it.”
“Yes, sir, thank you,” I said, wondering if he had been one of the applicants for the position.
“Would you care for a cigar, Mr. Cathcart?” Barker continued, raising the lid of the box on his desk. He was treating the old sot well, I thought.
“I thank you, sir,” Cathcart said, taking one from the box and pocketing it. “I shall enjoy it later, with your permission.”
“But of course. I would like to avail myself of your services for the week, if you are available.”
“As it happens, I am between engagements,” the fellow said with a slight air of pomposity, as if he were a master craftsman. “Where might I be working, if I may ask?”
“The Crook and Harp in Seven Dials.”
“Ah! The old Crooked Harp. I know it well. The main room seats over seventy, and the Guinness is always fresh, since they go through it so quickly. A word of warning, however: they water down the whiskey after nine of a Friday night.” He tapped the side of his nose with his finger.
“Er, we shall remember that, thank you. Are your terms still the same?”
“Well, sir, I’ve been much in demand of late among your brethren. I still charge a pound a night, but some have been good enough to add a small remuneration at the end of a case.” Cathcart stroked his beard daintily. I had to stop myself from laughing.
“I would expect nothing less. Thomas, give Mr. Cathcart a five-pound note.” I took out the note from the wallet I carried for my employer, and then subtracted the amount from the ledger on my desk. Henry the Sponge pulled a change purse from his pocket and folded the bill until it finally fit.
“When shall I report?”
“Friday, before five.”
“Is there anything specific I should listen for?”
“Fenian activity involving the bombing of Scotland Yard.”
The old man nodded sagely. “Presumed as much. Friday it is, gentlemen.” He raised a disreputable bowler an inch off his head, then solemnly made his way out of the room. Something about his stately manner made us go to the bow window and watch as he passed down Craig’s Court and into Whitehall Street.
“So, he’s an informant. One of your watchers,” I said.
“Henry Cathcart has a unique gift. He can slip into a public house unnoticed and drink himself into oblivion.”
I smiled. “I gathered that, but so could anyone.”
“True, but who else could wake the next morning and be able to repeat word for word every conversation that went on around him all night? They don’t call him the Sponge for his intake of alcohol. He’s got a horror of the regular police, but he’s worked for me on a case or two. He works for whom he wishes and can pick and choose.”
We took a cab home and changed for dinner. Though it was just the two of us, Cyrus Barker insisted upon formal attire when we dined together. There were to be no dressing gowns and no lounge suits or smoking jackets. The Guv had stated on several occasions that it is all too easy for standards to slip, and when that happened, it would be easier to glue an eggshell back together than to return things to how they had once been. For my part, I appreciated observing the formal rituals of a genteel life. The moldy garret of three months ago was still recent enough for me to remember how hard the world can be.
We were halfway through dinner, and Barker was making some point about the Irish view of English imperialism, when the telephone rang. My employer frowned. Modern contrivances are all well and good but not when they interrupt dinner.
Mac came in from the hall.
“Sir, there is a telephone call for you.”
Barker wiped his mustache with a serviette and muttered, “Confound it,” before going into the hall. I assumed it was Anderson, calling to confirm the acceptance from the Home Office of his terms. Mac watched him go and for a moment, everything was quiet, until my eyes registered a sudden movement. Our butler was standing quite still, but one of his hands was gesturing wildly behind his back.
“What is it?” I asked,
“The Prime Minister, sir,” he said out of the side of his mouth, “on the wire now!”
Jacob Maccabee might have been able to stand still, but I could not. I bolted from my seat and leaned into the hall with my hand on the door frame. The Guv was standing in front of the little alcove in the hall, speaking into the new Ericsson telephone he’d had installed there.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “As you say … No, I will not do anything to hinder Scotland Yard’s investigation. I do not wish credit for the case … Thank you, sir. Good evening to you.”
Barker hung up the receiver. I backed up, stumbling into Mac, who had been leaning over my shoulder. We almost fell over, but if Barker noticed, he didn’t show it.
“Mac.”
“Yes, sir,” Maccabee said, all dignity and poise again.
“Bring a pot of green tea up to the garret. I shall be up much of the night planning. Thomas, come with me.”
I followed him into the library. I believe Barker could tell me the books on every shelf in order, though there didn’t seem to be any system to their arrangement. He pulled one book from a lower shelf, then used the ladder on a rail to reach another one on the highest shelf on the opposite wall. He dropped them into my hands, then scooped up the little dog from one of the green leather chairs, and tucked him under his arm as if he were another book.
“Study those. Good night, lad.”
The volumes were
That was it. Barker went to his room without a word about the Prime Minister. I thought I deserved at least some information. After all, he was risking my neck, too.
6
It was Sunday morning, and I had gone up to Barker’s room. With its red sloping ceiling lined with weapons, it is rather bloodthirsty in appearance. On a Sunday, the attention is drawn to the strong, mote-filled light from the two large skylights, and the room’s resemblance to a Mongol leader’s campaign tent rather recedes into the gloom. I was all for talking about the case, but Barker would have none of it. His Sabbath day mornings were sacred, literally. He was reading his Bible and slowly emptying his pot of gunpowder green tea into his handleless cup.
“What are our plans for the day?” I asked.
My employer held up a finger, then used it to turn a page in Deuteronomy, and promptly was engrossed in his reading again. I was getting nowhere. Barker is like a bad water pipe. I could spend half the day trying to get something out of him, then he would gush out in a torrent of words, and promptly clog up again.
Barker poured me a cup of tea, and I emptied it in one swallow, then grimaced. Green tea is a misnomer, I think. It’s more gold than green, and it tastes more like dishwater than anything else. I know many people go through a lot of trouble so that the tea grown in Fukien ends up on our Newington breakfast table, but if it were all for my benefit, they needn’t have bothered.
I sighed and went downstairs. Sunday is the only morning when Dummolard does not dominate our kitchen. He makes up for his absence with a bakery’s worth of sweets. Privileged to be the only other person allowed to touch Etienne’s coffeepot, I made myself coffee and looked over the assortment of pastries. Though I was sad to see the apple and caramel pie was gone, I chose a currant scone instead and put a dollop of clotted cream from the larder on top.
After I’d eaten, Barker came down in what I’ve come to call his Sunday suit, a frock coat less ostentatious than his normal wear, with a black tie. Mac had set out Barker’s Bible on the entry table by the door, a book so well
