Barker 05 - Black Hand Page 5

  “Where will we go?”

  “Ah, there’s the question. It would be best not to take a direct route in case we’re followed, though ’twill mean we’ll be forced to go miles out of our way. Jenkins!”

  Apparently I wasn’t going to get an answer just yet, but that was nothing new. Jenkins came shambling around the corner and stopped at the desk.

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “We have received a death threat.”

  “Ah,” came the lackadaisical response. “Battle conditions, then. Prepare to repel all boarders.”

  “Llewelyn and I shall be going out of town for a day or two. Can you alter your routine?”

  “It’ll be a hardship down at the Sun, sir,” he pointed out.

  Our clerk reigned at a table at the Rising Sun each night, where I take it his personal conviviality had everything it lacked during the day. I’d never had an audience there, and would not try to do so. He liked to keep his professional and private lives separate.

  “If it is not too much trouble,” Barker continued, “I’d like to send Thomas along to see you settled.”

  “As you wish, sir,” Jenkins replied a trifle neutrally. Why send me along? I wondered.

  “Where will you be, sir?” I asked Barker directly.

  “I’m going home. Mac must get everything packed and see to the security of the house.”

  “Will it be shut up?”

  “No, it would only encourage the blighters to set it afire or some such nonsense. Mac knows how to take in the sails.”

  “What about Mr. L., sir? How will he get home?” Jenkins asked. Our routine was utterly changed if our clerk was questioning his master.

  Barker looked at me appraisingly. “Mr. Gallenga has trained him,” he said. “The lad’ll have to make it back to Newington as best he can.”

  “Your vote of confidence quite chokes me up,” I said, wiping an eye.

  “Cheek,” Barker responded, shaking his head.

  At five thirty, Jenkins put a printed sign on the door that said the agency was temporarily closed and suggested another detective within our little court. I saw that all the shutters were securely fastened and the back door locked and barred. It isn’t every establishment that requires a three-inch wooden beam to secure a door, I thought, or that has standard “battle conditions.” We bade our adieus and left the Guv to lock the front door.

  “Where to, Mr. Jenkins?” I asked.

  “Right acrost the river, Mr. L., in Lambeth.”

  Newington is a respectable, if unfashionable, neighborhood across the river in Surrey, but Lambeth, just to its north, was not much different from the East End. In Shakespeare’s time, this was where the theatres were located, outside the burgeoning city, as well as where the brothels and other unsavory establishments were allowed to be built. Our century had done its best to suppress such vice, but the district still had a reputation as a dangerous place at night when the shops are closed. As we walked over Westminster Bridge, I reasoned that it was a logical place for Jenkins to live on a clerk’s salary, within staggering distance of Whitehall, but I was a little vexed with myself that I had never bothered to ask him where he lived. After all, I worked with the man from one day to the next. I should have tried to take an interest in his life. All I knew of him for certain was that he was a lazy rascal with a taste for cigarettes, a local public house, and the Police Gazette.

  “Is it far?” I asked.

  “Lord, no, sir,” he said, stopping to light a cigarette with his back to the river. “It’s just on the other side, hard against the embankment.”

  Jenkins is a long, loose-limbed fellow, whose hands seem to naturally fit into his pockets. He has a hawkish face with a widow’s peak and thinning black hair cut straight across his shoulders. He’d once told me he objected to work, but that the world being the harsh place it is he had to suffer his lot like the rest of humanity.

  Jenkins suddenly stopped in front of a fish shop that spilled the aroma of hot fish into the street and directed me inside.

  “The old gentleman won’t be expecting us,” he told me. “Perhaps he’ll think a bit of crisp fish a real treat.”

  I had heard that Jenkins lived with his father, but I couldn’t quite recall from whom. I gathered the old man was infirm and that the clerk took care of him.

  “Will you do the honor of dining with us, Mr. L.?” he asked. “The two of us don’t get much company.”

  “Certainly, but allow me to pay, please.”

