Honor's Kingdom (14 page)

He shoved the watch into his waistcoat pocket, where I heard it clink against the fellow’s own timepiece.

“What’s a body to think, now, Major Jones? Even a body what ain’t the least suspicious? Should I be looking for black ’Indoo buggers, snuck in from ’Er Majesty’s rare and distant dominions? Or should I be looking for Scotchmen, as ’alf the population of London seems to want me to?” His smiled dissolved. “Or should I, per’aps, be considering Americans?”

“If by Americans,” I told him readily, “you mean those loyal to the Confederate government in Richmond, perhaps you should be considering them, indeed.”

“And just ’ow is that now, Major Jones?”

“Look you, Inspector Wilkie . . .” Oh, I was thinking fast in desperation, for I did not want to tell more than I should—and yet, I would not tell an outright lie, if I could help it. “ . . . it seems to me that the Confederates would like very much to embarrass Mr. Adams. Plain enough that seems from the letter found upon the person of Mr. Campbell.”

“A forgery, as I recalls. Didn’t someone claim it was a forgery? Although I doesn’t remember any proof.”

“It certainly seemed,” I said, carefully, “to have had a deceptive purpose. I do not think we could trust the letter’s contents entirely.” I turned full-on to Wilkie, conjuring the granite face I had wielded as a sergeant, when such as Jimmy Molloy stepped out of line. “Do
you,
Inspector Wilkie? Would
you
trust such a letter entirely? Given your experience of Mankind? And the circumstances under which the letter was found?”

He grunted, slow to find himself an answer.

I did all that I could to turn the tide. Or at least to shift the topic.

“The Confederates, see,” I said to him, “are men. As you and I are men. Some are good, and some are bad, and most are in between. Some are brave as Johnny Seekh, and others are naught but cowards, for all their boasting. But the Rebel cause is a bad one, and there is true. Say what they might, they want to keep their slaves. And that is what our war is all about, Inspector Wilkie. No matter what you hear shouted from Richmond. Or even what you hear proclaimed from Washington.” I leaned a little toward him as we passed a rank of high and fine town houses. “Do you believe men should be held as slaves?”

“I don’t see what that ’as to do with matters,” Wilkie said. “We ain’t got slaves in London. Or even in Ireland.”

“But
do
you believe that men should be held as slaves?” I pressed.

He twisted his face so his black whiskers bristled into a thousand quills. “Look ’ere,” he said. “It ain’t none of my affair, not that I can see. But if you ’as to know, well, then I’ll tell you: I doesn’t much care for black ’eathens meself, from what little I ’ave seen of them. But I doesn’t think any man should be a slave. Why . . . why slavery’s like putting a fellow in prison what ’asn’t done anything criminal. It’s worse than sending an innocent man to Australia.” His lips grew narrow and hard. “No, says I, put shackles on the guilty, and do it proper. Give ’im English justice, front and back. But if I ’as to choose, I ain’t for slaving. For there’s them as wouldn’t stop at chaining niggers.”

That was, I learned, the very summary of the attitude of the English working man, who gained his daily bread through honest labor. Twas only the rich and high, those born to privilege or risen to power, who favored the Southron cause. But the working man’s wishes do not have weight in Britain. It is the mighty men who will decide.

But let that bide.

Our course took us past the American legation on Portland Place, although we did not stop. I wondered if the inspector had taken us by it to hint a likely connection.

Shortly thereafter, we pulled to the side of the street by a fine green sward, which I assumed to be Regent’s Park in name. Twas just set off from a crescent of handsome houses. A welter of policemen fussed about on the grass, between long ranks of roses. Sweating they were in their tight collars and high top hats, and when they bent over the tails of their coats spread out like the feathers of gamebirds. Measuring from here to there and back again, they strutted about importantly, sharp as clerks in a shop that serves the poor.

Beyond the iron fence rails, smart-dressed neighbors mixed with downstairs maids. All murmuring they were. For curiosity does not have a class.

Still grumpy—just as you and I might be—Inspector Wilkie led me across the lawn. A sergeant greeted us. He had that
English sort of skin that looks as if it has been scalded and his whiskers were strawberry blond.

