Death and Glory, page 5
“Mrs. Llewelyn,” he said, a serious look on his suave face. “I hope you don’t mind my borrowing your husband for the evening. I promise to bring him back in one piece.”
“Mind that you do,” she replied. “Are you married, sir?”
St. Ives’s face fell and took on a sorrowful look. “Alas, I’ve led a peripatetic life, even a pathetic one. I’ve roamed the earth like Cain, and the Seven Seas like the Flying Dutchman. I would not inflict such a fruitless life on a gentlewoman, nor would I marry any other kind.”
He turned and clapped me on the shoulder, startling me, but I think that was the point, to keep everyone he met off-balance.
“You are a lucky man, sir,” he said. “Luckier than you deserve. Your wife is not only pretty but charming.”
I wasn’t going to be outshone. “Those are her most obvious traits, Brigadier. She has many more.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” he answered, looking up as the Guv entered the hall. “Ah, Mr. Barker. It’s good to see you again.”
“And you, sir,” my partner replied. “I’m meeting General Woodson for dinner. I called your hotel by telephone.”
“I’m sure you’ll have much to discuss,” St. Ives said. “You look as if you’ve knocked about the world a bit yourself.”
Barker nodded. “Here and there.”
“You two should get along well, then. You could swap tales long into the night.”
“We intend to.” The Guv turned to Rebecca. “Mrs. Llewelyn, will you be able to cope on your own?”
“Mac is taking me to temple,” she said. “I fear the house will be unguarded for tonight, save for Harm.”
The latter, Barker’s coal-black Pekingese, came forward at the mention of his name. He sniffed our visitor’s heel with suspicion.
“Zounds!” St. Ives exclaimed, looking at the small dog. “What a curious creature it is! What breed is it?”
“An Imperial Pekingese,” Barker replied. “A gift from the Empress Dowager Xixi.”
“As I said, sir, I suspected you have led an interesting life, Mr. Barker.” The brigadier leaned toward the dog. In turn, Harm bristled.
“Have a care,” I warned. “He’s nothing but teeth and fur.”
“I can see that,” St. Ives answered. “Come, Mr. Llewelyn. They won’t hold the curtain for us. I’m charmed to meet you, madam, and hope to see you again before leaving your shores. Mr. Barker, a pleasure to see you again.”
“And you, sir.”
We stepped out into the foggy April evening. The thought occurred to me that I might be in deep waters. Our house was unguarded and as I followed the brigadier out to a waiting cab, I noticed a bulge in his brown coat. He had a pistol secured in the waistband at the small of his back. I noticed because I had one of my own. Theater or not, I didn’t intend to go about unarmed.
Once in the cab, St. Ives rubbed his gloved hands together. “This will be quite a treat. From time to time, entertainment comes to Rio. Even the divine Sarah Bernhardt visited once. But it’s not often enough for my taste. I am fortunate that business brought us here.”
“Business?” I asked.
St. Ives broke into a rascally grin. “I know what we did may have put you in a bad position with the prime minister, Mr. Llewelyn, but it had to be done, I’m afraid. The ship is ours. The Confederate government paid for it thirty years ago, and your navy has no right to it or need for it. We know it’s out of date for the finest navy in the world.”
“We’ve made an enemy of at least one prime minister,” I remarked. “I don’t see why this one should be any different.”
“That’s the spirit!” he cried. “All politicians should be hung.”
At that moment, we arrived at the old theater and took our seats. I’d seen Herbert Beerbohm Tree before and was not highly impressed. I found him too bombastic and from the old school of acting. It was hard to believe he and his brother, the suave bon vivant and wit Max Beerbohm, were related. St. Ives sat in our box overlooking the stage, matching the actor line for line under his breath.
“I much prefer the old school of acting over the new myself,” he remarked, as if reading my thoughts. “I want to hear the lines spoken, not mumbled. Again, I thank you for coming, sir. Our good colonel has a knack for radiating ill-temper, and the general is business all day and night. One needs a bit of entertainment at times.”
