To Kingdom Come (16 page)

For the most part, London is a conservative, Anglican city, with dissent saved for unionist organizations, and the Speaker’s Corner of Hyde Park. On the other side of the Irish Sea, Catholic Dublin is a single dissenting voice, unified against England. Liverpool is both at once, oil and water that will never mix. One street has signs imploring one to vote for the most recent Fenian candidate, while the next bristles with Orangist ribands and placards. Liverpool is London’s spinster sister, querulous over issues, passionate but changeable, willing to go whatever way the wind may blow.

Dunleavy had returned to his hotel room, intent upon soliciting aid from one of the local city councilmen. Much of his time seemed to be spent looking for money. I would have thought in such case he might have moved to a less expensive hotel than the Midland, but I supposed in order to secure such funds, one must not look as if one were in need of them.

Miss O’Casey was intent upon ensuring that Cyrus Barker didn’t starve while in Liverpool. She fed us a breakfast consisting of eggs, bacon, sausage, black and white pudding, tomatoes, and toast. Dummolard couldn’t have done any better.

With O’Casey’s aid, my employer had compiled a list of places for us to go. At an ironmonger’s in Hanover Street, we filled several baskets, purchasing spools of wire, a dynamite plunger, buckets and paddles for mixing chemicals, and sundry other equipment. We collected more than was necessary to blow up Dunleavy’s old dynamite.

Before the day was out, we had visited a whitesmith, a chemist’s shop, and a chemical warehouse. I couldn’t help but wonder at how easy it was to purchase such terrible things when one has the means to do so.

14

I
BELIEVE THAT IT IS PART OF HUMAN NATURE,
when one is about to set out upon a journey, to want to know the destination. Few of us in our lives step up onto some random train and leave their arrival to fate, but that is exactly what I was doing. Barker knew, of course, but I would sooner get an answer by speaking directly to the engine which was sputtering and steaming by the platform in Birkenhead Park Station, across the Mersey from Liverpool. It was the ninth of June, 1884, and we had been in the city for three days. We hadn’t been discovered so far, but if we made just one mistake, Barker and I would be occupying two of those pine boxes Mr. Anderson had been so fond of describing. Beneath the casual veneer of the Irish faction members lay the hearts of cold-blooded murderers. Of that I had no doubt.

We had crossed on the ferry, and were now seated in the railway carriage. I like that feeling when the engine is first propelled forward by the steam pressure, and the carriages stretch out one by one at their couplings and creak and groan and squeak, until your own compartment shudders and slowly begins to move and you realize you are beginning a railway journey. At least we
might be alone for a few days to puzzle out all the information we’d discovered.

Alfred Dunleavy was escorting us to our new encampment. As usual, he was sitting with Barker and chatting into his ear, discussing everything but revealing nothing. I took a moment to regard him. The man hadn’t spoken more than a few words to me since this mission had begun. That was suspicious in itself, since the success of at least part of the operation came down to me and my abilities. Barker had questioned the man’s leadership, and suggested someone else might be in charge. If not him, then whom? Parnell, keeping his terrorist scheme separate from his political plans? Garrity, running the operation from Paris? Or, closer to home, was O’Casey running the whole thing himself ? It was possible, too, that Dunleavy was playing the blustering bureaucrat to cover up a more astute brain than we realized, an old card player’s trick.

I shook my head and looked at Barker, who sat patiently while Dunleavy rambled on. In our last adventure, I’d had occasion to wonder if Barker knew what he was about, which only went to show that it was I who was ignorant. This was Barker doing what he did best. This was Barker being Barker, and reveling in it. The leader and mastermind of this cell could be anyone, but I had no doubt that the Guv would get to the bottom of it.

A little more than an hour’s ride up the coast from Liverpool to Colwyn Bay, the train pulled up beside a small country halt. We alighted and were met by a youth with an open trap. I sat in the seat facing the back of the trap, behind Barker and Dunleavy, along with our boxes of supplies. The colonel had finally run out of things to say. I would have enjoyed the ride had I not been seated next to the explosive materials and over the back axle. As it was, I felt every pebble and pothole during the thirty-minute ride to our destination. The only consolation was that we were not transporting nitroglycerin.

