To Kingdom Come (28 page)

Barker brushed past a brutish-looking clerk with a splinter of wood stuck in his teeth, and went up some dilapidated stairs. He led me down a hall, and I saw what he meant by the Crooked Harp being made from several buildings. There was a hall going twenty feet, then a step and a floor leaning toward the right, then two steps down and another hall with a leftish slant.

My employer retrieved a key from his pocket and unlocked a door on our left. Inside was an antique cabinet bed, the kind that was all the rage in about 1811. There was a circular table decorated with knife marks and water rings, with a quartet of mismatched and spindly chairs around it, and another bed that had last been aired when Nelson drew breath.

“Couldn’t you have gotten a better room?” I asked.

“This is the best room in the house,” Barker stated. “Would you prefer a garret in Islington?” The latter was a reference to the room I’d been living in when he’d hired me—or, rather, not living, since I’d stolen out without paying the rent. In his tactful way, Barker was telling me not to be so particular.

“It’s fine, sir.” I’d seen worse. Or at least just as bad.

There was a knock at the door, and O’Casey and McKeller came strolling in, as if we were still back at the O’Casey house. The fact that we would soon be blowing up whole sections of London seemed to have affected them not at all. Fergus McKeller even had his hands in his pockets, and he sat down and put his feet up on another chair.

“Good day to you, Mr. van Rhyn,” O’Casey said. “When did you last hear from Mr. Dunleavy?”

“Yesterday. We shared some schnapps at Claridge’s.”

I marveled at the way he could slip into a German accent so easily.

“Cart’s downstairs, to get the parcels from Victoria,” McKeller said, a trifle bored. “We’d better leave soon before everything’s stolen but the shadow.”

“I’d like to show Mr. Penrith the laboratory first,” Barker stated.

“Wouldn’t want to mix the wrong chemicals and surprise St. Peter a few decades early,” O’Casey said. “Lead the way, Mr. van Rhyn.”

The room was in the very highest and farthest corner of the inn, a garret room, empty except for a few tables. It had a large skylight and several west-facing windows which someone had even gone to the trouble of wiping down. It was better than I would have expected.

“This is very satisfactory,” Barker said. “A man could definitely build bombs here. Penrith, why don’t you go along with these gentlemen to the station and collect the packages. We have a lot of work ahead, and I’m sure you are as anxious to get started as I. Later, we shall all go to the public house below and have a meal and drink, if you gentlemen are agreeable.”

“Oh, we’re very agreeable,” McKeller put in. “You’re in luck, Penrith. They have Guinness!”

I’d had enough of trying to keep up with McKeller where drinking is concerned. By then, I was beginning to feel as if my entire circulatory system had been emptied of blood and replaced with the national drink of Ireland. At best, I offered a halfhearted reply.

We rode in the cart to Victoria Station, with McKeller driving. I wondered how my London friends, Ira and Israel, would react if they saw me in the back of a dogcart with a group of Irish ne’erdo-wells. In Liverpool I’d somehow felt I’d be safer once I was in London again. Now, I felt less safe than ever.

The parcels were all waiting to be claimed in the goods shed. I presented my identity papers, all fake from top to bottom, and
signed the stack of forms that formally exchanged the responsibility for the parcels from the railway company to me. I wondered if a keen fellow in the railway’s employ could have looked on the cumulative list of materials and figured out what we were up to. If there was such a one, apparently he wasn’t working there that day. The two Irishmen helped me load up the cart and we left without incident.

“You know what I’m thinking, boys?” McKeller asked as we were returning.

“You’re thinking you’ve worked too hard, and you’d like a drink right about now,” O’Casey said with an air of disapproval.

“That’s the problem with having friends,” McKeller said. “Takes all the mystery out of everything.”

“You can have a drink when we get back.”

“I’ll perish by then,” the big Irishman complained. “First pub I find, I’m stopping.”

“But we have a cart full of supplies,” I pointed out.

“This is Charing bleedin’ Cross. Nobody’ll steal nothin’ here. There’s one right now, on our right. Whoa!” He pulled the cart up in front of a pub called the Admiralty Arms.

