The Limehouse Text (13 page)

T
HE NEXT MORNING, THE SABBATH, I STOPPED
just long enough to down a cup of coffee and snatch a brioche before stepping outside. My employer was directing one of the workers in how he wanted the algae removed from his fish pond before it froze, with the aid of a long-handled bamboo rake. He stopped on seeing me and gave me an appraising look. I had grown very good at estimating his moods based upon the raising and lowering of the brows behind his spectacles and the crinkling of his eyes at their corners. He shot a glance toward his Pen-jing collection, and I followed his gaze to where Miss Winter stood in her heavy veil, brushing Harm on top of a flat-topped rock Barker used to prune his miniature trees. The dog, at least, had manners enough to yip a greeting at me while Miss Winter brushed the dog’s fur as if I weren’t there. It was chilly in the garden that morning and I didn’t merely mean the weather. I waited until I received the smallest of grudging nods from my employer, who went on discussing the removal of the algae, as if it required Pythagorean mathematics. It was all the permission I required. I took off my hat and offered my most sincere bow.

“Miss,” I ventured, “I apologize for the unfortunate turn of events of three days ago. It was not my intention to enter into a disagreement with your maid, and the circumstance that resulted in her lying on a mudflat was entirely an error in judgment on my part. I was concerned over the welfare of the dog, you see, which of course, was stupid of me, for he obviously could not have been in better hands.”

The woman stood there stock-still, as they say, with her brush still buried in Harm’s fur, while I waited, hat over my chest, for her forgiveness. Ducking one’s ladies’ maid in the river was certainly a breach of etiquette, I reasoned, but it was not exactly a crime. Not an unforgivable one, anyway. Would she accept my apology?

She stood there a moment or two, lost in thought. Finally, she finished her stroke, set the dog on the ground, and put her brush away in a little leather box she had brought with her. Even from a distance of five feet, her veil was impenetrable, but as I was noting it, she leaned forward and lifted the heavy tulle from her face.

“I have no maid, Mr. Llewelyn,” she stated.

A shiver ran down my spine that wasn’t due to the fact that it was cold in the garden. How was I to know that the Chinese girl I had fought and the girl who tended after Harm at our home once a week were one and the same?

“I—I’m so sorry,” I stammered.

She said nothing but regarded me out of black, almond-shaped eyes. I wanted to protest, but couldn’t find the words. How could I have known? For that matter, what was a Chinese girl doing dressed up like an Englishwoman—though I had to admit she was attractive in her close-fitting widow’s weeds. Some movement of my face must have betrayed my thoughts, for she suddenly stepped forward and before I could move, slapped my face hard. It reminded me of the fact that I myself had already been ill-used. True, I had tossed her in the Thames, but she had half kicked me down a stairwell, not to mention trying to scratch my eyes out. I thought we were about to have another set-to, but thankfully Barker had finally finished communicating the exact formula for extracting algae from a fish pond and came up beside me.

“Miss Winter, I believe you have already made the acquaintance of Mr. Thomas Llewelyn. Thomas, may I present my ward, Miss Winter, or as she is known in Chinese, Bok Fu Ying.”

All fierceness deserted her face, as a cat retracts its claws, and she curtseyed graciously to me.

“How do you do?” she asked without a trace of an accent.

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Did you say
ward
?” The last, of course, was directed toward the Guv. A full year’s service I had put in, and never once had he mentioned having any such thing.

“Yes. I am her guardian,” Barker stated, as if it were the most logical thing in the world, and perhaps it was in China. “I have been for over five years now. Miss Winter is in mourning. She was betrothed to my late assistant.”

The young woman cast down her eyes and seemed to retreat into herself.

I believe until that time it hadn’t really registered in this poor brain of mine that Quong had been a real person. I sleep in his room, even have worn his coat and hat a time or two, but there was nothing personal to remind me of his having come before, no photographs or mementos. Certainly nothing as personal as a girl he had left behind.
Poor fellow,
I thought. He once had an interesting career and a beautiful fiancée, and then one day he came across that blasted text and by end of day was a corpse floating in Limehouse Reach. So much promise of a good life, ended too soon.

“I regret your loss, miss. I’ve heard nothing but good things about Mr. Quong since I came here.”