We eventually arrived at a small cottage of cob and thatch, standing beside a boarded-up barn and several outbuildings. They were up against the sea, beside a vacant lighthouse built of Welsh granite. Smoke was rising from the cottage chimney, and it was obvious we were not alone.

“Who is here?” Barker asked suspiciously as we got out of the trap.

“I’ve engaged a housekeeper and cook for your comfort,” Dunleavy explained.

“Bah!” Barker cried, playing the hardened revolutionary. “Send her away! We have no need of comfort. Mr. Penrith and I are accustomed to taking care of ourselves, and we do not believe in servitude. There will come a time, Mr. Dunleavy, when the servant classes shall overthrow their oppressors, and all men and women shall live as equals!”

“Very well,” Dunleavy said, a smile on his hawkish features. While we waited, he got down and went in to speak to the housekeeper. I got the impression the American revolutionary did not share Barker’s views and would very much like a large mansion full of servants. In a few moments, a squat woman came out and got into the trap, clutching a wicker basket in one hand and a jingling kerchief full of coins in the other.

“Is there enough food and water for several days?” Barker asked.

“There is,” Dunleavy assured him, “and to spare.”

“Then we shall not take up any more of your valuable time, sir. Mr. Penrith and I shall settle in on our own.”

“When will you be ready?” the American asked.

“Give us a few days. Let us say Saturday. Bring your compatriots, if you wish. No doubt Mr. O’Casey, in particular, shall be interested in the proceedings.”

Dunleavy nodded, shook our hands brusquely, and climbed into the trap in front of the housekeeper. The driver set our crates and carboys down on the ground.

Once the trap was gone, Barker and I went in to inspect our new quarters. Inside, there were thick beams overhead, a large fireplace with a swing-out hook for cooking, and stacks of dried peat for fuel. The furniture was old, but the housekeeper had wiped off the dust, and mended damage due to mice. It wasn’t a palace, but it was comfortable enough for two bachelors.

Away from prying eyes and ears, Barker threw himself into a chair and put his feet up on a low table. I lit the fire, more to have something to do than because we needed it.

“You seemed short with Dunleavy, sir, if I may say it.”

“Yes,” he responded. “I’ve been closeted with the fellow for days now. I don’t want him to think he has it too easy with van Rhyn. That old German can be prickly at times, as I’m sure you noticed at Aldershot.”

I looked into a small larder. There were tinned meats, a brace of rabbits, dried fish, eggs, and several loaves of soda bread. A sack contained the inevitable potatoes and peas, and a mince pie sat beside containers of tea and coffee. Being Irish, Dunleavy had also seen that plenty of stout and Irish whiskey were on hand. Apparently, he thought nothing wrong with combining alcohol and explosives.

“There’s plenty of food,” I said. “Who will cook?”

“Have you ever seen me in a kitchen?” he asked.

That set me back a moment. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen him in the kitchen in London. Not ever. Can a man own a house without ever going into his own kitchen? This must be another of his eccentricities, such as his dislike of handling or discussing money. A couple of months earlier he had handed over his wallet, checkbook, and ledgers to me and hadn’t mentioned them once until this case began. I could have been systematically emptying out the agency accounts, for all he knew.

“No, sir. Perhaps it was precipitate to send away the housekeeper.”

“I was tired of speaking in that German accent and whispering to you,” he grumbled. “These infernal whiskers are itchy as well. I want to relax, I want my green tea, and, by thunder, I want my little dog!”

I thought it best to soothe him. “She left a passable Ceylon tea here. I’ll put the kettle on. I think I can cook well enough for a few days, at least. Shall I start preparing dinner?”

“No, let us reconnoiter. I don’t want any surprises.”