  “Then you wouldn’t be a guest, now would you? I insist, though I’m sure it don’t matter much. Mr. Barker ‘pays for all,’ as the old pub sign says.”

  Loaded with hot parcels of fried fish and chips wrapped in The Times, we stepped out into the street again.

  “I hope this doesn’t throw off your routine too greatly, Mr. Jenkins,” I said.

  “It’s just plain Jeremy after hours, sir, and you’ll be Thomas, if it’s not too much of a liberty. As for routine, it’s good to be absent from the Sun now and again. It makes them more eager for my return. Here we are, sir. I told you ’twas just acrost the river.”

  We found ourselves in front of an old clapboard building thrust between two larger ones, like a book pushed casually between companion volumes. It was painted black and had no outward ornamentation, as if it were doing its best not to be noticed. Jenkins pulled a large brass key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and bowed, inviting me in.

  “Father!” he cried over my shoulder, making me start. “I am home, and I’ve brought company!”

  From the fireplace corner, a stooped figure looked up at us out of a pair of rheumy gray eyes. In fact, all of Jenkins’s father seemed gray, from his hair to his stubbly whiskers to the color of his coat. Mr. Jenkins senior appeared incapable of speech, due to what I took to be apoplexy, which also severely hampered his movements.

  “Father, this is Mr. Thomas Llewelyn, Mr. Barker’s assistant, who I’ve told you about. Mr. L., this is my father, Jeremy Jenkins, Senior, the greatest engraver in London as ever was.”

  I bowed. “I’m very honored, sir.”

  The man nodded to me. After we’d set down our hot burdens, Jenkins closed the front door, which I saw contained no less than six locks on the inside, including a metal bolt that slid into the stone fireplace. The little house was a fortress.

  “I don’t know why Mr. Barker wanted me to see you home. It would take an army to break into this place,” I said.

  “Perhaps he wanted to give you an evening of domesticity before you start traveling about the country,” our clerk offered.

  “Have you any idea where we’re going?”

  “Not a clue, and with Mr. B., there’s no telling. Is there, Father? No telling with Mr. B., eh?”

  Jenkins had a disconcerting habit of trying to bring his silent parent into every conversation. There was no way to judge if the old man understood a word we were saying or if the infirmity had cost him his faculties. I did not envy our clerk the burden of looking after an ill parent; but he bore it lightly, so lightly, in fact, that I had never suspected the old man was in such a poor state.

  Jenkins took down some stoneware plates and mugs, a jug of malt vinegar, and cutlery. Then he tied a serviette around his father’s neck and began to feed him. It was a tedious and messy process and proved to me how highly he regarded his father. I busied myself with my own food and allowed the old gentleman what dignity he had left.

  “Bless my soul!” Jenkins suddenly cried. “If I ain’t forgotten the libation. Now don’t you trouble yourself, Father, while I see to the drinks.”

  He rose and went to a corner where a small barrel with a spigot was resting and filled the three mugs full of cider. As I suspected, the drink had the kick of a Surrey mule.

  “That’s good cider,” I said, once I’d gotten my breath back.

  “Yes, Mr. Maccabee makes it for us.”

  “Mac?”

  “Oh, yes, he knows his way ’round an apple, that
one does.”

  I looked about the room. It was a cozy bachelor establishment, almost like a public house, very like the Rising Sun, in fact.

  “You have a very nice snuggery here, Jeremy.”

  “Thank you, Thomas. Of course, most of the furnishings were first purchased by my father during the prime of his career, before the tragic affliction overtook him. He was a great man.”

  “And still is, I’m sure,” I said.

  “Bless you, sir. You are one of nature’s gentlemen.”

  “So what sort of engraving did your father do?”

  “All sorts, sir. In fact, I’m sure you have a few portraits my father did in your pocket right now.”

  “You mean bank notes?” I asked, astonished.

  “I do. He worked with the Treasury for a while, then he worked against it.”

  “Against it? You don’t mean counterfeiting, surely?”

