The Limehouse Text (17 page)

T
HE NEXT MORNING, I FOUND BARKER IN HIS BIG
Georgian bed with the heavy damask curtains drawn back. He was leaning against a nest of cushions with newspapers from the last few days spread about and a pot of tea on a tray in front of him. I was glad to see he was not getting ready for work.

“Did Dr. Quong order you to bed, sir?” I asked.

“He did,” Barker said. “I might ignore one doctor, but when they collude, I am forced to obey. Look at this!” He pointed with scorn at a small vase containing a rose on his tray. Barker kept no roses in the greenhouse and it was February, so it must have been brought in from a hothouse somewhere.

“Very nice.”

“Nice,” he repeated, as if the word were poison in his mouth. “I presume you and Mac have reached an understanding with Madame Dummolard’s staff while I was—” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I cannot speak for Mac, sir, but I’ve been too busy or worried about you.”

“She is driving me mad.”

“Madame?”

“If she is not hovering about, her maid or nurse is. The fair sex will fuss over a fellow when he is ill, I suppose, but flowers are not a good sign. Next they shall voice concerns over the arrangement of the furnishings.”

I had a mental picture of a woman, any woman, telling Barker where to put the sofa and could not help smiling. The first thing to go, I speculated, would be the collection of antique weapons he kept on the red walls of his bedchamber. Madame could not do it, but I knew there was a certain widow he visited from time to time who might.

“What else have you been doing with yourself?” Barker asked. “Have you pressed your suit with that Petulengro girl?”

“I haven’t taken the opportunity of your sudden attack to go out spooning every night, sir, if that is what you are implying. Your health and your visitors have kept me occupied,” I said, ignoring his jibe.

“Something about the gypsy shop owner’s death still jars me. She is hiding something. I think you should buy her dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“I am not saying you should make a habit of taking suspects to dinner, but it seems the best way to get her to talk, short of buying up her entire stock piece by piece.”

“I see. You still count her a suspect then?”

“I do not imagine she killed the monks in the monastery in China, but I assume she is capable of shooting a gun in a tunnel. You have got to understand these matchstick girls, lad. They are rather hardened.”

“So, who are the suspects?”

“Ah, no. You’ll not be catching me out that way. You have been in charge for a few days. You tell me.”

I ran my hand across my face a couple of times to give myself time to think. “Well, Mr. K’ing, of course.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You don’t think so?”

“I did not say that, but you cannot just say he is a suspect. You must say why we must consider him.”

“Very well. He is the leader of a criminal organization in London. I don’t think anything of such a magnitude would happen in his district without his having a part in it.”

“Perhaps. Continue.”

“There’s that fellow on the blotter. The betel nut man.”

“Charlie Han.”

“Yes. He is a known criminal. Bainbridge seemed to think him dangerous and so far we have not been able to find a trace of him.”

“How would you proceed?”

“By finding out how long he has been in London?”

“Excellent. Who else?”

“Campbell-Ffinch. He has been in town the proper amount of time and is extremely anxious to get the book.”

“And?”

“Jimmy Woo, I suppose. He seems to know a lot of what is going on in the Asian quarter and he has been here for a long time.”

“We should check that.”

“What if all these murders are really not the work of one man? We’ve got different methods, different times, and even different countries. How do we know the killer of the monks in the monastery over a year ago is the same fellow who shot at us last week?”

“You make a good point,” Barker conceded. “In defense, I can only say that those who kill once often kill again and that I sense I am on the right road here.”

“I still wonder what his motive is,” I said. “Why does he want the book so single-mindedly? Having lost it, most people would have given up by now.”

“It is an Oriental trait to wait patiently but an Occidental one to hang on out of sheer doggedness. All shall be revealed in the fullness of time.”

There was a footstep upon the stair, and the maid appeared with a tray in her hand, an envelope upon it. Barker took it from her with a slight glare in her direction, then ripped it open. He extracted a piece of paper and began reading.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It is a court order giving permission to search my home.” He turned to the girl. “Tell Madame Dummolard we will have supper as usual. If they are going to search my house, I wish them to see that we are not inconvenienced in the least.”

The maid curtseyed and left.

Inspector Poole and Campbell-Ffinch were suddenly at the top of the stair and were taking in the sight of Cyrus Barker in bed, surrounded by walls bristling with weaponry.

“Very impressive,” Campbell-Ffinch said, but whether he meant Barker at home in his Regency bed or the collection of weapons, I couldn’t say.

“What is wrong with you?” the Foreign Office official demanded.

“I had a set-to with your killer. I am on bed rest for a day or two.”

“Did you see him? Did you see who it was?”

“No, drat the luck.”

“Did he get the text?”

“It is not in my possession,” Barker declared. “Feel free to search the premises, since you have already obtained legal permission to do so. I hope you have more profitable subjects of inquiry, for I assure you that these next hours shall bear no fruit.”

Campbell-Ffinch pulled two more envelopes from his pocket with a gesture of triumph. “I have two additional court orders: one to search your offices and another for the property you own in Three Colt Street.”

“I also keep a horse and carriage in a stable a half mile from here. You might get an order for that, as well.”

“If necessary, we shall,” Campbell-Ffinch said. “I must say, I do not care for your attitude, Barker. You’ve lost an assistant and an acquaintance, yet you still appear as obstinate and uncooperative as ever. I only hope your fee is sufficient to assuage the inconvenience I’m going to put you through.”

“It is a small book, sir,” Barker replied, “but you are fortunate. England is a small island.”

“If it is here, we shall find it!” The official scowled and marched down the stairs.

“I’m sorry about all this, Cyrus,” Poole said. “If there were any other way…”

“I understand, Terry. I am not blaming you.”

“Why not just give him the stupid book? What could it hurt?”

“You do not know what you are asking. If Campbell-Ffinch throws me in jail and takes all that I possess, it still would not be as catastrophic as if he had that text. And let me be firm about that, even with you. I do not have possession of it.”

Poole gave me a look of utter misery.

“Don’t look at me,” I told him. “I cannot help you. I have no idea where the text is.”

The inspector gave a shrug and went downstairs. A few minutes later I heard Dummolard below. They had dared enter his domain without permission. Poole returned a few minutes later.

“Cyrus, I must ask you to restrain your Frenchman.”

“As you see,” my employer replied, “I am incapacitated. If you can induce him to climb the stair, I shall instruct him to allow the search, as long as you do not go poking fingers into his pies. Etienne is very sensitive about his crusts.”

I couldn’t help it. I snorted. The Guv is a very serious person most of the time, and one might feel he has no sense of humor, but being pressed by some authority brought out a touch of drollness in him.

Poole scowled at me and I shut up. “If he gives us trouble, I’m taking him to A Division for questioning and possible charges of assault.”

“You shall have to take that up with him,” my employer said. “He is capable of making his own decisions. Arrest him, if you like, but my experience of Dummolard has been that he is generally uncooperative.”

“I wish I had never heard of that blasted book,” Poole grumbled.

“There,” Barker said. “We agree on something.”

Poole went back downstairs.

“Where were we?” Barker asked.

“I don’t recall. How are you feeling, sir?”

“Rather weak, I’m afraid, and my kidneys hurt. I shall be glad when Dr. Quong returns.”

“Sir, does Old Quong have the text?”

“Best not to ask, lad. You wouldn’t want to perjure yourself in the dock under a barrister’s questioning, if it comes to that.”

There was a scream down below and a second torrent of French, female this time. