第 44 页

Oliphant raised an eyebrow. “Military issue?” The pistol was somewhat crude in appearance.

“Cheap stuff,” Fraser said, with a glance for Oliphant. “For the American war trade, evidently. The Metropolitans have been confiscating them from sailors. Too many of them about.”

“Sailors?”

“Confederates, Yanks, Texians …”

“Texians,” Oliphant said, and tasted the end of his unlit cheroot. “I take it we agree in assuming our friend here is of that nationality?”

“He’d a sort of nest, in the garret, reached by a trap-door.” Betteredge was wrapping the pistol back into its oilcloth.

“Terribly cold, I imagine?”

“Well, he’d blankets, sir.”

“The tin.”

“Sir?”

“The tin that contained the man’s last meal, Betteredge.”

“No, sir. No tin.”

“Tidy,” Oliphant said to Fraser. “She waited for the poison to do its work, then returned, removing the evidence.”

“The surgeon will have our evidence out for us, never you fear,” Fraser said.

Oliphant was overtaken by an abrupt nausea—at Fraser’s manner, at the proximity of the corpse, at the pervading stink of burnt beans. He turned and stepped out into the hallway, where another of Fraser’s men was adjusting the carbide-lantern.

What a foul house this was, in a foul street, harboring the foulest sort of business. A wave of loathing overtook him, a fierce hopeless detestation of the secret world, its midnight journeys, labyrinthine lies, its legions of the damned, the lost.

His hands were trembling as he struck a lucifer to light his cheroot.

“Sir, the responsibility—” Betteredge was at his elbow.

“My friend at the corner of Chancery Lane hasn’t given me such a good leaf as usual,” Oliphant said, frowning at the tip of his cheroot. “One must be very careful how one chooses one’s cigars.”

“We’ve been over the place top-to-bottom, Mr. Oliphant. If she was living here, there’s no trace of her.”

“Really? And to whom does that handsome chiffonier downstairs belong? Who waters the cacti? Does one water cacti? Perhaps they reminded our Texian friend of his homeland….” He puffed resolutely on his cheroot and descended the stairs, with Betteredge on his heels like an anxious young setter.

A prim-looking sort from Criminal Anthropometry was lost in thought in front of the piano, as though trying to recall a tune. Of the various articles carried in this gentleman’s black case, Oliphant knew, the least unpleasant were the calibrated linen tapes employed in taking Bertillon measurements of the skull.

“Sir,” Betteredge said, when the anthropometrist had moved upstairs, “if you feel I was responsible, sir … For losing her, I mean—”

“I believe, Betteredge, that I dispatched you earlier to a matinee, at the Garrick, to report on the acrobatic ladies of Manhattan, did I not?”

“Yes, sir….”

“You saw the Manhattan troupe, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But—do let me suppose—you saw her there, as well?”

“Yes, sir! And Mackerel and his two as well!”

Oliphant removed his spectacles and polished them.

“The acrobats, Betteredge? To attract such an audience they must have been quite remarkable.”

“Lord, sir, they batter one another with brickbats! The women run about in their dirty bare feet, and, well, scarves, sir, bits of gauze, no proper garments to speak of….”

“And you enjoyed yourself, Betteredge?”

“Quite honestly, sir, no. Like a panto in Bedlam, it was. And I’d the job of it, with the Pinkers there….”

“Mackerel” was their name for the senior Pinkerton agent, a side-whiskered Philadelphian who most frequently presented himself as Beaufort Kingsley DeHaven, though sometimes as Beaumont Alexander Stokes. He was Mackerel by virtue of his seemingly invariable choice of breakfast, as reported by Betteredge and the other watchers.

Mackerel and two subordinates had been regular London fixtures for some eighteen months now, and Oliphant found them remarkably interesting, and a solid pretext for his own Government funding. The Pinkerton organization, while ostensibly a private firm, served as the central intelligence-gathering organ of the embattled United States. With networks in place throughout the Confederate States, as well as in the Republics of Texas and California, the Pinkertons were often privy to information of considerable strategic importance.

With the arrival in London of Mackerel and his cohorts, certain voices in Special Branch had argued for the various classic modes of coercion. Oliphant had quickly moved to quash this suggestion, arguing that the Americans would be of inestimably greater value if they were allowed to operate freely—under, he made it clear, the constant surveillance of both the Special Branch and his own Special Bureau of the Foreign Office. In practice, of course, the Special Bureau utterly lacked the manpower for any such undertaking, which had resulted in Special Branch assigning Betteredge to the task, along with a steady rota of nondescript Londoners, all of them experienced watchers, personally vetted by Oliphant. Betteredge reported directly to Oliphant, who assessed the raw material before passing it on to Special Branch. Oliphant found the arrangement thoroughly agreeable; Special Branch had so far refrained from comment.

