Poole appeared, we were questioned, and Campbell-Ffinch, good riddance, was taken away to Charing Cross Hospital in an ambulance vehicle supplied by St. John’s Priory. I noticed Barker was not forthcoming to Poole the way he was to Dunn the night before. Then it came to me. He’d made a blasted vow to Campbell-Ffinch not to talk and he would honor it.
When Poole left, dissatisfied, and the glazier was repairing the window, I turned to Barker.
“You didn’t tell him.”
“No. I told Dunn. That should be enough.”
“Whoever shot Campbell-Ffinch must have shot Kito as well. That must make him K’ing’s man.”
“Yes. I suspect that burly fellow at the inn who barred our way. Jeremy!” he called to our clerk. “You are on call tonight.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. B.,” Jenkins said to him, trying not to look crestfallen. He was much revered at the Rising Sun public house down the street and he looked forward to his ale all day.
“No more than two pints, then home.”
Our clerk’s mood improved. He seized his hat and stepped out before our employer changed his mind.
“Anything for me, sir?” I asked.
“Quite a lot, actually. How would you like to exercise your literary talents?”
“I’d like that very much.”
“I’m going to gather together a series of facts and I’d like you to turn them into an article such as might appear in a newspaper.”
“I can do that.”
“We’ve got about half an hour.”
“Half an hour! How long is this article supposed to be?”
“No more than two columns.”
“Two columns!”
“Are you going to continue to repeat yourself?”
“Two columns,” I said. “Half an hour. Go to it, sir. The topic?”
“How the Japanese are purchasing British warships and munitions to foment war in the East, and how the British government is colluding with them.”
“Ah! And who is going to publish this little story?”
“Someone who owes me a favor.”
It took me a moment to add two and two.
“Stead,” I said.
William T. Stead was editor of the Pall Mall Gazette. We had once stopped a mob from burning his offices after he purchased a child and delivered her to the coast, merely to prove how easily it could be done. The Gazette and its editor were innovators, using photographs in its pages, for example. They also had a reputation for daring journalism.
“Do we have enough facts to glue it all together?” I asked.
“Just enough. I pray just enough. No more questions. We have work to do.”
We worked, but it took more than half an hour. Without speaking, we both were concerned that Stead might be done for the day, or out to dinner. It was near six when we finished and closer to half past when we arrived in Fleet Street, due to traffic. We could almost have arrived faster on a run.
We were in luck. Stead was still there, his omnipresent cigar between his teeth. I’ve always wondered if there were any editors who didn’t smoke, or didn’t have a bottle of Scotch secreted in their desks.
“Mr. Barker,” the grizzled veteran said to him as we entered his office. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“I have some information which may be of interest to you and your readers.”
“I’m always glad to help the British public. Come in and have a seat.”
This was better treatment than I expected. Possibly better than we deserved. My story was a tissue of facts, inferences, and innuendos. It was also damning, not only to Mononobe, in particular, but also to the Foreign Office.
“I have stated the facts such as they are, and Mr. Llewelyn has cast them in the form of what might appear in a newspaper. Of course, I am not implying that you should use it as is or give him a byline. We were merely attempting to give the facts some cohesion.”
“Understood,” Stead said. “Let me read.”
Stead was fiftyish, his beard shot with gray, and his stomach showing a habit of too many cutlets and not enough exercise. He was a liberal Democrat, bordering upon socialism, and always looking for a downtrodden group or government scandal to feature in the pages of his Gazette. His politics were exactly the opposite of Barker’s. I prefer not to discuss my own, which tended toward the former.
He began to read aloud.
“‘Sources within the British government have confirmed that the ministers of the newly arrived Japanese delegation have been purchasing goods at an alarming rate. Those include not only base materials such as wood and food, but battleships and artillery for the country’s military. General Mononobe, current head of the delegation after the recent death of the original ambassador, Toda Ichigo, has assured the government that any munitions purchased are strictly for defense of the small string of islands, and yet an original order for a single battleship has been augmented to several, which sources have suggested is too many for merely defensive purposes.
“‘General Mononobe and Admiral Edami have proven war records and a desire to see Japan join their neighbors to the west in colonization, but where and how much is in question. Equally uncertain is why the delegation is here in England at this critical time, and what arrangements might be agreed upon by the two countries. Foreign Office liaison Trelawney Campbell-Ffinch has not been available for comment.
“‘Should Japan wish to join the nations which are considered world powers, it would cause concern among Her Majesty’s allies in Europe, who have not been included in the negotiations. Whispers of a secret treaty have affected the stock exchange and raise questions in both Houses of Parliament. Whether the sources are correct has not been fully verified, but the possibility of an Asian armada armed with so many English weapons has caused concern in all quarters of government. Hong Kong, Canton, and Macao, with so many English residents, might be at risk from Japanese saber rattling, but so far no firm confirmation of precisely which countries or colonies the imperial government might consider necessary to acquire in the name of Japanese safety have been revealed.’”
“Did you write this?” he asked me.
“I did.”
“It’s good.” He turned and looked at my employer. “How much of this is substantiated?”
“Most of it,” Barker said. “Well, some of it.”
“Would the army or navy admit to arms sales?”