The girl bowed her head gravely, and there was nothing left to be said. She left in her carriage while Barker and I walked across the road to the Metropolitan Tabernacle. Spurgeon preached upon forgiving thy neighbor. I wished Miss Winter had been in attendance.

After lunch, a joint of mutton in herb sauce prepared by Madame which was at least as good as her husband’s, Barker reached into the sideboard and pulled out a large pad of paper. “Get out your notes, lad, and see if you can reproduce Bainbridge’s blotter. Perhaps it will give us some clue as to who the killer is.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, and set to work. I had no training in art beyond a lesson or two in draftsmanship during my school days, but I persevered for over an hour, copying with my notebook in front of me, using both it and my memory to copy Bainbridge’s work as closely as possible.

When I was finished, Barker waved me out of my chair and propped up the tablet against the back. Then he pulled the visitor’s chairs away from the desk and we sat down and looked at my work, or more precisely, my interpretation of Bainbridge’s work.

“This entire sketch is about Hestia Petulengro,” he stated. “She is key to this entire picture, and yet she has little or no connection to the book that I can find. There can only be two reasons for her to be here on the blotter. Either she is actually key to this investigation and we don’t know how, yet, or—”

“Or,” I said, continuing the thought, “Bainbridge had some sort of infatuation or relationship with Miss Petulengro. I notice he didn’t dare try to reproduce her face, as if he were not worthy of the attempt.”

“I’m afraid you are correct. These initials in the corner are personal rather than professional. It is a schoolboy’s habit to turn the object of one’s affections’ initials into a talisman, copying them endlessly. And him a married man. Och, this is not pretty, lad.”

I was about to say, neither was Mrs. Bainbridge, but that was not fair. Instead I concentrated on some of the other figures in the drawing.

“Sir, most of this is very much connected to the murders. Here is Jan Hurtz, lying dead, and here is Luke Chow, hanging on the lines. And this fellow with the hat and fur-collared coat is Mr. K’ing. You will note that he’s not even looking at Hettie Petulengro. I don’t think he knows her.”

“I do not believe Inspector Bainbridge was entirely forthcoming with us, lad, or entirely honest. He had secrets of his own, such as why he was content to be working down here in Limehouse the last few years. He and I had a working relationship but not a friendship such as I have with Terence Poole.”

“But, sir,” I pointed out, “you got into quite an argument with Poole just the other day.”

“That proves it, lad. Friends can shout at each other and express their opinions and know their friendship will not be affected by it. It was different with Bainbridge. We aided each other, but we were competitors. He wanted to solve the case himself. He was not about to hand it over to a private enquiry agent. He needed me because he had to know what had been pawned. You saw that he tried first without us. Anything he said to us, then, is suspect. If, for example, he could have connected the murder to K’ing and then brought him in, he would be a hero at the Yard.”

“Are you saying he might have forged such a connection? That he was dishonest?”

“I would not cast aspersions upon the dead, not without evidence, anyway. I do not know his character. In my discussions with Poole, I gather he didn’t know him well, either. Bainbridge kept himself to himself.”

“Perhaps not with Miss Petulengro.”

“Yes, we shall have to speak with her again but not just yet. I shall have to think how best to go about it.”

We gazed at the picture again for a moment. The Guv leaned forward and tapped the paper with a thick finger. “This fellow with the menacing look, what did the constable say his name was?”

I consulted my notebook. “Charlie Han, petty criminal, connected with the betel nut trade. What is betel nut, sir?”

“It is a mild narcotic. Now this other fellow, the bearded one leering at her, he looks unnaturally stiff. Was he that way in the original picture?”

“Yes, sir.”

Barker scratched under his chin in thought. “His eyes look out of focus, though his expression is fierce enough. This is an odd shadow along his neck. Could I see your original sketch?”

I showed him the notebook.

“You know, lad, I don’t think this is a shadow at all. It is a bruise. This is Miss Petulengro’s uncle, drawn from death. I still see no reason for the murder of Mr. Petulengro, unless it actually was a robbery. Quong had already purchased the book. I doubt the killer would have murdered him out of pique.”

I let that sink into my thoughts for a while, then didn’t care at all for what came back. “Do you think Miss Petulengro killed him herself and made it look like a robbery?”

“It is very possible, lad. She had several motives. She feared for her safety. She inherited a good business. She got out of matchstick making, which is a dangerous occupation.”

