Barker 05 - Black Hand Read online

  Also by Will Thomas

  Some Danger Involved

  To Kingdom Come

  The Limehouse Text

  The Hellfire Conspiracy

  TOUCHSTONE

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  New York, NY 10020

  www.­SimonandSchuster.­com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2008 by Will Thomas

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Touchstone Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  First Touchstone trade paperback edition July 2008

  TOUCHSTONE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Thomas, Will, 1958–

  The black hand : a Barker & Llewelyn novel / Will Thomas.

  p. cm.

  “A Touchstone Book.”

  1. Barker, Cyrus (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Private investigators—England—London—Fiction. 3. Great Britain—History—Victoria, 1837–1901—Fiction. 4. London (England)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3620.H644B56 2008

  813’.6—dc22 2008013980

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-5895-8

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4391-0327-2

  ISBN-10: 1-4165-5895-0

  I’m not interested in the status quo;

  I want to overthrow it.

  —Machiavelli

  THE BLACK HAND

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  I STEPPED ACROSS THE SILL OF THE CONSERVATORY, glass crunching under the heels of my boots, and steadied my Webley pistol with both hands, reluctant to step inside. It was black as pitch in there, so unlike the safe, comfortable, gas-lit room I was leaving. I could see the palm trees silhouetted against the gray night sky, writhing like demons. The glass had been broken at both ends, affording someone easy access to the house we were supposedly guarding; and the plants brought here from five continents were being buffeted by a gale coming from the Channel. Under such conditions, I’d generally tell the estate owner to go hang himself, but this wasn’t just any estate owner. It was her estate we were guarding, the Widow’s, the lady love of my employer, Cyrus Barker; and I would have done anything to protect her.

  The low-lying plants clawed at my trouser legs as I shuffled down the narrow aisle in a fencing stance, leading with my right foot and drawing up my left before stepping out again. I had reason to suspect there was someone in that hot-house jungle, or I’d have been where any sane person would be at that time of night—in bed and thankful for a sturdy roof over my head. Why are leaves from foreign plants always thin and spiky, a danger to one’s eyes? Why can’t they be round and safe like English leaves?

  “Step forward,” I muttered to myself. “Step forward. Blast! Where is he?”

  Overhead, above the outstretched palm trees and the glass and ironwork canopy, the roiling heavens suddenly released a bolt of lightning that branched across the leaden sky, accompanied by a crash of thunder that rivaled in loudness the explosives I’ve worked with in the past. All the blackness to which I’d become accustomed was replaced in a heartbeat with whiteness, a polar scene that flashed for a brief second before darkness enveloped us again. That instant revealed the location of the intruder, and I didn’t hesitate. My pistol barked, but he was no longer where he’d been.

  Reaching a corner, I headed off in a new direction. The rain began in earnest then, beating overhead like grapeshot. Neither of us could rely on sight or sound anymore; we would keep going until we blundered into each other and one of us died. It came sooner than I expected. A splash of lightning revealed an outstretched arm; and before I could move, a blade sliced across my knuckles, causing me to drop my pistol, which skittered across the concrete paving stones to some unknown position. My assailant pressed his advantage, attacking again with an overhand motion, ready to bury a dagger in my chest for decoration, if I had no objections.

  I rather thought I had. I raised my left arm to block the stabbing motion; and his blade made a grating, metallic sound against my forearm. Another bolt illuminated us briefly, revealing that we were both small and swarthy and armed with the same weapon, as I slid a ten-inch dagger out of my sleeve. My brief scrutiny revealed that my adversary wore the flat black cap of the Sicilians. The sky went black again, and the intruder melted away among the waving fronds.

  I backed away until I felt the cold comfort of a glass wall behind me and sidled along it, knowing I’d either circumvent him or meet him coming from the other side. The manor house seemed remote just then, surrounded by this artificial forest created at a rich woman’s whim. Pushing through the growth underfoot, I waited for another bolt of lightning to provide a glimpse of my attacker.

  Suddenly, the glass behind me shattered as he burst through in a hail of shards. We stabbed at each other back and forth, blocking inexpertly in the semidarkness. I was thinking that I’d had a single lesson in the Sicilian blade, while this lad had likely been indoctrinated in it since youth, when his blade finally found purchase, entering the skin just below my left eye and plowing a furrow almost to my ear. Hot blood spilled down my cheek, and I lurched away into the fury of the gale he had brought with him, a voice in my head telling me I was disfigured for life.

  What were professional criminals doing here in the gentle slopes of the Sussex Downs? I asked myself, as I gripped my dagger and tried to ignore the searing pain in my cheek. I should be having tea and trying to winkle secrets of Barker’s past from our beautiful hostess. Why had the Mafia chosen now to leave their sun-bleached isle for our northern clime, and how did Barker and I find ourselves the only ones to oppose them? Was it really only a few days since this had all begun?

