Fatal Enquiry Read Online Free PDF Page A

proper moment, my employer raised his beaver-skin top hat in greeting and then turned away.
    “Come along then, lad,” he said, settling the hat back on his head and turning to Garrick beside him. “I have a cab waiting, Sir Alan. May we take you anywhere?”

CHAPTER FOUR
     
    After we dropped Sir Alan in Fleet Street, Cyrus Barker reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and consulted his battered pocket watch.
    “I’m sure you must have plans for the rest of the afternoon.”
    “I do,” I admitted. “But I’ll share a cab with you back to Whitehall.”
    The Guv grunted his assent, but something in his statement suggested to me that he was trying to rid himself of my company. He had needed my presence for Nightwine’s arrival, and now suddenly my services were no longer required. Meaning is as much in how we say a thing as in what we say. Even his grunt held a tone of disappointment.
    We shared a hansom cab back to our offices and once inside my employer seated himself as if intending to stay there for some time. It was the Sabbath Day. I don’t wish to imply that he never worked on Sunday, since our profession is an elastic one which takes no heed of days and times. However, Barker does not work then unless he has a particular reason to do so.
    Nightwine’s arrival in town certainly warranted a bending of this rule, but there was no reason for him to return to the office afterward; no reason of which I could conceive, anyway. I thought his behavior highly suspicious.
    He looked pointedly at the clock on the mantelpiece and I regarded it as well. It was seven minutes to three. The Guv had an appointment. He was expecting a visitor and he didn’t want me there.
    “I thought you were in a hurry to be away,” he said.
    “As you often tell me, I must cultivate patience.”
    The Guv pursed his lips and rose from his chair. He looked out the bow window into Whitehall Street while a minute ticked by.
    “Would you prefer I go?” I asked. “I mean, if you’ve got something on…”
    “Not a thing,” he assured me. Going to the smoking cabinet in his bookcases, he removed a pipe carved like the head of a lion and began thumbing tobacco into it. “Stay all afternoon if you wish.”
    I stretched, a prolonged, catlike movement, which would have been censured by Barker as unprofessional during the week, but was perfectly allowable on a Sunday, the day of rest, when one wasn’t supposed to be working. All the same, it got under Cyrus Barker’s thick hide, which was what it was intended to do. Another minute ticked by.
    While Barker smoked, I looked through the various cubbyholes in my rolltop desk.
    “Are you looking for something?”
    “Am I bothering you, sir?”
    “Not in the least.”
    “Just looking for a fresh pencil. Here’s one.”
    “Good.”
    It was four minutes to three. Barker’s head was encircled by smoke like a diaphanous halo. I decided I’d strained his patience long enough.
    “Best be on my way, then. Tell Mac I shan’t be home for dinner. Cheerio!”
    “Enjoy your day, lad,” he replied, visibly relaxing.
    I stepped out into Craig’s Court and turned the corner into Whitehall Street. As it happened, I was standing in the exact spot where a day earlier I had encountered the girl named Sofia. Traffic in the street was a third of what it would be on Monday and foot traffic was minimal. It was not difficult to deduce that the man walking toward me was intended for number 7. One of the reasons Barker hired me, or so he has told me, is my ability to be unnoticeable. Just then I leaned against the wall with my hands in my pockets and one foot against the brick, my head down. The passing fellow paid me no heed at all. When he was gone, I took out my pad and pencil and began to scribble in Pitman shorthand. It’s how I think best. If it isn’t recorded, it didn’t happen.
    Five feet ten, medium build, late fifties. Well dressed, morning coat (hasn’t changed since church?), graying hair,