“So she is a viable suspect.”

“I would say yes, except for the method of death. She is a bold, feisty girl. I would have taken her for a stabber. Do you remember the row of clasp knives in the case? She would have gone for one of them. A club is not her weapon at all.”

“But it was Inspector Bainbridge’s weapon,” I said.

“Yes, lad, it was. He was a devil with a truncheon. But if he were after the text he still had no reason to kill Lazlo Petulengro. Of course, there is another possibility, that they planned Petulengro’s death together.”

“Mind you,” I said, “there is no motive I can see in either of them killing to find the text. I don’t see how they would benefit.”

“True,” Barker conceded. “There is even the possibility that the shop was in fact robbed and he was killed by the thieves, as it appeared. Chandleries are often robbed by the very sailors who frequent them, and New Year’s is a common time for robberies.”

“So, you’re saying Mr. Petulengro was either killed by his niece, Hettie; Inspector Bainbridge; both of them; the nameless killer we are after; or the thieves who appear to have broken in.”

“Aye. Or someone else.”

“Someone else?” I cried. “Who is left? The Lord Mayor?”

“I have not asked for his alibi, lad. No, I am talking about our fierce friend, Mr. Han, the other man leering at Miss Petulengro in the drawing. I believe we shall have to track the fellow down and ask him some questions. I suggest we not be gentle about it.”

Just then Jenkins brought in a message. Barker scrutinized it and then nodded his head in approval.

“Mr. Han must wait,” he said. “This is from Poole. The Yard has finally released Ho.”

W
E PULLED UP IN FRONT OF NEWGATE PRISON
and alighted from the cab. I was less than comfortable being here, even if it was only to pick up someone else. Newgate had the dismal atmosphere of my own Oxford Prison. I had not the quickening of heart I sometimes felt when entering Scotland Yard. In its place was a kind of institutional misery. I felt wretched just seeing it but wasn’t going to admit it to Barker, who sat waiting patiently.

I turned the case over in my mind. Barker had possessed the text for almost twenty-four hours before he’d passed it on to his “Chinaman.” I’d assumed it was Old Quong, but now I considered the possibility that it had been Ho. Perhaps Ho was merely holding it for my employer. What would the Guv do with such knowledge? He would not wish the text to fall into the wrong hands.

“So, what is your position, sir?” I asked. “Is the text evil, or is it merely knowledge?”

“You are in good form today, Thomas,” he said after a moment’s silence. “You have put your finger on the very question that I have been contemplating.”

Just then, Ho came out of the bowels of the building looking his usual, truculent self. He and Barker nodded, and I followed them out into Newgate Street. Out at the curb, a cabman slowed when he heard Barker’s sharp whistle, then sped by when he caught sight of Ho. Luckily, a second driver was not so reluctant. We clambered in, and within a few minutes were headed out of the City into the East End.

Barker stopped the hansom a street or two away from Limehouse Reach. West Ferry Road was a row of tenements on either side. Ho got out of the cab and shuffled along with his head down and his hands in the pockets of his quilted jacket. At one door, he stopped, pounded twice, then immediately proceeded on his way. A few doors down on the opposite side of the street, he repeated the action. One of Ho’s waiters shot out of the first door, pulling a coat over his tunic. The teashop owner knocked on two more doors in the street, and by the time we reached the alleyway Ho’s restaurant occupies, we were followed by almost a dozen men. The Chinaman slipped a small key from his pocket into the door’s padlock and opened it. Then we followed him inside.

No one needed to light a lamp at the entrance, but for once we needed one at the end, because the tearoom was unlit. The room had a stale odor of trapped tobacco smoke and cooking oil. Waiters and cooks lit gas lamps and immediately began heating water to begin the process of cleaning. The room was still set up for the inquest, and we began to move tables and chairs about to a semblance of their former arrangement. Even I, with my one good arm, pushed a chair or two into place. The odor of stale smoke gave way to strong bleach and soap as the kitchen was treated to a hot scrub. I heard the cooks in the back begin talking in Chinese and laughing as they worked. Ho came out of his office and bellowed something that silenced everyone. If I had thought being incarcerated had not affected Ho, I was mistaken. It had made him even more surly, if such a thing were possible.

Barker clucked over the Pen-jing tree, which had gone without light or water for days. He carried it out to the entrance, cold as it was, to see if sunlight might revive it while Ho lowered himself onto the cushions behind his desk and began running a wire through his smoking contraption.

“Were you in any way mistreated?” I asked.

“I was,” he answered. “Food very bad.”

“It always is in prisons,” I said from experience. “And they half starve you, as well.”

“No bath for days. I feel very dirty.”

“I’m sure the Guv would want you to use the bathhouse tonight.”

Ho shook his head while he stuffed his water pipe with tobacco from a glass jar. “There are bathhouses in Limehouse.” The tearoom owner sat with his hooded eyes closed, savoring the smoke from his pipe. I thought as long as I was here, I would ask him some questions.

“Have you ever heard of a fellow named Charlie Han?”

“Betel nut,” he responded without opening his eyes.

“Yes. The police are looking for him in connection with the case.”

“He won’t be found if he does not wish to be found.”

“That sounds like Mr. K’ing,” I said. “Does Han work for K’ing?”

“Han works for Han. I’m certain he is paying for the privilege of working in triad territory. No one lives or works here who does not pay Mr. K’ing.”

I reached into my pocket and, taking out my notebook, flipped it to the page containing the sketch of the man in the Astrakhan-collared coat and wide-brimmed hat. I set it in front of Ho.

“Is this a good likeness of Mr. K’ing?”

The hooded eyes twitched and opened a little. A plume of smoke issued out of the corner of his mouth. He grunted.

“Does that mean yes?”

“Stop bothering my smoke with questions! You know it is K’ing. Is this the only copy?”

“No. The original is at Scotland Yard.”

Ho closed his eyes again.

“Did you know Quong well?” I asked.

“I knew him,” came the reply.

“Do you know Dr. Quong?”

“Very well. Personal friend.”

“How did you—”

“Questions, questions. All the time questions. Talk less, listen more. Let me smoke in peace! I have wheat cakes to bake.”

“Of course,” I said, getting up quickly. I’d strained his patience to the breaking point, but then I didn’t think his patience was particularly great.

I found Barker kneeling in the alleyway, fussing over the tiny potted pine.

“Is it dead?”

“It has suffered deprivation, but the branches are still supple. I believe it shall come through alive.”

Six people were dead, at least, and my employer was concerned with a shrub.

“Ho says he knew of Charlie Han but doesn’t know where he is now. He also said he and Dr. Quong are good friends.”

“I already know that, Thomas. You should have let him smoke.”

I sighed. “It’s hard to tell what to do with the Chinese. There’s so much protocol. I wouldn’t want to set back Anglo-Sinese relations.”

“I doubt there is any way to set them back further. Right now the Western powers are carving up China in the name of imperialism. Even young countries such as America are joining in. There is a town along the north coast of China, I hear, built by the Germans using Chinese labor, that so replicates their country, one would swear one was in Bavaria.”

“I had no idea,” I said.

“Aye. But everyone is working under a misapprehension. They are assuming the Dragon is dead, but it is like this Pen-jing tree. It only sleeps. One day, the Dragon shall awaken and when it does, God help us all. It shall feel as though Armageddon is upon us.”

“You think there shall be war?”

“Oh, there shall be war. You may be sure of it.”

“Between China and England?”

“England, France, Germany, and all the others that are attempting to interfere with China at the moment. They don’t trust one another, but they’ll band together if it is in their interests.”

“Wouldn’t that be a slaughter?” I asked. “After all, the Europeans have guns.”

“Yes, but the Chinese have superior numbers, and if they were trained in
dim mak,
they would think themselves invincible. They would fight like devils.”

“When might this happen? Soon?”

Barker shrugged. “Who can say? Soon, if the aggression gets worse. What concerns me is that if there is a sudden war, we have half a thousand Chinese within a few miles of the royal family. If just one of those five hundred has the knowledge of
dim mak,
then I am justified in fearing both for the monarchy and also for the innocent citizens of Limehouse.”

“Might the government round them up?”

“I would hope so, rather than face a purge of the district by the citizenry after a clash overseas.” Barker looked down and ran a hand over the back of his neck. “But perhaps it shall not come to pass. Let us concentrate on the present and see if we can ferret out Bainbridge’s killer before he harms anyone else.”