“There might have been, but it is out of the question. He turned it down.”
Now I really was astounded. “Turned it down? Is he mad?”
“He was rather brusque, I’m afraid. He said he couldn’t see how it would benefit him in his profession and might actually close some doors he preferred to remain open.”
“Turned it down?” I repeated. “My word!” I sat down on the hall bench in much the same manner I’d found Mac. I knew what my employer’s manservant meant when he employed the word “brusque.” It meant rude, and unlikely ever to be offered such an honor again.
Barker said nothing to me about it, but spent the rest of the evening exercising in the basement, lifting weights, and beating upon the heavy bag, all in an attempt to return to his normal weight as soon as possible. Eventually he stripped down to his trousers and boots, his broad chest bathed in sweat like a stevedore’s. He exercised fanatically and afterward soaked in his bath. Mac heated the water hotter than ever before, far too hellish for my comfort, and had heated some stones in a brazier, which Barker periodically threw water over with the aid of a wooden dipper, until the place resembled a sauna bath. I gave up completely, and left him to his bathhouse in solitude. I had no wish to be boiled like a crustacean.
Barker, of course, is not demonstrative, but he appeared to be glad to be back to his normal routine the next morning. We had missed Sunday services at the Metropolitan Tabernacle, but he spoke of looking forward to the next Sunday and the thrilling and instructive sermons of Reverend Charles Haddon Spurgeon, whom Barker considered the wisest man in London, if not in Christendom. He also was content to be back to our regular schedule, from eight o’clock in the morning to six in the evening, with a half day on Saturdays. This was generally elastic, and many is the time we left at five thirty, or worked late into the night during a case, but for just a week or so after the bombing case, he adhered very strictly to our daily schedule.
I have not always been an enthusiast of employment, and many is the time I’ve wondered why I was born into a poor Welsh mining family, rather than the eldest son of a lord. I had to admit, however, that Barker was correct about work being an antidote. The new case, dull as it was in comparison to the bombing case, did help me to begin healing after Maire’s death. It would be a long process, true, but had I been idle, it would have lasted much longer. Not that I’ll ever fully get over her. Even now, I cannot smell lilac without thinking of her.
There is a small postscript to this tale. A week later, Barker received an unexpected box. Normally such a delivery is highly suspect in our profession. I’ve heard of boxes sent to enquiry agents containing everything from weapons to human body parts. This one was different, luckily. For one thing, it came from Buckingham Palace. It was also quite small. Barker cut it open carefully with his Italian stiletto and lifted the lid.
He grunted and reached inside, lifting out a small case of black leather. Opening it, he pulled out a gold watch and chain. On the lid was an inscription:
To Cyrus Barker, from HRH the Prince of Wales for services rendered to the Crown
I recalled reading somewhere that the Prince was well known for going out of his way to find a perfect gift for some of his personal friends. I thought it a splendid gift and no less than my employer deserved for all he had done.
Barker studied it a moment and then handed it to me. “It is very nice, but I already have a perfectly good repeater, and I have been meaning to purchase a watch for you, lad. Take it.”
“Me, sir?” I protested. “But it’s from the Prince. It was intended for you.”
“It is a matter of simple mathematics. I have two, and you have none.”
I took the watch and turned it over in my hand. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. There were four small diamonds and gold filigree swirls on the cover. I closed the lid and looked at the inscription again. How could he give away such an incredible gift?
“In that case,” I asked, “would you mind if I had your name scratched out and mine put in?”
“Cheeky lad,” Barker said, with a glint of a smile below his thick mustache. “As if the Prince of Wales would send a present to a rascal like you!”