The movements of the Pinkertons had gradually revealed minor but hitherto unsuspected sub-strata of clandestine activity. The resultant information constituted a rather mixed bag, but this was all the more to Oliphant’s liking. The Pinkertons, he had happily declared to Betteredge, would provide the equivalent of geological core-samples. The Pinkertons would plumb the depths, and Britain would reap the benefits.

Betteredge, almost immediately and to his considerable pride, had discovered that one Mr. Fuller, the Texian legation’s sole and woefully overworked clerk, was in Pinkerton pay. In addition, Mackerel had demonstrated a profound curiosity about the affairs of General Sam Houston, going so far as to personally burglarize the country estate of the exiled Texian President. Some months subsequently, the Pinkertons had shadowed Michael Radley, Houston’s flack, whose murder in Grand’s Hotel had led directly to a number of Oliphant’s current lines of inquiry.

“And you saw our Mrs. Bartlett, attending the Communard performance? You’re entirely positive?”

“No question, sir!”

“Mackerel and company were aware of her? She of them?”

“No, sir—they were watching the Communard panto, hooting and jeering. Mrs. Bartlett crept back-stage between acts! She kept well in the rear, afterwards. Applauding, though.” Betteredge frowned.

“The Pinkertons made no attempt to follow Mrs. Bartlett?”

“No, sir!”

“But you did.”

“Yes, sir. When the show was done, I left Boots and Becky Dean to ghost our chaps, and set out to dog her alone.”

“You were very foolish, Betteredge.” Oliphant’s tone was exceptionally mild. “You should rather have dispatched Boots and Becky. They’re far more experienced, and a team is invariably more efficient than a single watcher. You might easily have lost her.”

Betteredge winced.

“Or she might have killed you, Betteredge. She’s a murderess. Quite appallingly accomplished. Known to conceal vitriol about her person.”

“Sir, I take full—”

“No, Betteredge, no. None of it. She’d already killed our Texian Goliath. Highly premeditated, no doubt. She was in a position to provide him food, aiding and abetting him, just as she and her friends did, during that night of terror at Grand’s Hotel…. She’d bring him round his tinned beans, you see. He depended on her; he’d gone to ground in a garret. Simply a matter of doctoring a tin.”

“But why should she turn on him now, sir?”

“A question of loyalties, Betteredge. Our Texian was a nationalist zealot. Patriots may league with the very devil in pursuit of a nation’s interest, but there are matters at which they balk. Likely she demanded some deadly service from him, and he refused.” He knew as much from the confession of Collins; the nameless Texian had been a fractious ally. “The fellow crossed her, spurned her schemes; as did the late Professor Rudwick. So he met the same fate as the man he killed.”

“She must be desperate.”

“Perhaps…. But we have no reason to believe you alerted her by following her here.”

Betteredge blinked. “Sir, when you sent me to see the Communards, did you suspect she might be there?”

“Not at all. I confess, Betteredge, I was indulging a whim. Lord Engels, an acquaintance of mine, is fascinated by this fellow Marx, the Commune’s founder….”

“Engels the textile magnate?”

“Yes. He’s quite eccentric about it, actually.”

“About those Communard women, sir?”

“About Mr. Marx’s theories in general, and the fate of the Manhattan Commune in particular. Friedrich’s generosity, in fact, made this current tour possible.”

“The richest man in Manchester, funding that sort of tripe?” Betteredge seemed genuinely disturbed by the revelation.

“Peculiar, yes. Friedrich is himself the son of a wealthy Rhineland industrialist…. In any case, I was curious for your report. And, of course, I did rather expect our Mr. Mackerel to put in an appearance. The United States take the dimmest possible view of the Red revolution in Manhattan.”

“One of the women gave a sort of, well, sermon, sir, before the panto, and ranted like sixty! Some business about ‘iron laws’—”

“ ‘The iron law of history,’ yes. All very doctrinaire. But Marx has borrowed much of his theory from Lord Babbage—so much so, that his doctrine may one day dominate America.” Oliphant’s nausea had passed. “But consider, Betteredge, that the Commune was founded during city-wide anti-war riots, protesting the Union conscription. Marx and his followers seized power during a period of chaos, somewhat akin to last summer’s affliction in London. Here, of course, we’ve come through in good form, and that in spite of having lost our Great Orator in the very midst of the emergency. Proper succession of power is everything, Betteredge.”