“Probably not, but the admiral and general were both seen attending demonstrations of this country’s latest weaponry. What purpose would it serve if not to promote sales of those very products?”
“Is there any proof that the Japanese government would use these weapons against local countries with whom they are in contention?”
“Not the government,” Barker corrected. “A coalition of powerful families who hope to force the government toward militarism.”
“How do I know this information is reliable? On whose testimony have you built this theory?”
“On that of the late ambassador’s bodyguard, who is a member of the Kempeitai, the Japanese secret service.”
“I would need proof that he exists.”
Barker reached into his pocket and retrieved a folded letter. He opened it and passed it to Stead. I saw a Japanese signature at the bottom, though the letter was written in English.
“Damning enough,” Stead admitted. “But I would need to speak with him directly. What’s his name?”
“Ohara,” I said.
“And when would this article need to appear?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
Stead tossed the letter with finality.
“Impossible,” he said. “We’re going to press within an hour. We’re just finishing setting type. This article needs to be substantiated.”
“You’ve gone to press with less.”
“Indeed I have,” Stead said. “Many times. But not with an indictment against the government.”
“Ah,” Barker said. “But I have not stated that the government is culpable. The army or navy can sell battleships to an ambassador with impunity. Rather, it is the ambassador, knowing they are meant for a third party and not the Meiji government, who bears the blame.”
“You’re trying to stop him.”
“Desperately.”
“You can’t. Not with this, by tomorrow morning. The information must be vetted if I am going to face scrutiny by Her Majesty’s government. A bee can sting, but he can also be stepped on.”
“Very well,” Barker said, folding the letter and putting it back in his pocket. “I would like to call in a favor.”
“I knew it would come eventually. What is it?”
“I’d like to make use of your press tonight for about half an hour.”
“That’s hard. What do you need it for?”
“To make a false newspaper front page with a limited run.”
“How limited?” Stead asked, lighting a fresh cigar, and tossing the spent vesta in an ashtray full of them.
“No more than thirty or so. Enough to catch the embassy and the Foreign Office unawares.”
Stead shook his hand in the air, fanning himself. “That’s hot. I could get into a lot of trouble.”
“Why? Suppose your hardworking staff stepped out at eleven P.M., before the pubs closed, leaving the equipment unattended, for half a pint of bitters.”
Stead whistled.
“That’s an awfully big favor. But then from you I would expect nothing less. Won’t you need typesetters and inkers?”
“I’ve got a crew of my own.”
“I just bet you do,” the newspaper editor said. “The Swell Mob.”
“So what is your answer?”
Stead closed his eyes and considered long and hard. If there was any way for him to get out of it.
“Very well, but I want this done right. My boys will leave at eleven, shut and lock the door, and come back one hour later. You can print what you like within that hour, as long as it’s not about the royal family. Am I clear?”
“As crystal.”
“I may need an alienist. Or a solicitor. Or a one-way ticket to France by tomorrow morning. We’re square after this, Barker. No more favors.”
“Done.”
“It might have been better to let this place burn to the ground.”
We let him have the last word on the subject.
Outside in the street, we walked until we came to The Old Bell tavern and finally had dinner. However, that was not the only reason for our being there. After our meal, Barker got up and walked to the bar to speak to the publican.
“Sir,” he said. “I should like to have this room for a private party.”
“I believe we can accommodate you, sir. When would you like to borrow our rooms?”
“Eleven o’clock will do.”
“Eleven … You mean tonight?”
“There is no time like the present. I believe that is the phrase.”
“Will there be alcohol consumed?”
“Well, I should say, or I would have rented a temperance society hall or a family hotel.”
“That is after hours, sir. Drinking hours are until eleven, not a moment later.”
“That is why I requested a private party, my good man.”
“What am I to do with my customers?”
Barker paused and nodded. “I suppose you could tell them to leave. After all, they are no longer bringing in custom.”
The meaty-faced publican scowled at my employer. “And for what should I tell my best and most loyal customers to leave?”
“For twenty-five pounds, I should imagine.”
The man’s busy eyebrows came within an inch of his hairline. He was calculating. A glass of bitters was sixpence. Even illegally, he’d probably make no more than a pound that hour. This was twenty-five times that.
“I’ll tell you what,” Barker added. “Any one of your regulars wishing to stay after eleven can have drinks on me, provided they only leave through the back way. I would make certain you have plenty of beverages on hand. My guests will be printers and newspapermen, a thirsty lot.”
The publican’s demeanor changed as I set down the twenty-five pounds on his well-worn bar. He lifted the flap, came around the bar and shook Barker’s hand. He promised to have some nuts and sweetmeats on hand, and to go round everything with a rag. New sawdust would be lain down, and a piano player brought in. Would the gentleman have any other stipulations?
“No. I shall not be attending. Expect the men to be here shortly after eleven.”
We left the pub. The Guv rubbed his hands together in satisfaction.
“What next?” I asked.
“I’ll go to the offices and call Mac. He’ll meet us there at ten-thirty. You go to the Rising Sun and tell Jeremy the same. Wait, on second thought, tell the barmaid. She’ll keep better time than he.”
“I fear this will be a long night,” I said.
“Aye,” he growled. “And a long morning shall follow it.”