  Demo version limitation

  2

  THERE IS NOTHING AN EAST-ENDER LIKES TO DO more than gawk; and if the sight is gruesome, so much the better. The Thames constables, with the peculiar water-spider insignias on their uniforms, kept the crowd pressed behind a barrier; but still every man, woman, and child was afforded a clear view of the late Mr. and Mrs. Serafini being extracted from the barrel. One of the constables even set up a tripod and camera to record the victims in situ, but whether it was for official purposes or a personal souvenir I could not say.

  Theoretically, we were gawking with the rest of them, though we had been given a closer view. So far our agency was without a client, though I was certain Victor Gigl
iotti would be interested in hiring our services. However, if I knew Cyrus Barker, he would refuse such an offer, since the Camorran would undoubtedly set his men loose upon Serafini’s killer like a pack of hounds. Beneath his rough-hewn exterior, the Guv’s scruples grind exceedingly fine.

  We departed ahead of the barrow, bound for the Poplar Morgue, a ten-minute walk. Barker knew the way better than I, for I had not yet developed the mastery of London streets that he has, being content with a skeletal knowledge of the main thoroughfares and the use of the odd map. Barker’s method involved tacking an ordnance map to the wall at knee level, sitting on the floor cross-legged, memorizing street by street for an hour, as if the map were a Tibetan mandala. The position gives me leg cramp.

  When we arrived, the coroner for the East End, Edward Vandeleur, was occupied with another postmortem. We cooled our heels in the main corridor, while the assistants, in gutta-percha aprons, brought in the bodies and washed them down with more carbolic. I sat and pondered the fact that there was at least one occupation worse than mine to be had in London.

  One of the doors in the hall opened suddenly and Vandeleur appeared, his long laboratory coat heavily stained with gore. His appearance always reminded me of Franz Liszt, with his sharp features and shoulder-length white hair combed severely back. Vandeleur was a perfect choice for an East End coroner, having both a law and a medical degree, no small feat. The latter is not a requirement for the position, and most coroners depend on hired surgeons to do their postmortems for them, at two pounds apiece. By doing them himself, Vandeleur was not only saving the government two quid, but also was able to draw his own conclusions, which was far more important.

  “Barker!” he said, when he’d noticed us sitting on the bench. “What are you doing here already?”

  The Guv frowned. “I came to see about a postmortem.”

  “I’ve just finished it. Come have a look.”

  Confused, we stood and followed him into the room, to the spattered table where a corpse lay. I had reached that state in my experience as an enquiry agent where the sight of a body no longer made me ill. On the marble slab, its fluids draining into the troughs on the sides, was the body of a man in his early sixties. His nude form had been savaged by the examination process, and the top of his skull lay in a pan. The neatly trimmed gray beard and the state of the nails and hands informed me that this was no common East-ender but a man of substance, a merchant, perhaps, or a banker.

  “What have we here?” Barker asked, looking at the corpse.

  “Don’t you recognize him?” Vandeleur asked. “It’s Sir Alan Bledsoe.”

  “Director of the East and West India Docks? He’s one of the most powerful men in the East End. What’s his body doing here?”

  I concurred with my employer that the sight of a man so important to Her Majesty’s government lying here in the Poplar Mortuary was unexpected. Men like Bledsoe died in their Pall Mall clubs or their manors in Hampshire. This corpse was on the wrong side of town.

  “His body was found yesterday afternoon in Victoria Park. He went there every day after lunch to read the newspaper. In fact, The Times was still open in his hands when he was found. All factors point to heart failure. He’d already had one a year ago, and was taking digitalis for it. Since the death occurred nearby, the body was brought here, but I’ve had a devil of a time getting permission to do the postmortem. The examination itself was rather routine until about fifteen minutes ago, when I discovered the actual cause of his death.”

  “What caused you to doubt it was heart failure?” the Guv asked.

  “I found ash on the man’s lips. As luck would have it, I’d seen that sort of thing before. I inserted a long forceps into the throat, and what do you suppose I found? The fag end of a cheroot.”

  “He’d swallowed it?” I asked. Sometimes I speak before I think. “Was it lit?”

  “It was. Singed his throat, though he was beyond caring by that time. With an infarction of the heart, there is often a constriction of the chest cavity, producing a cough. But if the victim is shot or stabbed, there is an involuntary, sharp intake of breath, and the jaw unclamps. The result is that the cheroot or cigarette may be swallowed. It happens more often than one might think. It’s not conclusive in a court of law, of course, but it was enough to send me looking for an alternative means of death. I methodically examined the body from scalp to sole but found no external wound. I thought perhaps my hunch was wrong.”

