I hailed a cab and Barker told the cabman to take us to Soho and the Café Royal. From past experience, I knew that meant two things, both of which I approved: we were going to see an old friend, Pollock Forbes, who haunted the place, and we would have an excellent lunch. There was no better restaurant in all London save for Etienne’s Le Toison d’Or.
The café was bustling when we entered and the eighteen waiters in their tuxedo jackets and floor-length white aprons were doing battle with a roomful of hungry souls, many of them celebrities. Oscar Wilde was no longer there, but the decadent artist Aubrey Beardsley sat at a table with his knees up, sketching the general chaos. I heard rather than saw the Irishman Bernard Shaw being disputative somewhere in the back of the room, and I waved at the bon vivant Max Beerbohm as we entered, his black hair as glossy as a billiard ball. If Cyrus Barker were not there to keep me in line, I was in danger of becoming one of the overly intellectual and underpaid writers who frequented the place. Thank heaven he came along when he did.
Barker looked about the room, such a dour fellow he could suck the very bonhomie from the place, but we dined here a few times a year. It was a storehouse of information and there was a Masonic temple in the back.
“Langer!” the Guv rumbled in that way he has that makes the floor shake. A man detached himself from a corner and came our way. He wore a double-breasted suit and had a mustache so thin it was like another eyebrow.
“Hello, Barker,” the man said, looking about as if the restaurant were about to erupt in a brawl, which it might. Langer was the private detective, bailiff, and chucker-out for Nicholson, the owner of the Royal.
“Where is Forbes?” Barker asked.
“Hasn’t been here in a fortnight.”
“Why not?”
“Under the weather, I’ve heard.”
“Is he still at the Albany?”
“Yes, he is, sir.”
“What room?”
“Fourteen, I think.”
“Thank you. Come, lad. Lunch will have to wait.”
My stomach tried to disagree. A fellow near me was tucking into a dozen seasoned oysters and a woman across from him was spooning some sort of chocolate cake between her pouty lips. Barker’s ham-sized hand had to pull me out the door by the arm.
The Guv had paid the driver to remain and we clambered aboard once more. My stomach groaned as we pulled away from the curb. There would be other lunches, I told myself. Someday.
“You’re worried,” I said, reading his face.
“I am,” he replied. “It’s not like Pollock to be absent for a day, let alone an entire fortnight. Where is the flow of information going? We need to speak to him if we are to stay ahead of what is happening.”
Pollock Forbes was a Scottish laird’s son who was expected to inherit the title. Unfortunately, he was tubercular. While giving the appearance of being another wastrel of the Royal, he collected information in droves from dozens of informants: political news, Continental news, town gossip, and even scandal. Everything was fodder for his ample brain. Forbes was the leader of the Knights Templar, an organization so secret that its members almost never met. All information was channeled through him.
We soon arrived at the Albany, a series of flats in Piccadilly for gentlemen of a certain class; that is, unmarried and wealthy. Forbes himself would have called it “toney.” It was full of its own importance. The Albany was known for the names of certain bachelors who lived there, such as Forbes. Everyone there had their reputations lifted merely by belonging.
Barker crossed to a solid-looking concierge and they exchanged handshakes. It was the second one I’d seen him do that day. As I said, Barker does not care to shake hands. He expects to be attacked at any moment as a matter of course, and his hands must be free. However, this was not a mere handshake. It was a secret one, establishing identity. Without another word, we made our way up a stairwell and eventually to a door with the number 14 in gold upon it. Barker tapped, which is to say he practically knocked it down in one blow.
The door was opened by a harried-looking young man in a black waistcoat and shirtsleeves. The sleeves had been rolled to the elbow and he held a wicker dustbin in his hands. He scrutinized us as he ran the back of his hand across his damp forehead.
“May I help you, gentlemen?” he asked.
“I’m here to see Pollock,” my employer said, proffering the business card he pulled from his waistcoat.
The young man glanced at it, then nodded.
“Come in. He should be awake. But pray, sirs, do not tax him. He is very ill.”
We were led into the bedchamber. Pollock Forbes lay in the center of a large bed, bolstered with several pillows. He wore a white nightshirt and the scale of everything made it seem as if he were a mere child with a case of catarrh. Only it wasn’t catarrh at all, it was consumption, and it was consuming Pollock inch by inch.
“Hello, Cyrus,” he croaked. “Thomas. Thank you for coming to see me.”
“Pollock,” I said. “You didn’t tell us.”
Forbes shifted in his pillows. “Mustn’t grumble.”
The servant, or whatever he was, gave me a stern look and went to empty the bin. I saw it was full of pocket handkerchiefs, most of them spattered with blood. He’s dying, I told myself.
“I’ve been offered a certain important case,” Barker said. “By chance, did you make the suggestion?”
“I may have told a fellow, who told a fellow. You accepted the assignment, I take it?”
Barker did not answer. He appeared to be annoyed. “Whose idea was it to set up the Home Office as a ruse so that we could deliver the satchel ourselves?”
“Mine, I’m afraid,” Forbes said. “I had intended to take it myself, but alas, I am undone. I suggested you go in my stead.”
The young man returned with the emptied bin and Forbes immediately tossed another soiled handkerchief into it. The servant frowned at us. We were disturbing the patient.
“What can I do for you?” Forbes continued. “I assume you came for something.”
“I need a list of people likely to go after the satchel, but you’re in no fit state to give it, Pollock. We’ll look elsewhere. There’s no need to trouble yourself. Get well, and we’ll see you at the Royal in a fortnight.”
Pollock coughed and spat a gob of blood into a new handkerchief.
“I’m not going back, Cyrus. My doctor has ordered me to Aberdeen. If I’m not any better, soon it’s the Sandwich Islands for me. Or Fiji. You know what that means, don’t you?”
The Guv and I looked at each other, thinking the same thing. Was he referring to his death?
“You’re being uncommonly thick, both of you. I thought you were private enquiry agents.”
For once, I actually worked it out first.
“You’re leaving,” I said. “Who’s going to take over the Knights Templar?”
“That is precisely the problem. Cyrus, I need you to take over the running of the society.”
“You have said that to me on several occasions,” Barker answered. “Why would you think me a proper candidate? Surely there are others more qualified.”
“Qualifications do not necessarily make a good leader.” Forbes coughed again, bringing the young man running, but he recovered. His voice grew weaker and weaker. “Cyrus, you must belong to a dozen secret societies, from the Heaven and Earth society in China to the Freemasons.”
“Yes, but I don’t attend meetings,” he replied. “I belong neither to be a student of esoterica nor to do good for society. I do both of those already on my own. The last thing I want is to spend my precious evening hours raising a herd of solicitors and bankers from one degree to the next through an elaborate initiation rite, merely to impress their employers. I want to do things that matter with my life. You know I don’t believe in rituals. If I did, I’d become Church of England.”
“But think, Cyrus,” Forbes went on. “Imagine a flood of secret information arriving from all London into your office; pertinent facts coming every hour!”
“But at what cost?” Barker asked. “I barely have enough time to teach my own antagonistics class as it is. How am I to run an agency and handle all of this information?”
Forbes settled back in his pillows. His wavy hair was damp, his face shiny. His lungs must have been saturated. It hurt to watch him struggle for breath. I didn’t have a great number of friends on this earth, but I considered Forbes one of them. I didn’t want to lose him.
“You can’t.”
Barker gave him a withering stare. “You expect me to shut down the agency?”
“No. I expect you to give it to Thomas. You put his name on the door. Congratulations, by the way.”
“Thank you,” I replied.
“You expect Thomas to look after the agency’s cases while I do what, exactly? Sit at a desk every day reading memoranda? London already has a spymaster general.”
“Not forever. I could put in a good word for you. My opinion is still respected in this town.”
“Don’t do so on my account. It isn’t a situation I seek.”
