Fatal Enquiry by Will Thomas Read Free Book Online Page A

little to do and unable to take on a second case.”
    “But I want your agency to handle the situation. You have the best reputation.”
    “I would not recommend someone unless I thought him professionally capable of handling the work.”
    “This is no way to do business,” Ferguson said, rising from the visitor’s chair.
    “If you don’t like my recommendation, I suggest you consult one of the other agencies in this court. Good day, sir.”
    After the fellow left, looking angry and befuddled, I put away my notebook and sat back in my chair.
    “You want to leave your time free in case Nightwine chooses to retaliate over the incident at the dock,” I challenged.
    “If he made an open attempt upon my life or these offices, you would not be able to leave the role you were forced to play in Leatherhead.”
    “I suppose you’re right,” I conceded. “I would remind you, however, it does not reflect well on us when we refuse custom.”
    “Duly noted.”
    “Perhaps it is Nightwine’s strategy to cause you to turn away clients until eventually your reputation suffers.”
    “I believe—” Barker began, but I never learned what he believed because Inspector Poole slipped into our offices again.
    “I thought you were guarding Nightwine,” the Guv said, frowning at him.
    “I am,” he told us. “We work in shifts. I’ve just been next door, checking in at ‘A’ Division.
    “Have you heard the news?”
    “He’s been busy turning away clients,” I said. “What has happened?”
    “Five people are dead this morning and three more in hospital, including two constables. A residence has been placed under quarantine, and just happens to belong to Seamus O’Muircheartaigh. Someone has done for him. He’s barely hanging on to his life, and is not expected to recover.”
    The Guv looked at me and gave a low whistle of surprise. “Someone is very brash to make a play at the Irishman,” he said, “if not suicidal. The man is a human cobra. What have you discovered so far?”
    The inspector dug into a coat pocket for his notebook and began flipping pages, while I pulled out my own from the rolltop desk, ready to take shorthand.
    “This morning, a young woman delivered a package at number 47 Old Jewry, the City, shortly after eight o’clock. That’s about all O’Muircheartaigh was able to tell us before he collapsed. There was parcel wrapping in the outer office and a sword and scabbard on the Persian rug in front of his desk.”
    “Was the sword in the scabbard?” my employer asked.
    “No, they were lying side by side. When our constables arrived, everyone in the office was dead or dying, without so much as a scratch on them. PCs Roche and Halston were summoned by a secretary, a Miss Callahan, now deceased. Whatever it is, a microbe or what-have-you, it got them, as well. They’re in St. Bart’s Hospital, choking out their lungs at the moment.”
    “Do you have a description of the girl who delivered the package?”
    “Heavily veiled, dark dress, average height. Could have been any woman in London, or even a small man in disguise.”
    “Interesting,” Barker murmured in his low voice, so piercing I could feel the wood desk under my hand vibrate as I wrote.
    “What kind of sword was it?” Barker went on. “Foil? Saber?”
    “No, it was in your line,” Poole said. “Wide blade, not very long. Possibly Asian. The handle is copper and represents a flower of some sort.”
    “Offhand, I’d say it was ricin that killed your constables, Terry, a substance produced in the manufacture of castor oil. It is fatal if inhaled. It was probably in the toe of the sheath. The drawing of the sword to view the blade released the substance into the air.”
    “How do we clean it up?” Poole asked.
    “Very carefully, and with a wet neckerchief covering your face. The residue will have settled on everything, and this substance doesn’t become inert. O’Muircheartaigh should be quarantined, as well. One good cough