“What of the youngest member of your quartet,” I asked, thinking of Captain Cortes. “The silent one?”
“Manuel is nervous about his English. As you can tell from his age, he was born after the war with the Union.”
“How did he become a captain, then?” I asked.
“Rank didn’t end with the war, Mr. Llewelyn,” St. Ives replied in the darkened theater. “Otherwise, all the old fellows like me would still be noncommissioned. Not that many attain our level, of course, or there’d be generals walking about as wagon men.”
“Shhh!”
The latter came from a neighbor in the next box trying to hear the play. We were suitably chastened, and the play continued. Tree was a burly fellow, too heavyset and old to play a young Danish prince. In his defense, they could certainly hear him in the cheap seats, possibly in the street beyond.
At last, the play ended, and St. Ives applauded enthusiastically. I pretended I’d had a fine time, complimenting the performance. We worked our way through the crowd, what little there was. Tree had been doing Hamlet for six months and most everyone who was interested had seen it already.
“Where do you suggest we eat?” my companion asked.
“Do you care for French food?”
“I’ve only had it a few times in New Orleans, but it was quite satisfactory.”
“Then I know the perfect spot,” I told him. “Let’s go.”
The cabman took us to Soho and the entrance to possibly the best restaurant in all England. There was a queue of people outside, but I told the maître d’ that I was a personal friend of Etienne Dummolard and had brought a guest. Within five minutes we were seated, leaving behind us a sea of angry and envious faces.
“I insist upon paying, Mr. Llewelyn,” St. Ives said.
“That would be bad form here, Brigadier,” I told him. “You are a guest in our country and in our house. Therefore, Mr. Barker would thrash me twice if he learned you had paid and as far as I am concerned, I would deserve it.”
The meal, a duck confit served with a cassoulet and lentil ragout, was one of Etienne’s best, served with buttery brioche rolls and a bottle of burgundy. I only sipped the wine, knowing what was ahead.
“You do realize that gin palaces no longer exist,” I remarked to my companion. “Those were popular in Regency times.”
“Damn,” he said. “I was looking forward to it.”
“Still, I know of one public house with a full selection of gins, both neat and flavored. As luck would have it, it’s just been redecorated, and I hear it’s something to experience. It’s called the Flying Horse in Oxford Street.”
“Then let’s go there by all means!” he replied. “The play has left me parched, and worse, sober.”
After we dined, I hailed a cab, which took us to Oxford Street. When we arrived, St. Ives jumped down and disappeared into the building while I paid the cab. More sedately, I passed through the ornate doors of the public house.
The Flying Horse is the last public house in fashionable Oxford Street. The exterior was built in the Flemish Renaissance style. Inside, it had an adult atmosphere; I’d even say a male atmosphere. There were paintings on the walls of half-clothed nymphs and an ornate painted mural on the ceiling overhead. There were mirrored panels on the back wall and in front of them bottles of gin in every color of glass bottle one could imagine. The semicircular bar gleamed as if it had just been polished. In my opinion, it beat the Clarence hands down. Gentlemen wore all levels of dress, from sack suits to full evening kit. It was very definitely the closest thing to an actual gin palace in all of London.
“Tallyho!” the brigadier cried, rubbing his hands together as he launched himself toward the bar like a bird hound at a duck.
I sat and waited. Frankly, I was a bit concerned. I’m not much of a drinker, save for the occasional ale at lunch. I didn’t want to have one drink too many and reveal to St. Ives that we were hired by the government to watch them. There had to be thirty types of gin there, as well as Scotch and Irish whisky, port and sherry, and a dozen ale taps on hand. Triumphantly, the American returned with a tray of small tumblers and set them before me.
“There’s Old Tom, sweet, London Dry, Plymouth, and Dutch Genever, which I’m told is malted,” he explained, pointing to each one as he named it. “Here we have sloe gin, botanical, fruit-flavored, and this one is hot pepper. After this, if you like, there is gin and tonic, gin and cordial, and vermouth wine.”
