“Your employer is a man of limited education, no background, and no experience as a police officer. He has a reputation for fighting rather than thinking his way out of a situation. His advertisements in The Times suggest a crass commercialism, and his leaching information from the department proves him to be opportunistic at best.”
I sat up in my chair, wondering how much trouble I would get into if I punched another officer.
“You could not be more wrong about him, Inspector. Cyrus Barker is a close friend of the Reverend Charles Haddon Spurgeon, who will vouch for his character. He speaks six languages that I know of, and though he is self-taught, knows a great deal on a variety of subjects. He is the best fighter in all Europe; I would stake a fortune on it. Nevertheless, he uses his physical skills as a last resort. He places advertisements in newspapers as a way to help people who are in need and occasionally receives no recompense for his services. He is wealthy enough to purchase this entire group of buildings and turn Great Scotland Yard into a garden he can overlook from his office window, but instead he gives to dozens of charities. He is highly respected by the inspectors in this building who are not Johnny-come-latelies, because he is generally willing to share information due to the fact that he gives a damn what happens in this city that he has chosen out of anywhere on the globe as his home. He is kindhearted enough to give felons like me a second chance, and if you make one more slandering remark against him, I’ll teach you a half-dozen methods he’s taught me for scientifically rendering a man unconscious.”
Abberline was not to be swayed so easily. He was a tough egg to crack. “That was quite a speech,” he commented.
“No, Inspector. It was a promise. Barker’s big enough to fend for himself, but when lesser men criticize him, it makes my blood boil. If you weren’t so pigheaded, you could learn a lot from him.”
“Terence Poole did, and look what happened to him. He’ll be lucky if he’s not sacked by the end of the month.”
“Fine if he is,” I insisted. “He can work with us. We’ll get him a new desk and double his pay.”
I was bluffing, of course. Poole would prefer to be reinstated with the police, I was sure, but Abberline was not to know that.
The inspector made no comment beyond briefly raising his eyebrows. There was a lull in conversation, while he regarded me steadily. I felt as if I were a safe and he was trying to break into me with a brace-and-bit. He turned to my file again.
“Let’s discuss the incident in Westminster Abbey,” he said after he made a notation. “You assaulted another officer.”
“When?” I asked, all innocence. I can do innocence very well.
“After the service. You began to run and he attempted to detain you. You kicked him in the stomach.”
“Oh, that wasn’t an officer. That was a member of the public.”
“I tell you, he was not a member of the public. He was Lieutenant John Wilkins, a member of our plainclothes division.”
“He didn’t identify himself as such. I can’t be arrested for assaulting a plainclothes officer.”
“Of course you can!”
“Sorry, old bean,” I said, shaking my head sadly. “I have an uncommon good solicitor, Bram Cusp, who will tell you I can’t be arrested for assaulting an officer who isn’t in uniform, unless he is bellowing at the top of his lungs that he’s an officer of the law, which I assure you he wasn’t.”
The inspector rose to his feet. He was a very serious person and unaccustomed to the level of nonsense I was shoveling his way. He left the room and did not return. Score one, I thought, for the visiting team.
I was allowed to send a message to Cusp’s office and then took a nap. A few hours later, I stepped into Great Scotland Yard Street a free man, free as far as a man can be with plainclothes detectives at his heels, and a charge pending. I was to appear early the next week at the Old Bailey for assault upon two police officers, but still, I felt blithe and bonnie as I walked round the corner and entered the offices of number 7 Craig’s Court.
“Hello, Jenkins!” I cried as I entered. “I’ve just been sprung!”
“Well, I never!” he cried, jumping up from his desk. “Where’s the Guv?”
“Heaven knows. Last I saw him, he was sending me off to get arrested. That’s all I know.”
I went over to my desk, sat down in my old, familiar chair, and put up my feet on the corner, the way Barker often did. Late afternoon sunlight shimmered in through the windows.
“God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world,” I pronounced. “Until the next bloody crisis.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I was in one of the back rooms tying a four-in-hand and feeling relieved to wear clean clothes again, when I heard the office door open. It could have been anyone: someone trying to claim the reward, a potential client who was innocent of Barker’s current situation, another Scotland Yard officer coming to harass me; in short, no one I had any interest in seeing. Jenkins appeared in the doorway, shifting his weight the way he does when he has no idea how to announce someone.
“Who is it?” I asked.
“A female, Mr. L,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially. “And quite a looker she is, too, if I am any judge.”
“What now?” I muttered to myself, but as I walked to the door, I had a premonition that it was Sofia Ilyanova. I was right. She stood almost with her back to me, looking through the glass into the street as she waited. She held her chin at an aristocratic angle, though I suspected there was something more down-to-earth about her than that. Her pale hair was swept up and secured in place with a small hat and a delicate pearl pin. In between two petite, gloved hands, she held a parasol, the tip resting delicately on the floor. Her dress, an exquisite color of Prussian blue, had a high collar with the merest hint of lace and had obviously been made by a dressmaker of some repute, probably in Paris. Everything about her was exotic and beautiful. It took a moment for me to speak, and when I did, I said the first thing that popped into my head.
“I never expected to see you again.”
She turned slowly toward me, those gold-flecked eyes studying me seriously. “You shouldn’t make assumptions about me, Thomas Llewelyn. As it turns out, I need something from you.”
I gestured toward the visitor’s chair and held it while she sat. Walking around the desk, I took Barker’s seat and regarded her intently.
“You remembered my name, Miss Ilyanova,” I noted, with some surprise.
“As you did mine.”
“It wasn’t difficult. I have never known anyone with a name like yours before.”
“My mother’s family is from St. Petersburg. My father is English.”
“Ah.” I smiled.
I watched Sofia lift a hand to brush a lock of hair that rested against her neck. I admit I had some trouble concentrating. She folded her hands in her lap and toyed with the small pocketbook she carried that matched her dress.
“What may the Barker Agency do for you?” I asked.
“It’s a sensitive matter, I’m afraid.”
I nodded. “That is precisely the sort of case we handle. Are you here in an official capacity?”
“I’m not entirely certain. It’s hard to know where to begin.”
My heart sank for a moment. Perhaps she was here to investigate the whereabouts of a past lover, or had become involved in an unsavory scandal. She seemed too genteel a lady to be a part of some unpleasant affair, but I knew it was possible. Obviously she would be sought after by men, and likely on two continents. I looked at her striking face, aware of the concern etched on her features, and suddenly wanted to thrash whoever had caused her this kind of distress.
“It’s my family. My father, actually.”
“Your father?” I repeated. “Perhaps you should start at the beginning.”
There were things I was supposed to be doing at that moment: putting the office affairs in order after they had been neglected for days, checking the incoming correspondence, and following Barker’s instructions to research Shambhala. I wasn’t supposed to be taking on new clients or wasting the agency’s time talking with beautiful strangers. However, there was something about the urgency with which she had made her plea that made me feel even Barker would have listened to her, had he been there. I was conscious of the fact that with my employer gone, I was representing the agency. I furrowed my brow, concentrating, as she composed herself to speak.