“We really shouldn’t stop, McKeller,” I urged.

“Just a pint. I’ll drink it fast. Eamon, we’re near the Thames if you’re thirsty.”

O’Casey gave me a look which said
I can do nothing with him,
and we reluctantly followed him through the blue-and-gold doors. It was mid-afternoon, and the owner was setting out a side of beef on the bar. The smell made me hungry. I supposed it wouldn’t hurt to have a sandwich and a pint of bitters.

“Two pints, publican,” McKeller ordered, as we set our feet on the rail, and our elbows on the polished mahogany. “And bring my teetotal friend some
whather.
”

The proprietor leaned forward and spoke to us in low tones. “Here, now, clear off, you lot. I don’t want any trouble.”

“Trouble” Mckeller asked. “We don’t want trouble. We only wanted beer. We have money.”

“I don’t want your damned money, Paddy. I want you out of here.

I don’t serve Irish vermin here.”

“Perhaps we’d better leave,” O’Casey said, being the most coolheaded.

“Let’s go, McKeller,” I said, taking his arm, but he shook it off and uttered a string of obscenities. The Irish have a natural poetic gift for obscenities, and in a few dozen words, McKeller had insulted the publican, his bar, and most of his ancestors. The heavily mustached proprietor reached under the bar and hefted a large axe.

“You can go out on your own pins,” the man said, “or you can be carried out.”

Neither McKeller nor O’Casey had brought their bata sticks, and that was probably a good thing or the public house would have been torn apart and the three of us thrown in jail. It didn’t seem fair, I’ll admit, but tempers were running high in London at the moment, and those two men were the actual cause of it.

We crawled back up into the cart, and with a rough lash of the reins, moved off. McKeller was seething and O’Casey trying to calm him down.

“As you can see, Penrith,” O’Casey said drily, “being Irish isn’t all shamrocks and singing.”

“I’ll blow this town to smithereens!” McKeller vowed. He was so angry, he was almost choking on the words. “I’ll raze it. I’ll tear it down to bricks, then I’ll grind them into dust. I’m not leaving London till I’ve seen that publican’s blood spilt! You mark my words!”

“Take it easy, McKeller,” O’Casey soothed. “We’ll each buy you a pint at the Harp.”

McKeller uttered threats and curses all the way back to Seven Dials.

Once there, O’Casey stepped inside the Crook and Harp and found Colin and Padraig Bannon, who came out and unloaded the cart while we went into the pub. Here, we were accepted, but there was more to it than that. Here, we were welcome, even revered. We ordered two pulls of the tap and O’Casey’s water, and tried to get McKeller to calm down.

As I was listening to McKeller’s litany of complaints against the English, I happened to look over his shoulder, where I spotted a familiar face. At the far end of the room, Soho Vic was seated, leaning against a wall, a pint in front of him. He was engrossed in trimming his nails with a pocketknife and seemed not to notice we were in the room.

My spirits rose. One of Barker’s watchers was in residence, and I hoped the police were nearby waiting for a signal. Thanks to the publican at the Arms, the Irish were now demoralized. I almost felt sorry for poor McKeller being tossed out of the public house. Now all we needed to do was build up a few fake explosives, let them get caught by Scotland Yard with them, and that was that. These faction members would be in Wormwood Scrubs and we’d be safe at home.

A hand suddenly came forward and patted my shoulder.

“Hello, Mr. Penrith. Fellows. How are things?”

It was Niall Garrity. I could feel my blood suddenly run cold. It appeared Barker and I would not be making bombs alone after all.

25

GARRITY WAS HERE. MY HEAD BEGAN SPINNING
with the implications. Was Dunleavy in charge or was Garrity? Or was Seamus O’Muircheartaigh manipulating us all like puppets?Eamon O’Casey himself seemed capable of running a faction all by himself. More important, Garrity was here and would no doubt insist on helping us make the bombs. How could we be sure they were all inert with him watching? Certainly, his presence here had one effect: it made me nervous, which is not a good thing when about to prepare explosives.

“Fergus,” Garrity said, noticing McKeller’s red face and angry look. “What’s eating you?”

