“Yes,” Le Caron said. “Watch out for the Frenchman. He’s a dangerous fellow. Who were the others?”
“Davitt, Cusack, Dunleavy, and Rossa. Oh, and O’Muircheartaigh.”
Le Caron emptied his cup and set it down. “For a politician, Parnell has more acumen than I would credit. Unless the faction leader is a new fellow we haven’t heard of, it will be one of the five. I’ve worked with the rest before, but I only know of O’Muircheartaigh by hearsay. He contributes heavily to the Irish cause, but his organization is mostly composed of Irish criminals. His base is here in London.”
“I’m familiar with Seamus,” Barker stated. I noticed Le Caron gave him a shrewd glance, flicked a second one my way briefly, and went on.
“That leaves Davitt, Dunleavy, Rossa, and Cusack,” Le Caron continued. “All of them are green with envy over Parnell’s hopes, though between you and me I don’t think the Crown will ever countenance state visits from a former prisoner.”
“Rossa has schemes of his own. He’s being funded by groups such as the Ancient Order of Hibernians, but he’s got them so confounded, they don’t even realize they are funding a terrorist. Davitt’s more a politician, a great orator, but not the sort for this kind of mission. As for Cusack, he’s attempting single-handedly to bring back the Irish language and sports. I think his plate is full already, and he rarely leaves Dublin.
“Dunleavy’s an old Irish-American warhorse, who fought as a colonel on the secessionist side during the American War Between the States. He saw action at Antietam and Vicksburg. I was on the opposing side, but after the war, we worked together on an Irish raid into Canada, in an attempt to trade Toronto for Irish freedom. Of course, I sent word ahead and the attack was scuttled. I think Dunleavy still seethes over the losses of the Southern states but having a role in the new Irish government would more than make up for it. He’s ruthless and wily enough for a campaign like last night, when he’s not on the bottle. He’s got his share of the Irish melancholy and occasionally goes on bouts of drinking.”
“Thank you for the information,” Barker said. “You don’t think Parnell capable of subterfuge?”
“It is possible,” Le Caron acknowledged, “but I’d sooner suspect one of the others. Parnell is already in a good position politically, not that we couldn’t bring him down, if we needed to. The mistress alone is enough to discredit him. For one thing, she’s married to an English officer.”
I got a glimpse then of the kind of politics that went on in the rarefied circles the Home Office worked in. I had to say, I didn’t care for it and hoped that working for the government was not something my employer would do often. I felt as if we, as pawns, could be too easily sacrificed.
“I must get back, as boring as it is to watch him read newspapers and wring his hands,” Le Caron said, preparing to leave. “I wish you both
“I am having Vigny give him lessons this week.”
“Close enough. Good day, and good hunting.” Le Caron rapped his knuckles on the table and was off.
Outside, Barker whistled again for a cab, while I pondered the last exchange. Who was Vigny, and what was faction fighting?
“Why do I feel as if you’re not telling me everything?” I asked.
Barker gave that short cough that passes for his chuckle. “Lad, you don’t know the half of it.”
5
We returned to our offices and helped Jenkins with the cleaning for an hour or two, and then went to lunch at Ho’s, an Oriental restaurant and Barker’s base of operations in the East End. I speculated he was part owner of the place, as he was of Dummolard’s
We plunged through the door and down the steps. Ho’s restaurant is reached by means of a walkway under the Thames. Beside the entrance there are lamps to light your way, but regulars go through to the restaurant at the far end blind. So far, I had not broken my neck, but it only needs to happen once. Several minutes later, we were seated at a table over our first course.
“There’s a chicken head in my soup, sir,” I said, nudging it with a dubious finger.
“It is just garnish, Thomas. You do not have to eat it.”
“What is that in yours?”
“This is bird’s nest soup. What do you suppose is in it?”
There is always a moment before I begin to eat when I think Ho is trying to poison me. Then I taste my food, and realize what a master chef he is. Ho is a true Chinaman. He’ll serve anything that lives, from seaweed to elephant. In the West End there are restaurants that will take a breast of fowl, cut it from the bone, stuff it, bread it, cook it, cover it in sauce, and garnish it until one is not sure what kind of animal it was to begin with. With Ho, like as not, there will be eyes regarding you from your bowl.
I was still dipping my spoon away from the head when the bowl was wrenched from my hands and the next course served. Ho’s is famous for its service, or lack thereof. The Chinese waiters are notoriously surly, and none more so than the owner himself. He came out in a stained singlet and apron and stood, eyeing us unpleasantly. I suspected he and Barker were close friends, but they certainly were discreet about their friendship.
“We shall be away for a few weeks,” Barker stated, between selecting morsels of Chinese sweetbread with his chopsticks.
“You could use time away,” Ho said. “You are getting sleek and fat.”
I nearly swallowed my tongue. I trembled at the thought of anyone daring to make such a suggestion. True, Barker was a good fourteen stone, but I knew from personal experience in the boxing ring that none of it was fat. Barker only smiled, however. He allowed Ho liberties denied to us mere mortals.
Ho stepped away and disappeared into the gloom. The low room was lit by small penny candles and was full of tobacco smoke. After we finished our main entree-a large, unidentifiable fish, its body cavities filled with some kind of stuffing-Barker contributed his pipe smoke to the general effluvia.
Just then, a man stepped in the door and stood, allowing his eyes to adjust to the meager light. He seemed out of place in this den of anarchists, criminals, and enquiry agents. He looked more like a government accountant or a banker, a thin ascetic-looking fellow, balding at the temples, with a sharp nose, a pointed chin, and very deep- set eyes. He could have played Mephistopheles at the Lyceum.
Having caught my employer’s glance, the man raised an eyebrow, then crossed the room to our table.
“Barker,” the fellow acknowledged coolly, seating himself across from us. “I hear you had some excitement in Whitehall last night.”
“Yes, thanks to your countrymen. Three bombs in one night.”
“That many? I only heard two.”
“Oh, come now, Seamus. It’s not like you to get your facts wrong.”
A waiter appeared out of the gloom and bowed to our companion.
“The usual.” He turned back to us. “We are all fallible, Cyrus. Even you and me.”
“I know I’m fallible,” my employer rumbled, “but it’s nice to hear you admit the same. Still speculating?”
“A flutter here and there,” the fellow admitted. “The pound is strong at the moment.”
“And the business enterprises, are they going well?”
“I’d be lying if I said they weren’t.”
“Is there anything I should know about?”
“Nothing of interest. Is the agency up and running again?”
“Not fully,” Barker admitted. “I’ll need to have some repairs made. I’m thinking of taking a trip for the
