“It doesn’t matter what I think, Mr. Llewelyn. Your employer mentioned the name and it certainly wasn’t random.”
“True.”
“His opinions are generally sound.”
“How would you know that?” I asked. “He doesn’t come here.”
“Mr. Barker is of interest to a number of people, even without a price on his head. I like to keep track of him, in a loose sort of way, I mean.”
“He would be gratified to hear it, I suppose,” I told him.
My companion peeled off his gloves, the tips brown and powdery, and dropped them in an ash can.
“I’m sorry,” I said to him. “I did not get your name.”
“I did not give it. It is Liam Grant.”
“Mr. Grant, from time to time our work in the private enquiry trade requires deep study on various subjects. I wonder if you would be interested in helping us. We would pay you, of course.”
“Oh, keep your filthy lucre, sir. As I said, I’m an amateur. I’d do it for the research alone. I must admit, it sounds exciting, working for an enquiry agent.”
“Yes, I suppose it would. I felt the same when I first took the position. But allow me to take you to lunch sometime.”
“The Alpha Inn across the street grills a fine chop. I should know, I’ve dined and supped there every day since I moved to London. I’m not particular about food.”
“Do you live close by?”
“I purchased a flat in Montague Street from a friend. It’s small but snug and meets my humble needs. I lead a modest and prescribed life, Mr. Llewelyn. Truth be told, I have not gone farther than Regent’s Park since I arrived eight years ago this Whitsuntide. That’s the way I prefer it. My body stays put, but my mind travels on diverse planes.”
“I shall leave you to your travels then, Mr. Grant. I wish you a bon voyage.”
“One day I shall give you a proper tour of this place,” he said, gesturing toward his circular universe. “You’ll be amazed at what can be found here.”
“I look forward to it. Good day, sir.”
Outside I stopped, adjusted my bowler against the bright sun, and hailed a cab. I had gone in merely for some information. It wasn’t until later that I realized I had chosen the first “watcher” of my career.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I had just left the British Museum, passing the Alpha Inn where Grant took his meals every day, and I was ruminating about walking sticks. James Smith and Sons was just around the corner, the purveyor of the best walking sticks in England, if not the world. Whenever I was in this part of town I liked to visit. I stepped in the door and spent a few minutes contemplating umbrellas, life preservers, and dagger canes. I picked up a thin wand with a silver head, plain but effective, and was looking at it when someone I recognized strolled in the door with a jangle of the bell above him. It was Terence Poole.
“Are you following me?” I asked.
“You know, I think I might just be. Buying a stick?”
“There’s no pulling the wool over your eyes, is there?”
He took it from me and tested it, slapping the ball of the head into his palm before handing it back with a nod of approval. “Where is your employer?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me that? How have you been?”
“Let’s see … Since we last met, I had a cozy chat with Commissioner Warren. He gave me some time off to-what’s the phrase? Consider my future? Consider whether I like eating, more like. I preferred the old days when Henderson just turned red and bawled at me.”
“Why were you following me?”
“I wasn’t. I just happened to see you in the British Museum talking with that bookish fellow. Didn’t want to interrupt. I’ve been catching you up very slowly. What was that all about?”
“Research.”
“I understand that shark you call a solicitor had you sprung.”
“I’m a free man, after an unjust but brief imprisonment, yes.”
“Your employer may soon be free, also. Have you heard about Gerald Clayton?”
“No. Has he retracted his testimony?”
“Might as well have. He topped himself yesterday.”
“Are you serious?” I exclaimed. “How?”
“Blew his brains out. He left no note behind. Now there’s no witness against your guv’nor, though if I know Warren he’ll still attempt to prosecute. He doesn’t understand the concept of retreat.”
“Poor fellow,” I said.
“Who? Warren?”
“Clayton, of course.”
“Ah, you’re barmy. He tried to put both of you in jail. For whatever reasons he killed himself, he’s done you and Barker both a favor.”
I tried to fathom why he had done it. Barker had given him a logical way to lessen the impact of a scandal. Why hadn’t he taken it? Unless, of course, the photograph had truly depicted what it showed, and he could not bear the shame.
“Are you going to the funeral today?” Poole asked.
“Clayton’s? That’s awfully quick.”
“Not Clayton, you yob. Brother McClain. You’re a free man now and can attend.”
“I didn’t know it was today. I’ve been concentrating on the case. Are you going?”
“Thought I would, yes. Since your governor can’t appear there himself, I’d like to take his place. Besides, I’m old enough to have seen Andy in his heyday. They don’t make his kind anymore. He knew more about the ‘sweet science of bruising’ than anyone alive today.” He raised an eyebrow in my direction. “Are you going to buy that stick or not?”
“No. I don’t feel like buying sticks today. I’ll have to change for the funeral. What time is the service and where will it be held?”
“Christ Church, two P.M.”
“I shall meet you there.”
After I hailed a hansom, I sat back in the cab and told myself I would never be like Terence Poole. I didn’t want to reach the point where I accepted the death of another human being with such blasé detachment. I had spoken to Gerald Clayton only a few days earlier, and now he was a corpse in a mortuary somewhere. He was younger than I, and now all the good things in life-marriage, raising children, struggling to make a name for himself-that was all over for him now.
What had gone wrong? Had he proposed to his cousin and been turned down? He had suggested to us that she was ready enough. Perhaps he had balked at proposing to her. Certainly, in that case, there must have been several eligible women in London willing to marry him for his fortune. He was young and good-looking enough when his prospects were added to his name. Perhaps he grew despondent over his problems, his mood depressed by tumblers of whiskey until, finally, at the point of despair, he had loaded one of his father’s pistols and pulled the trigger.
I arrived at Brother Andrew’s funeral just in time for the service. My assumption was that few people would take much interest in an ex-boxer and street preacher, but there I would have been utterly mistaken. The service was held in Christ Church, Spitalfields, and was attended by the Lord Mayor as well as several local MPs. Members of the boxing fraternity going back generations were there alongside the poor whom Andrew had helped by the score. Cyrus Barker was sure to be somewhere in the crowd, but knowing that I was being scrutinized, I did not look for him. Besides, wherever he was, he deserved his private grief for a man who had been like a brother to him.
Andrew McClain had yet another mourner: me. I didn’t know him as well as I would have liked, but I had come to rely on him. He taught Barker, and Barker taught me, and there was continuity there. Now that continuity was broken and the world was just a little colder. No more would we come to the Mile End Mission for a meal and a sermon. No more would I hear Handy Andy’s rough, cheery voice calling me Tommy Boy. I was going to miss him.
To my surprise, Charles Haddon Spurgeon gave the eulogy. I would have thought that since Brother Andrew had not officially broken with the Church of England, an Anglican clergyman would have officiated. Nothing so grand as the Archbishop of Canterbury, mind, but someone with whom he had worked, who knew what he did for the downtrodden of the East End. Andrew scraped the bottom of society’s barrel with a heavy ladle. He looked after the lowest tier of London citizens, drunks and former drunks, drug addicts, the maimed and crippled, and the so-called unfortunates. He always had a meal and a blanket and a kind word. He’d listen to your problems and you knew he’d beseech the Lord that night on your behalf.