I chose Old Tom, while my companion took the London Dry.
“What’s that?” St. Ives asked, putting down the first empty glass. He was pointing at a black cage in the far corner of the room.
“That’s a cage for prisoners,” I told him. “This used to be the site of the St. Giles gallows back in the sixteenth century.”
“That lends spice to the place,” he murmured. “If that doesn’t, the nymphs overhead do. Do you suppose their images were painted from life?”
“I should imagine so.”
“You’re not drinking, Mr. Llewelyn,” he admonished.
“Sorry,” I replied. “I was deciding. I believe I’ll try the botanical next.”
I squeezed a lime slice into it and took a sip. I don’t dislike gin, but I only need a little to grow tired of it. I suspected that I wouldn’t want another for several years after this night.
Meanwhile, my guest had downed three glasses so far and was reaching for a fourth. He tossed them down his throat with the casual experience of a seasoned drinker.
The doors opened then, and a crowd streamed in from the local theaters. There they ignored the signs dividing the room into classes. The upper class took all the tables. I’d like to see third class try that. There’d be hell to pay. The Horse would be full of constables in three minutes.
I felt that first wisp of cobweb in my head. It was necessary to postpone drunkenness as long as possible, and I stopped a harried-looking waiter as he passed.
“We’d like some bread and cheese, please,” I said.
The man gave me a weak nod, then hurried away.
“I’m not much of a drinker, I’m afraid,” I remarked. “Methodist family and all that.”
“I wondered why you were lagging behind,” St. Ives observed, with a wolfish air of sympathy. “I can’t drink all of these myself.”
I raised a brow. “I sincerely doubt that.”
He grinned. “Try this one. It’s fruit-flavored. It’s sweet.”
I sipped the drink and put it down, trying not to gag.
“Mr. Barker seems an interesting fellow,” he said.
“Oh, yes,” I answered. “Very interesting. Very mysterious. He grew up in China, you know. He was a ship’s captain there and lived in Canton and northern Japan.”
“Now he’s a member of the Templars,” St. Ives said. “What is that, precisely?”
“A Masonic organization,” I replied. “I’m not a member, so I can’t tell you much about it. Also, it’s a very secretive organization. I understand a lot of government men are members, as well. It’s been around for years. Centuries, perhaps.”
I swallowed another drink.
“Do you think he’d be willing to continue to help us?” the Confederate asked. “We don’t want to trespass on him.”
“If his brother likes you, then he will,” I answered. “They’re very close.”
In fact, the opposite was true. They barely knew each other and hardly spoke. Caleb Barker worked as a Pinkerton agent, traveling around the United States, clandestinely joining one group or gang after another. He must be watching these plans unfold in the American South.
“His brother has influence over him, then?”
“Oh, yes.”
Our bread and cheese arrived, and we set to. St. Ives had asked me a number of questions. It was time to turn the tables.
“How is everything going, in your estimation?” I asked. “Is the general satisfied with what he has accomplished so far?”
“He is,” St. Ives said, downing his gin and cordial.
I was nursing the sloe gin and put it down. No, I decided. I was not a gin man. I ordered an ale. It’s wise to know one’s limits.
“Good,” I continued. “It must be an ambitious plan, whatever it is. If there’s anything more we can do, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“As it happens, there is one thing you can do,” the brigadier answered. “General Woodson mentioned the ball that is given to raise funds and all that. You must come and bring your charming wife.”
“I’m sure she’d be delighted,” I replied.
“I must insist on a dance,” he drawled.
“Very well,” I said. “But I’ll lead.”
St. Ives threw back his head and laughed. “I walked into that one, didn’t I?”
“Up to your ankles.”
“Is Mr. Barker married?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No, but I’m certain he can find a companion.”
“Excellent,” he purred, setting his glass down on the tray. I’d had three glasses and he’d had six, at least. I wasn’t sure if I could stand, while he looked fresh as a daisy and in control of all his faculties, as if he’d been drinking weak tea.
“Why don’t you meet us in Savile Row tomorrow, Mr. Llewelyn?” he asked. “We’ve been fitted for new suits, and they should be ready. The shop is called Ede and Ravenscroft. Do come.”
“I shall if Mr. Barker doesn’t need me,” I replied.
“Why, bring him along, by all means. The more the merrier.”
“I’ll ask him.”
“Do that. Tell me, Mr. Llewelyn—”
“Thomas,” I corrected.
“I am honored. Tell me, Thomas, if one wanted to try one of your sporting houses, where might one go?”
It took a moment to understand what he was asking.
“I suggest you take a cab. Every cabman will know where to take you. You’re something of an old dog, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he replied. “But I’m always hoping to learn new tricks. Do you have plans for tomorrow evening?”
“You want to go out again?” I asked.
“My dear sir, we are merely getting acquainted, and there is so much city to see. But I’m paying next time! I insist!”
We stood and I took out my wallet. My limbs felt like rubber from one of the brigadier’s plantations, but I made it successfully to the door. Outside the fog had come up, which delighted my companion. We said goodbye and took separate hansom cabs.
“Follow that fellow ahead of us,” I told the driver. “But at a discreet distance.”
The cab did indeed take him to a house of assignation. He jumped up the steps like a man of twenty-two, as sober as a deacon. I saw him enter, then gave the driver my address in Newington.
Back home, I mounted the stairs to Barker’s aerie and sat in one of the leather chairs by the grate. My head was spinning, but I was able to tell the Guv most of what occurred and what was said.
“Mr. St. Ives appears to be a roué,” Barker pronounced in his black-and-gold Asian dressing gown.
“He is,” I replied. “I suspect he goes through most of his day half drunk and yet his mind is keen as mustard. I’m sorry that I’ve come back with such little information.”
“Nonsense, lad. You told me we’re meeting the delegation tomorrow in Savile Row and that they are eager for us to attend this ball. I don’t believe St. Ives would have let any more information escape his lips. He seems to be a canny fellow, rather than the sot he contrives to be.”
“And yet, I believe he genuinely wanted to go to the theater and the gin palace, and he didn’t know that I followed him to the brothel.”
“Oh, he probably did,” Barker argued. “I don’t think much escapes the man. I also believe his flamboyant personality diverts people’s attention away from the general. That is intentional. I shall consider wiring my brother. I’d like to get his impressions. I must ask one of them about Caleb and where they met.”
“Not St. Ives,” I advised. I rubbed my temple, which was starting to throb. “Sir, how did you find the general this evening?”
“The man was tight-lipped about their plans,” Barker said. “He bombarded me with tales of the War of Secession. Don’t call it a Civil War in his presence. He is anything but civil about the American government. He feels that having officially won the war, the Union has been given the ability to write the history books in order to suppress dissent. However, there is an uprising of Southern pride afoot, led by a group known as the Daughters of the Confederacy, with chapters in every city.”
“That’s canny,” I said.
Barker poured himself another thimbleful of tea from a cast-iron pot. “Yes, and they are led by the wife of a famous general. Her name is LaSalle Pickett. As I see it, there are many remnants of this movement, some well skilled, but they have not become fully organized until now. Whatever spanner we can throw into the works would be critical.”
“Are we on the side of the United States, then?” I asked. “Are we totally committed to them already? I’m afraid I don’t know enough information yet to make a proper decision.”
Barker’s mustache bowed, a sign of mirth. “Let’s begin with the one who is trying to blackmail our country, shall we?”
“Sorry,” I replied, shaking my head. “My brain feels spongy. What else did you learn about General Woodson?”
“Merely that he could hold his own at cards and that it would require more than one evening to make him show his hand. I also found it interesting that he speaks of the war in the present tense. As far as he is concerned, he is fighting the same war against the United States government that he had fought as a boy in Missouri.” Barker lifted his cup. “Get some rest, lad. It is late.”