“This way, Inspector, if you please.” His voice was somber and gruff. “And I’ll show you a crime no Englishman would commit.”

TWO POLICE FELLOWS DREW BACK a canvas to reveal the poor boy’s ruin. Careful they were to keep the little body hidden from the good citizens pushing up to the fence. For this was not a sight for innocent eyes.

The boy had been mistreated in a manner I will not detail in full. Suffice to say there was blood upon him where there should not be blood on a boy. And, yes, his right hand was missing. His left had been hacked off, too, along with his feet. Small as roundshot for a six-pounder gun, his severed head had been placed near a battered shoulder, perhaps by the police. Still other parts had been torn away, but I would not dismay you more than needful.

A sin and a shame it was.

Wilkie turned away. With a look that paired sickness and rage. Fierce as a Pushtoon the fellow looked, when that tribesman’s women have been glimpsed by a stranger’s eyes. I dared not approach him for a considerable interval. Instead, I gestured to the policemen to lower the canvas again.

I tried to tell myself the deed might have been done even had I not been sent to England, that the crime might have been an action foreordained. But I could not believe it. The human beast who had done this thing had started out to send that hand to me, but the doing had only sparked his sickly appetites. And he had feasted on the child’s misery. It could not be denied, though: I had been the reason why the killer raised his hand, although I still could not see through the purpose.

I felt a certain weight of blame upon me.

How could a human do such a thing and still walk upright among us? He should be down crawling in gutters and shrieking
in horror. He should . . . but let that bide. I fear I am an insufficient Christian. For there are things I never can forgive.

Oh, how I wanted to find the man—or the men—who had done this murder. And yet, I wondered, what if that was their purpose? To divert me? To bait me with a child’s death, to distract me from a war and secret plots?

Why not just kill
me
and be done with it?

He knew me, see, the one who killed that boy. He knew me better than reason said he could. The killer, or killers, whoever that might be, had made the day entire into a theater. Twas not like Mr. Shakespeare’s stage of a world, where players strut and fret from wrong to right. All London had been nothing but a puppet show. And I had been the creature jerked on strings.

Let that bide. Oh, let it bide, for the love of our sweet Savior.

Walking away from the child’s corpse, I thought of my son John. I went up to Wilkie, who stood beside a lovely burst of roses. With a thorn in his heart.

His rage had burned down to despair. When he looked at me, his suspicions paused and he spoke as a father, not as a policeman.

“I can’t believe such a thing,” he said. “Tell me, ’ow can a man believe it? Such a thing as that?”

I muttered something short of proper speech.

“It ain’t as if I’m green,” Wilkie continued. “Seventeen year a policeman, and a fellow’s far from green.” His fingers touched a rose, as if softness were wanted. “I know well enough what’s done to boys. To little girls, as well. It makes a body sick.” He raised his haunted eyes. “And still call themselves gentlemen, they do. A child of ten, still fresh, won’t cost you ’alf a pound, if you ain’t particular. The poor don’t matter, Major Jones.” Those eyes of his are what I will remember. Like two flames dying down behind a grate. “I can’t believe such a thing was done. I seen it and can’t believe it.”

The man looked lost. At least I had the solace of God’s map.

Now, I have heard it trumpeted that the Bible is not true, because the dates are wrong and stones say otherwise. It is the
fashion of our times to mock. But dates are not the meaning of the Book, no more than mathematics explain morals. And rocks are rocks, though they be old or new. It doesn’t matter if this earth is ten years old or a million. Let bitter men count up all those begettings. It is the tales in the Book that speak the truth, from Adam and Eve to Paul and all his wanderings. I read it as the Lord’s report on Mankind, with worse things done than were done to that poor boy. Each and every one of us is Cain, and when we read the Word we find ourselves. The Bible is no book of calculations, where two and two makes four, all clear as glass. It is the very storybook of Man, not a clutch of numbers to be reckoned. When Jesus stopped to teach, He did not tabulate. He sat down in our midst and told us tales, so that our simple minds might understand. The Bible shows us who we truly are: Job and David, and Judas and Herod, too. The Marys and the Esthers. And the Eves. Numbers do not figure in the least.

If still you say the Bible is not true, I will say that no book is more honest.