  “Oh, yes, there’s always been a streak of larceny in the Jenkins blood. I’ll show you Father’s masterpiece, if the old gentleman will give his permission. What say you, Father? Shall we let Mr. L. in on our little secret?”

  Jenkins’s parent gave a small convulsion of emotion just then, which caused me to think him not mentally damaged at all, which, if anything, made matters worse for him.

  “Very well, then. Mr. L.—er, Thomas. Come with me.”

  As I stood, I understood why there were so many locks on the front door. I was in a former counterfeiter’s den.

  Jenkins led me down a long hall to a stout-looking door reinforced with metal studs. He produced a key from his pocket and turned it in the keyhole with a harsh, grating sound. The door opened, and he ushered me into total, airless darkness. I heard the pop of a gas cock coming on as a match was struck, igniting two wall lamps. They framed a mounted object between them, an old and faded document that was the only ornament on the entire side of the room, the other taken up with worktables. I took in the document, stepped closer for a better look, read it to myself, and then stepped back again for another overall assessment.

  “I say,” I said to our clerk, “that isn’t the real Magna Carta, is it?”

  “You ain’t the first to ask that,” Jenkins said with a look of pride. “In fact, though Her Majesty’s government is certain the real one is still hanging in the House of Lords, they are very interested in owning this one, just in case.”

  “Oh, no,” I said, “I’m not going to let you be cryptic with me. I get enough of that from Barker. Tell me everything.”

  “Well, sir,” he said, eager to impart the story, “the old gent was approached by a couple of former military officers that was trying to make a good retirement. Somehow they’d found a way to get into the House of Lords at night, despite all the precautions. They wanted an exact duplicate, which Father thought would be the ultimate challenge to his work. We visited the old rag a dozen times at least, and he worked well into the nights creating an exact copy. As it turned out, he worked too hard. It was the strain of creating his magnum opus that brought about his attack.”

  “My word,” I said. “So what happened?”

  “Well, sir, there was only one man in all England who was up to completing my father’s task, and as luck would have it, he lived in the same house.”

  “I take it you mean yourself!”

  “Well, modesty forbids, but I finished the assignment, and the robbery went off as planned, or almost did. You see, one of the thieves got a bit greedy and just had to take a walk about Westminster Palace. He tripped and sprained an ankle in the dark, and that’s when the guards caught him with the framed document in his hands. The other chap escaped. So you tell me: if you were Parliament and you were wondering if the Magna Carta in your possession was the actual Magna Carta, to who might you turn?”

  “Cyrus Barker,” I averred.

  “Exactly, which was what they did. The Guv chipped away at the thief for two days before he cracked and peached on his mate. Mr. B. tracked the fellow to his lair and recovered the other frame and followed the trail to our door. You know it meant stir for me and the workhouse for the old gentleman. Well, I’m not afraid to admit it. I begged him to let us go. Father was not the picture o’ health he is now and if I was in Pentonville or Wormwood Scrubs, who would look after him proper? I begged Mr. B. good and appealed to his heart, not knowing him yet, you understand, not knowing in the least if he was a good man. He said that to his way of seeing it, we had just one thing to bargain with: only the old man knew which version was the original.”

  “What about you?” I asked. “You finished it.”

  “Yes, I did, but to tell the truth, I’m not a patch on the old gentleman. What he did was genius, so good even I couldn’t say for certain.

  “Mr. B. went back to the Tower, explained the entire situation, and then representatives of Her Majesty’s government marched over here with both documents, all of them waiting to find out, and the old man able to communicate only through me. He let me know which, and I told them true, after which they gave us both a stern warning about counterfeiting but left us free men. The next day Mr. B. arrives and offers me a position as a clerk, saying he needed a fellow with my skills to make papers and such from time to time in and around my other duties.”

  “So, the papers he had in the Irish bombing case last year,” I began, “the ones that claimed we were a German bomber and his assistant—”

  “Oh, those were easy. It’s good to keep my hand in now and then.”

  “Barker seems to have a propensity for hiring felons,” I noted.

  Jenkins wagged a finger at me. “Now, now,” he said. “I wasn’t actually arrested, and as for Mr. Maccabee, he was held on suspicion. The only felon in the bunch is you.”

  I chuckled. I had to admit he had me there. “Knowing the government, I’m surprised they didn’t take both.”

  “Oh, I let them know I’d kick up a fuss. It is my father’s property, after all. The last thing they wanted was for it to be made public. This was the price of my silence.”

  “So you’re certain this is the copy you made.”

  “I certified it in writing. This was the one Father pointed out. However, I must admit he has always had a sardonic sense of humor. Some days, I wonder myself.”

  Jenkins led me out again and locked the door behind us.

  “I was planning to read Mr. Trollope to the old gentleman this evening,” he said as we returned to the dining room. “There never was a man as enjoyed Mr. Trollope so much as he. You are welcome to stay if you wish.”

  “I’d like to, but I should be getting back,” I pointed out. “I’m sure the Guv’s got a thousand things for me to do before tomorrow and there is still the journey back. Thank you for your hospitality and a very interesting tale, I must say. Are you certain you will be safe?”

  “We’ve taken on worse than these Sicilian blokes,” Jenkins said. “We’ll be safe enough. Mind you come out of this in one piece yourself.”

  “If I don’t, it won’t be for lack of trying. Thank you, Jeremy.” We shook hands. It occurred to me it was the first time we had ever done so.

  “See you back in Craig’s Court, sir, on more professional terms.”

  “I will, but I should like to come again some time and buy you both a meal to repay this one. Good evening, Mr. Jenkins. It was an honor meeting you. Thank you for having me in your home.”

  When I stepped outside, I heard the locks turning on the other side of the door. I had thought our clerk little more than an inebriate, and here he was with a corking story in his life. I sighed and began the long walk to Newington.

  Violence is a part of my occupation, whether I like it or not, but for every altercation there is another that fails to materialize. I have no complaint with that, you understand. I chose to walk because in a cab I wouldn’t know whether I was leading the Mafia to Barker’s door, so I went on foot, using all the skills Gallenga had taught me. I scrutinized every face, window, and vehicle around me. I backtracked and
circled and looked behind me in shop windows. No Italian assassins fired upon me with their shotguns, no cloak-and-dagger men stabbed at me with their knives, and no mafiusu tried to kidnap me for ransom. As I reached the back gate of our house in the Elephant and Castle district, I reflected that all my efforts to avoid being attacked had been merely practice.

  When I stepped into the back passage there was already an assortment of suitcases by the front door.

  “Has the Guv said how long we will be out of town?” I asked Mac, who came down the stairs looking harried. For Mac, that meant one of his curls had fallen out from behind one ear; otherwise, he was immaculate and ready at any moment to pose for a statute of Apollo at the Royal Academy of Arts, provided he could be persuaded to remove his yarmulke.

  “He has not specified, but I believe it shall be less than a week.”

  “You’ve packed for a month. Do you know where we’re going?”

  “The Guv says south. You’re leaving first thing in the morning. That’s all you need to know.”

  I looked up the stairs, where I could hear Barker moving about.

  “So, what sort of mood is he in?”

  “He’s a bit grim tonight. It’s like he’s playing a game of chess, only with your lives.”

  I shrugged. “That’s nothing new. I find it hard to believe we’re actually abandoning London. I suppose I have time at least for a soak.”

  “Mr. Barker told me not to heat the water. He says it is too dangerous to go out in the garden at night.”

  Shakespeare says discretion is the better part of valor. Smart fellow, the noble bard. Rather than beard the lion in his den when he was in a mood, I went upstairs, and seeing that my few possessions had been packed, I decided to read for an hour or two before going to bed. At the same time, however, I made certain there was a loaded pistol on the bedside table within easy reach.

  Demo version limitation

  Demo version limitation

  18

  CYRUS BARKER HAD RETURNED FROM HIS MEETING and was waiting in the hall, a trifle impatiently.