Barker and I left the cottage and began peeking into the various outbuildings. Having been inactive for several days, my employer exercised his muscles by prying the boards off doors and windows. The barn looked suitable for our work. The roof was sound, and someone, the old woman perhaps, had swept and laid down new straw.

A second building, which may once have been a granary, had been converted to sleeping quarters with two rows of bunks. Barker looked about, even stripping the covers from one and bringing the pillow to his nose.

“Not new,” he deduced, “but not very old, either. I believe they planned and prepared the last operation here.”

The next building was a privy. Barker gave a low grunt. I knew he was comparing it unfavorably to his luxurious bathhouse.

“I suppose one could bathe in the ocean,” I suggested.

“In the Irish Sea in June? Are you mad? I’m not a seal.”

Van Rhyn wasn’t the only one who was prickly,
I thought to myself, following my employer down the path toward the old lighthouse.

The door was nailed shut, but the bottom had rotted away. When we had removed the boards and stepped inside, something skittered across the room into a hole, and I could hear doves overhead.

“Stoats,” Barker said, kicking the dirt.

“I’ll have to clear them out before we blow it up.”

“You’re a soft-hearted anarchist, Llewelyn. London’s fate hangs in the balance, and you’re worried about a few rodents.”

“Doesn’t the Bible say something about caring for little creatures?” I countered.

Barker gave one of his rare smiles. “Proverbs twelve ten says, ‘The righteous man regardeth the life of his beast,’ but I don’t think that applies here. For the time being, I’ll help you clear out this place.”

I climbed the steps to the second floor. My mind was calculating probable wall thickness to height, how much charge to use, and where.

“What do you think, lad?” The Guv’s voice echoed up the stairwell. “Fuse, timer, or detonator?”

“Detonator, I would think,” I said. “Do you have enough materials to blow it?”

“More than enough, depending on what effect we wish to produce. We can wire along the base and topple the entire structure into the water. We could run small charges through the building, which will cause it to shiver into rubble, or blow the whole structure to smithereens, but that might be a danger to spectators. It would also be very loud. We do not want to alert the neighbors, even in such an isolated spot as this.”

I returned to the ground floor, and we stepped outside again.

I paused. “Hmmm.”

“What is it?”

We were facing the rocky coast, and the waves crashing against it. “I haven’t been in Wales in two years.”

“How long has it been since you communicated with your family?” he asked, as we began moving down the path again.

“Not since prison days,” I admitted.

“It’s not my business to pry into your private life, lad, but isn’t it time you put your mother’s heart at ease?”

I looked down and kicked a small rock in front of me. “I’m not ready yet,” I said. “I’ll know when the time is right.”

We began moving our supplies into the barn, and for a moment I thought our plans had gone awry. There was no tool with which to open the crates. It would be embarrassing if they came on Saturday and found us still sitting on sealed boxes. Then Barker reached into his sleeve, pulled out a ten-inch dagger, and began prying up the lid of one of the crates.

“I’d forgotten how well armed you are, sir. Do you still carry your calling cards?”

Barker reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a penny. With a flick of his wrist, he embedded it into one of the beams overhead. He usually kept a handful in his pocket, their edges filed to a razorlike sharpness. They were not deadly, unless they struck a vital area just so, but they certainly took the fight out of most adversaries.

Barker finished opening the crates, and we removed the straw. We had primers and fuses, carboys of acid, and cakes of dynamite.

“Everything but Christmas crackers,” I remarked.

“Yes, well, you can play with your infernal engines later, lad. For now, we must inspect the old dynamite.”

In the corner of the barn we found a large packing case, showing evidence that it had been opened, then nailed shut again; straw hung down on all sides under the lid. I noted immediately that the raw wood of the case was stained near the bottom. Barker and I glanced at each other and crossed over to it. Both of us knew that it could only be the much-discussed crate of dynamite. The remark of van Rhyn’s, that nitroglycerin sometimes went off out of sheer bad temper, came back to me.