Forgive me. I speak too much of things beyond my ken. But when I am sick at heart, I lift up mine eyes. Even on the cloudiest of days.

Inspector Wilkie would not be moved from his spot by the fragrant roses. Not one of his subordinates approached him. Perhaps he had a habit of bad temper, although he had not shown the like to me. In any case, they left us there. Apart.

“I thought,” I began, hoping to lift him out of his slough of despond, “that we might go to the penny gaff tonight. To learn about this lass, ‘The White Lily of Kent.’ It must be done, see. Although I do not favor such entertainments.”

“You go,” he said, surprising me. His voice was changed and chastened. “You go yourself, Major. You go on. And be so good as to tell us what you find.”

“But I’m not—”

“I’m going ’ome.” His eyes had but the glow of embers now. “It’s Saturday night, and I’m going ’ome to my Albert and my Alice.” His voice was almost shaking, as if he feared he might
find his own beloved children dead and abused. Twas frightful to listen to the man, who had been so diligent and strong an hour before. “I need to ’ave me a think,” he told me, “and so I’m going ’ome.”

I found I did not have a word to say.

The inspector held out his hand. “’Til Monday morning, Major Jones. And do your best to stay clear of any more murders, at least for tonight and tomorrow. I think the town could use a bit of quiet.”

I took the offered hand. And found the Reverend Mr. Campbell’s watch in my palm.

“I’ll know where to look if I needs it back,” he told me.

Off he went, slumped, with his hands behind his back. One policeman took a step toward him, then thought better of it. Others wrapped the child’s body in the canvas.

As I was leaving, I heard a newspaper fellow arguing with a constable. The scribbler was dressed as bright as a betting man and he claimed the public had every right to learn about the misdeed there in the garden. I wonder. I think our modern world lacks the benefit of decorum. We flock to hear of scandal, but those who suffer need a bit of privacy. Why do we want to know the worst of others, and rush toward any suffering on display? The truth is we are cruel as Joseph’s brothers.

Let that bide, too. We must have faith, and go on, and do our best.

In the meantime, I had a tumble of things to do. The watch burned in my hand—I had to get me to a private place where I could unscrew the cover. And I would have to seek out Mr. Adams, though it was Saturday afternoon and reaching for evening. And I recalled that he had mentioned plans. Then I must get me a suit of clothing to replace my uniform, and do it before the shops closed for the night. For an officer’s honorable garments must not be seen inside a penny gaff. And, frankly, I had come to feel conspicuous.

Next, I needed to bathe myself before proceeding upon my investigation, for twas Saturday, after all. Excuse me the indelicacy, but I believe the man who washes his every part most regular is a better man for it. The fellow who bathes himself once a week is happier and healthier, and doubtless a better companion to all he meets. Besides, my wife insists, and that is that.

I understand a bathtub is no Jordan. We cannot scrub away our sins with soap. But a good wash always seems a proper start.

I TOOK ME DOWN ALONG Portland Place, until I was out of sight. Then I slipped into a mews and took out the watch. Hard luck mine was. The screw that fixed the lid to the secret compartment would not be undone with a pen-knife or a fingernail. It wanted the tools of a watchmaker or jeweler. Now, I had nearly reached our legation and the afternoon was running away, with evening on its heels. High folk will not be at home on a Saturday night, for that is when they take each other’s measure and call it society.

I decided to carry the watch to Mr. Adams, before he went off to his doings. We might open it together, for his wife must have a device to loose the screw. A good wife knows the tricks for finding out secrets, no matter how expertly they are hid.

I met with a disappointment. The servant who answered the bell was sour as vinegar, for he did not know me and he judged me slight. With a great sniffing up and an even greater looking down, he informed me that “His Excellency” had gone to the country and wanted nothing to do with the world until Monday. Only a general’s arrogance rivals a butler’s toward those he does not believe he needs to please. The difference, of course, is that servants have a purpose.

I stepped away and things picked up a bit. On my progress toward Baker Street I found a watchmaker willing to assist me. He would not let me touch his tools, but undid the screw himself. As he worked beside his smoking lamp, his tongue peeked through his lips at his laboring fingers.

The lid come off. And then the enamel layer fell away, just as foretold to me by Mr. Adams.