“Cyrus, let’s face it. You’re not twenty-five anymore. Or forty. Your leg is in a brace. I imagine you don’t heal as quickly as you once did.”
“I’m perfectly capable of doing my work, thank you! I get about as I have always done. A little slower for the moment, perhaps, but my bones will knit together again.”
From his pillow, Forbes contrived to press him. “How would you like to be able to plan your life for a change, like other mortals? You could go home at a decent hour, and not work past midnight, as you so often do.”
I shook my head at him. That wasn’t the way to convince the Guv. He liked working past midnight. Pollock caught my signal and nodded. He tried a different tack.
“You’d be doing important work, as well, work you are uniquely suited for. It’s the next logical step in your development. We need, our country needs, your expertise. There are important events occurring just now. Many of them concern Germany, which is quickly becoming England’s chief rival. Do you really want me to hand such delicate information to another man, a less competent one, merely because he rose through the ranks and it is his turn? Don’t make me do that!”
The young man came into the room again. He put his hands on his hips.
“Pollock,” he said.
Forbes waved him away. “I’m all right, Charles. Let me alone. This is important.”
“So is your health.”
“You need not be chained to a desk, if that is what concerns you,” he said, turning back to my employer. “You may make your own rules. I chose the Café Royal because I liked it. It became my workplace. You could work out of your antagonistics class, if you wish.”
Pollock kept glancing at me, hoping I would encourage Barker to accept, but he did not know what he was asking. Helping Forbes in this endeavor would be tantamount to treachery in the Guv’s mind. It was difficult enough that I might have opinions of my own, but to try to change his was unthinkable. I shook my head. Pollock would have to convince him alone.
“The work is not as onerous as it sounds,” he continued. “Thomas here can help.”
“He’s not a Templar,” Barker countered. “He’s not even a Mason.”
“Then make him one.”
“I’m sorry, Pollock,” I said, “but I have to agree with the Guv. I’m a married man now and too busy to attend meetings or be initiated into arcane secret societies with all-seeing eyes.”
“We can work that out,” Forbes croaked. He was almost panting. “Actually, you can work it out yourselves. I don’t care. Whatever works for you will suit me. Or rather, us.”
“You say ‘us,’” Barker said. “How many is ‘us’?”
Forbes mopped his forehead with a clean handkerchief. There was a great stack of them on his night table, as well as the bloodied wicker basket to drop them into.
“We have a hundred members in Her Majesty’s army, at least. More from the navy. I suppose we could muster an army of our own. There are politicians, MPs, clerks, barristers, bankers. We’ve even got a Yeoman Warder or two. We both know you could never be in an organization with a leader you do not respect. Neither would most of the other members. You have a reputation in this town.”
“Pollock, do not exert yourself,” Barker told him.
“I do not ask you to say yes today. Just promise me you will not say no until you have time to consider the matter. I leave in a few days. Surely you can decide by then.”
Barker grunted to himself and then finally spoke. “Very well. I would not consider it for anyone else in the world, but you are a friend.”
“Charles!” Forbes cried, tossing pillows off the side of the bed.
“Yes?” the man said, returning to the room.
“I’m going to take a kip. Show the gentlemen out.”
Charles waved a hand toward the entrance. We followed him. Then the door was shut in our faces.
“What have I got myself into?” Barker muttered to the door.
“No,” I said, staring at the brass number. “What have we gotten ourselves into?”
The cabman was still waiting when we returned. There was snow on his hat and greatcoat, and on the back of the piebald gelding in front of him. Such conditions would send most jarveys back to their stables quickly. It helped that Barker had a reputation for being a generous customer.
“Where to, Push?” he asked.
“Carlisle Place, Westminster!” the Guv bellowed in my ear.
I would not ask. I promised myself I would not ask.
“What’s in Carlisle Place?”
“The archbishop’s house.”
“What archbishop?”
“Keep up, Thomas! There are only two archbishops in England and we are not in Canterbury.”