  “You’re rarely wrong, Dr. Vandeleur. What was the actual cause of death?” Barker asked.

  “Something had been inserted into his ear, penetrating the brain; some kind of stout wire perhaps, or an ice pick. Killed him instantly.”

  “Wouldn’t that result in an issue of blood?”

  “It did. There was a small amount in the ear canal, but the outer ear appears to have been wiped clean. Someone came up behind him while he was reading and killed him so quickly he never even had time to drop his newspaper.”

  “The thing that strikes me,” the Guv said, “is the only person I know in London capable of such a subtle method of killing is in the other room there, being disinfected at this very moment, an Italian assassin named Serafini. In fact, it was Serafini’s postmortem I was coming here to speak with you about.”

  “That’s more than a coincidence,” Vandeleur said. “Was he killed the same way?”

  “No, but he was definitely murdered.”

  “Let’s take a look. I don’t suppose Sir Alan will mind if I sew him up later.”

  The doctor led us across the hall. If possible, the odor of the corpses was even stronger in the confines of the examination room. Serafini’s form lay stretched on the table, a mountain of mottled flesh. Beside it, the coroner’s assistants bent over a second table.

  “What’s going on here?” Vandeleur asked curiously, looking over their shoulders before stepping back with a start. “Ye gods! What is it?”

  “It’s a woman, sir,” the first assistant said. The man’s name, I knew, was Trent, and he had helped us on a previous case. Medical students were always queuing up to work under Vandeleur. He was the best coroner in London. “Most of the bones have been crushed. There’s no way we’ll ever get her stretched out, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s Serafini’s wife,” Barker supplied. “He never went anywhere without her, not even into the afterlife.”

  “It’s obvious both were dispatched by shotguns, though it won’t be official until I file my report. Your Italian assassin took a gun blast to the chest.”

  There was no doubting it, for a purplish wound cratered his left breast and another was found among the ribs on his right side.

  “I beg your pardon, Dr. Vandeleur,” Trent put in, “but there’s another in his back and two in the woman’s as well.”

  “His flesh is all churned up,” the coroner said. Pulling the forceps from his pocket again, he began poking about the wounds. In a moment, he held up a round, metal ball.

  “Lead shot,” he pronounced. “His internal organs are peppered with it.”

  Barker crossed his arms. “Two blasts; four, if you count his wife. Even if one were to discharge one barrel at a time, it would require reloading.”

  “I cannot imagine either one of them giving someone sufficient time to reload,” I hazarded.

  “Very true, Thomas,” my employer said. “This was done by two men, then, who would have to be professional killers. For all his girth, Serafini was quick and deadly, and his wife every bit as dangerous as he. Only professionals could have killed him.”

  “Three assassinations in London in a day?” Vandeleur remarked. “What is the city coming to?”

  “I don’t know, but I intend to find out. So, shall you give a verdict of willful murder regarding Sir Alan?”

  Vandeleur stepped into the corridor, and my employer and I followed him, leaving his assistants to their grisly task.

  “I am not in the habit of sharing my conclusions before rendering a verdict, Mr. B
arker,” he said cautiously, putting the forceps back in his pocket, “but the evidence seems conclusive enough.”

  “Is there no possible way that he could have had a seizure which produced bleeding in the brain?”

  “Keep to your own field, Barker, and leave the diagnoses to a trained pathologist,” Vandeleur snapped. He could be quite waspish at times.

  My employer hesitated. “I was merely thinking of your reputation. In your shoes, I would not wish to render a verdict based upon a wound so small it is barely visible. I wonder how you even spotted it, despite the convolutions of the brain.”

  “It was the blood in the ear canal. What are you getting at?”

  “I’m afraid no good can come of declaring it a murder. Sir Alan was a very important man. Is there proof it will hold up in court? Most likely, the government shall think you mad despite your reputation, and your position will be in jeopardy.”

  “Are you suggesting I render a false verdict?” Vandeleur snapped. “I have never done so in my life and shall certainly not start now.”

  “I was thinking of Sir Alan’s wife and Scotland Yard. They will wish to avoid a scandal at all costs. The wound is too small to appear in any photograph. As far as I can see, you won’t have enough proof to convince your peers.”

  “For once, I don’t require it. A half hour ago, a representative of Her Majesty’s government arrived informing me that Sir Alan’s death was now a government matter. I don’t know how he knew the man had been murdered. He said he sent for you, as well. That’s what I thought you were here about when I saw you in the corridor.”

  “I’d like to speak with this gentleman,” my employer said. “Where is he now?”

  Vandeleur led us out of the room and down the main corridor, while I contemplated what it would be like to work all day in a place that smelled of carbolic and moldering bodies. Just before we reached the desk, where an orderly watched like a sentinel, Vandeleur turned and opened a door on the left.