“Yes, sir.” Betteredge nodded, distracted from the matter of Lord Engel’s Communard sympathies by Oliphant’s patriotic sentiments. Oliphant, suppressing a sigh, rather wished that he himself believed them.

Oliphant nodded and napped, on the journey home. He dreamed, as he often did, of an omniscient Eye in whose infinite perspectives might be sorted every least mystery.

Upon arrival, he found, to his ill-concealed chagrin, that Bligh had drawn a bath for him in the collapsible rubber tub recently prescribed by Dr. McNeile. In robe and nightshirt, slippered in embroidered moleskin, Oliphant examined the thing with resigned distaste. It stood, steaming, before the perfectly good and perfectly empty tub of white porcelain which dominated his bath-room. It was Swiss, the rubber bath, its slack black trough gone taut and bulbous with the volume of water it presently contained. Supported by an elaborately hinged frame of black-enameled teak, it was connected to the geyser with a worm-like hose and several ceramic petcocks.

Removing his robe, and then his nightshirt, he stepped from his slippers, then from the chill of octagonal marble tiles, into the soft, warm maw. It very nearly overturned as he struggled to sit. The elastic material, supported on all sides by the frame, gave distressingly beneath one’s feet. And was, he discovered, quite horrid in its embrace of one’s buttocks. He was, according to McNeile’s prescription, to recline for a quarter-hour, his head supported on the small pneumatic pillow of rubberized canvas supplied for this purpose by the manufacturer. McNeile maintained that the cast-iron body of a porcelain tub confused the spine’s natural attempts to return to its correct magnetic polarity. Oliphant shifted slightly, grimacing at the obscene sensation of the clinging rubber.

Bligh had arranged a sponge, pumice, and a fresh bar of French-milled soap in the little bamboo basket attached to the side of the tub. Bamboo, Oliphant supposed, must also lack magnetic properties.

He groaned, then took up sponge and soap and began to wash himself.

Released from the pressing business of the day, Oliphant, as he often did, undertook a detailed and systematic act of recollection. He had a natural gift for memory, greatly aided in youth by the educational doctrines of his father, whose ardent interest in mesmerism and the tricks of stage-magic had introduced his son to the arcane disciplines of mnemonics. Such accomplishments had been of great use to Oliphant in later life, and he practiced them now with a regularity he had once devoted to prayer.

Almost a year had passed since his search through the effects of Michael Radley, in Room 37, Grand’s Hotel.

Radley had owned a modern steamer-trunk of the sort that, upended and opened, served as a compact combination of wardrobe and bureau. This, along with a scuffed leather hat-case and a brass-framed Jacquard satchel, constituted the whole of the publicist’s luggage. Oliphant had found the intricacy of the trunk’s fittings depressing. All these hinges, runners, hooks, nickeled catches, and leather tabs—they spoke of a dead man’s anticipation of journeys that were never to be. Equally pathetic were the three gross of fancily stippled cartes-de-viste, with Radley’s Manchester telegraph-number arranged in the French manner, still wrapped in printer’s-tissue.

He began by unpacking each section in turn, laying Radley’s clothing out on the hotel bed with a valet’s precision. The publicist had entertained a fondness for silk nightshirts. As he worked, Oliphant examined maker’s labels and laundry-marks, turning out pockets and running his fingers over seams and linings.

Radley’s toilet articles were secured in a removable envelope of water-proofed silk.

Oliphant examined the contents, handling each object in turn: a badger shaving-brush, a self-stropping safety-razor, a toothbrush, a tin of tooth-powder, a sponge-bag … He rapped the ivory handle of the brush against the foot of the bedstead. He opened the razor’s leatherette case: nickelplate gleamed against a bed of violet velour. He emptied the tooth-powder out on a sheet of Grand’s engraved stationery. He looked in the sponge-bag—and found a sponge.

The glitter of the razor drew his eye. Dumping its various components atop the starched bib of an evening-shirt, he used the penknife on his watch-chain to pry the fitted velour nest from the case. It came away easily, revealing a tightly folded sheet of foolscap.

Upon this sheet, in pencil, quite smudged with frequent erasure and re-erasure, was written what appeared to be the start of a draft letter. Undated, lacking any term of address, it was unsigned:

I trust you recall our two Conversations of th past Aug, during 2nd of which you so kindly entrusted me w yr Conjectures. I am pleased to inform you that cert manipulations have yielded a version—a true vers of yr orig—which I feel most confidently can at last be run, thereby demonstrating that Proof so long sought & expected.

The remainder of the sheet was blank, with the exception of three faintly penciled rectangles, containing the Roman capitals ALG, COMP, and MOD.