and spent half the afternoon by the back door, deciding whether he wanted in or out. The thought that he would be forced to stay alone in the house merely to look after this little oriental demon must have made Mac’s blood boil.
“Couldn’t he stay with her, sir?”
Had I been a dog myself, my ears would have perked up. I knew whom Mac was speaking of. Harm had received a savage kick during a little contretemps in our garden during our first case together, and had been taken away and nursed by a heavily veiledwoman all in black. I had handed the dog into her lap in a mysterious black brougham. It turned out that she came and tended Harm regularly once a week, at six in the morning, before I got up. I was very curious about her. What did she look like behind the veil? Was she young or old? What was her position? I had tried to question Mac about her, and got nothing out of him.
“No,” Barker said with finality. “Were it November, I might have considered it, but it is June. I cannot deprive Harm of his afternoons sunning in the garden. It would put him quite out of sorts.”
I had to cough to smother a laugh. Barker doted on Harm, or Bodhidharma, to use his full name. He fancied the dog something between an English gentleman and a Chinese prince. Mac, on the other hand, generally used the term “mangy cur” when describing the dog, though not in our employer’s presence, of course. I looked over at Harm, who wagged his plumed tail. I could swear the little rascal knew we were talking about him.
“You sound as if you’ve got this all planned out,” I said to my employer, after Mac had slithered away in abject misery. “Would you mind telling me a bit more about our itinerary?”
“First thing tomorrow, you’re going to Aldershot to study bomb making under Johannes van Rhyn for a week,” Barker informed me. “And then, in the evening—”
There was a sudden sharp rat-a-tat of someone beating his stick on the front door. Despite the fact that we have a perfectly good knocker—a brass affair in the shape of a thistle—the fellow smote the wood. It set the dog off immediately, shrieking until Mac tossed him into the library and closed the door before answering the summons. Not knowing what to expect, I removed a stout cane from the stand, just in case.
“Yes, sir?” Mac asked our visitor upon opening the door.
“I wish to speak to Mr. Barker,” an angry voice answered.
“Who shall I say is calling, sir?”
“Chief Inspector James Munro of the Special Irish Branch, my man.”
Barker came up beside his butler.
“Thank you, Mac, that will be all. Good evening, Chief Inspector. Won’t you and your colleagues step in?”
Three sturdy men entered our hallway. The inspector was the smallest but also the most commanding. He was a bullet-headed little fellow, with a thick mustache and a beetling brow. His assistants could not be taken individually. They were oversize bookends to the inspector’s single compact volume.
“Barker, I need to know what was discussed at the Home Office yesterday morning.”
“Mr. Anderson is in charge,” my employer stated. “You must take it up with him.”
“Don’t cut up clever with me, Barker, or we can discuss this at Scotland Yard.”
“Certainly not in your office,” the Guv retorted, “unless it is to be an outside meeting.”
Munro turned red, trying to control his temper. “This is a Special Irish Branch case. We don’t need an outsider coming in and gumming up the works.”
“The Home Office seems to think otherwise. Robert Anderson hired me to work for them and I intend to do so. I suppose you could say Llewelyn and I have joined the secret police.”
“You can’t expect to investigate a case from inside Newgate Prison,” Munro blustered.
“On what charge, may I ask?”
“On suspicion. You’d be surprised at how long I can hold someone on suspicion.”
My stomach seemed to drop away from me. One cannot understand how a former
“Couldn’t he stay with her, sir?”
Had I been a dog myself, my ears would have perked up. I knew whom Mac was speaking of. Harm had received a savage kick during a little contretemps in our garden during our first case together, and had been taken away and nursed by a heavily veiledwoman all in black. I had handed the dog into her lap in a mysterious black brougham. It turned out that she came and tended Harm regularly once a week, at six in the morning, before I got up. I was very curious about her. What did she look like behind the veil? Was she young or old? What was her position? I had tried to question Mac about her, and got nothing out of him.
“No,” Barker said with finality. “Were it November, I might have considered it, but it is June. I cannot deprive Harm of his afternoons sunning in the garden. It would put him quite out of sorts.”
I had to cough to smother a laugh. Barker doted on Harm, or Bodhidharma, to use his full name. He fancied the dog something between an English gentleman and a Chinese prince. Mac, on the other hand, generally used the term “mangy cur” when describing the dog, though not in our employer’s presence, of course. I looked over at Harm, who wagged his plumed tail. I could swear the little rascal knew we were talking about him.
“You sound as if you’ve got this all planned out,” I said to my employer, after Mac had slithered away in abject misery. “Would you mind telling me a bit more about our itinerary?”
“First thing tomorrow, you’re going to Aldershot to study bomb making under Johannes van Rhyn for a week,” Barker informed me. “And then, in the evening—”
There was a sudden sharp rat-a-tat of someone beating his stick on the front door. Despite the fact that we have a perfectly good knocker—a brass affair in the shape of a thistle—the fellow smote the wood. It set the dog off immediately, shrieking until Mac tossed him into the library and closed the door before answering the summons. Not knowing what to expect, I removed a stout cane from the stand, just in case.
“Yes, sir?” Mac asked our visitor upon opening the door.
“I wish to speak to Mr. Barker,” an angry voice answered.
“Who shall I say is calling, sir?”
“Chief Inspector James Munro of the Special Irish Branch, my man.”
Barker came up beside his butler.
“Thank you, Mac, that will be all. Good evening, Chief Inspector. Won’t you and your colleagues step in?”
Three sturdy men entered our hallway. The inspector was the smallest but also the most commanding. He was a bullet-headed little fellow, with a thick mustache and a beetling brow. His assistants could not be taken individually. They were oversize bookends to the inspector’s single compact volume.
“Barker, I need to know what was discussed at the Home Office yesterday morning.”
“Mr. Anderson is in charge,” my employer stated. “You must take it up with him.”
“Don’t cut up clever with me, Barker, or we can discuss this at Scotland Yard.”
“Certainly not in your office,” the Guv retorted, “unless it is to be an outside meeting.”
Munro turned red, trying to control his temper. “This is a Special Irish Branch case. We don’t need an outsider coming in and gumming up the works.”
“The Home Office seems to think otherwise. Robert Anderson hired me to work for them and I intend to do so. I suppose you could say Llewelyn and I have joined the secret police.”
“You can’t expect to investigate a case from inside Newgate Prison,” Munro blustered.
“On what charge, may I ask?”
“On suspicion. You’d be surprised at how long I can hold someone on suspicion.”
My stomach seemed to drop away from me. One cannot understand how a former
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