, I thought.
“That is where Lord Clayton’s body was found. Rather a private spot, don’t you think?” the Guv asked.
“I do. It is the perfect spot for a rendezvous of some sort. If it is a woman, she might have had a confederate nearby to kill Clayton.”
“That is certainly one interpretation.”
The door at the side of the house, for all its wrought-iron hardware, proved to be unlocked. Barker eased it open and stepped inside, but I hesitated on the threshold. This was it, I told myself, the day we set aside our hard-won reputations. Beyond this, we could lay no claim to dignity, either for ourselves or our work. We had truly become part of the Underworld. I stepped inside and stood beside my employer.
“What…” I whispered, but he put up his hand for silence. He had gone motionless in that way he has, as if turned to stone. He listened and felt the atmosphere, the temperature, possibly even the barometric pressure of the house, soaking it in through his pores.
“There is no one on this floor, unless they are seated, but someone is above our heads. In a house this size, one can expect a butler, a valet, a housekeeper, cook, upstairs and downstairs maid, perhaps a footman or two. We’ll have to walk a gauntlet to get to Clayton.”
“What is our purpose, exactly, in speaking to him?” I asked in a low voice. “You’ll never convince him to change his mind.”
“We’ll see about that. If someone is squeezing him from one side, let us squeeze from the other. It shouldn’t take much, I should think. When I met him, he did not strike me as a fellow with much personal resolve.”
There was a sticky moment when a maid bustled past and we hid in an alcove, but eventually, we made our way upstairs to the first floor. I thought perhaps Barker knew where he was going, but we were forced to open and close doors until we finally found Gerald Clayton sitting before a fire in a faded leather armchair, sipping from a large snifter of brandy though it was not yet noon. Clayton’s eyes were closed and it was difficult to tell how much he had swallowed already. Barker eased himself into the chair across from him and I stood behind, resting a forearm on the top of the chair.
“Good morning, Mr. Clayton,” Barker stated in a low voice. “What have you to say for yourself?”
It was worth the price of admission to watch the man jump and spill his drink, even if it meant ruining a decent Persian rug. My first thought upon encountering Gerald Clayton was that he must have been a great disappointment to his father. He was a vision of dissipated youth, with waxy skin and protuberant eyes, his hair lank and oily-looking. There were two stacks of papers in front of him he had been working his way through. No doubt it had to do with his father’s death and recent inheritance.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing here?”
“It is I, Cyrus Barker. I’ve come to find out why you’re ruining my name across London, Mr. Clayton. I’ve worked many years establishing a reputation which you have now sullied. I have come for my pound of flesh.”
Clayton filled his lungs to cry for help but before he could expel a sound the Guv was over the table and had clamped a large hand about his throat.
“Now, Clayton, be reasonable,” Barker said soothingly. “If you alert your servants or attempt to summon the constable in the lane, I shall be forced to get very unpleasant.”