“Me blood’s up. One of them nose-in-the-air publicans refused to serve us because we’re Irish. By Gor, I’d like to bowl one o’ them bombs right in through his front door.”

Garrity put a finger to his lips. “Don’t be spreading it all over town, or the game’ll be up before it starts. Penrith, Colonel Dunleavy is here, conferring with Mr. van Rhyn. I think they want to see us.”

The four of us went upstairs to the makeshift laboratory.
Dunleavy was seated at a table talking, and Barker sat across from him, listening, making adjustments in our plans as the information tumbled forth. It was rather like watching a couple of chess masters at play, only the board was the city of London.

Colin and Padraig Bannon came wandering in with the last of the packages from the cart, and we all sat down to a meeting.

“Everything has arrived safely, Colonel Dunleavy,” O’Casey told their leader.

“Good!” he said, flashing one of those grins of his. “Mr. van Rhyn, provided you have all the necessary equipment, how long will it take you to create the bombs?”

“Several hours, since Mr. Penrith and I shall be making the nitroglycerin ourselves. Let us say five hours, to be safe, sir.”

“Very well. Prepare your infernal devices tonight. Tomorrow evening at six o’clock, we shall set London on its ear. Remember it, gentlemen. Thirtieth June, 1884. It shall be a day of celebration in Ireland forever.

“Niall Garrity has returned from Dublin and is anxious to lend a hand,” Dunleavy said. “He hopes to pick up some experience under your tutelage, Mr. van Rhyn.”

“I’ll help with mixing the nitroglycerin,” Garrity put in, “and with setting the timers. You have no objection, I trust, if we test your explosives to make certain they work?”

“None in the least,” Barker said. “Blow up the building if you wish, though it might alert the local constabulary. It makes no difference to me.”

“We’ll leave the Harp intact, thank you,” Garrity stated with a dry chuckle. “There is a tunnel below where we can test your explosive. It is of stout stone and there is nothing to damage. Shall we prepare?”

An hour later, Garrity, Barker, and I were dressed in guttaperchalined aprons and rubber gloves that reached almost to our elbows. All our supplies were spread out across the tables, and
carboys and a large block of ice were on the floor near us, so we could get to them. There was no turning back now. I opened the windows and slowly moved some materials around to cover up what I was really doing, which was praying. I thought it an odd way to spend the Sabbath day, building bombs.

“You may still leave us if you wish, Mr. Garrity,” Barker told the Irishman. “It is not necessary for you to be here during this process. Nitroglycerin is unstable, and even an old bomb handler such as I can still blow the roof off a building.”

“No, I trust you,” Garrity answered. “I would like to work with a master like you. I’ll stay.”

“Mr. Penrith, will you keep a constant eye on the thermometer once we begin?”

“Yes, sir. I will watch carefully,” I stated. “Should it get above freezing, Mr. Garrity, the nitroglycerin will either explode or form a heavy gas that will kill us all.”

“I see,” Garrity said. “What can I do, Penrith?”

“For now, start chipping ice for all it is worth. Oh, and I’m afraid we shall all have headaches for the next day or so. It is an unfortunate side effect of the process.”

Garrity took the ice pick and began chipping away at the block.

“Fill this bucket with ice almost to the top,” Barker instructed.

“We’ll need to get to it quickly.”

The Guv removed the lid of the nitric acid bottle and decanted the red liquid slowly into a beaker. He then settled this glass container into the bucket of ice, and as it chilled, carefully opened the carboy of sulfuric acid. With Garrity’s help, I filled a larger beaker half full of the deadly chemical. This I pushed down into a second bucket of ice.

“Keep chipping,” Barker ordered. “The temperature will rise sharply when I mix these two together.”

Slowly, he poured the nitric acid into the beaker of sulfuric acid.

“The temperature is rising,” I warned.

“More ice, Mr. Garrity, if you please.”

The Irishman quickly packed ice around the large beaker. I noticed he was already perspiring freely and the ice was melting as well. It was the twenty-ninth of June, and the weather was warm. If we ran out of ice during this operation, we’d also run out of time.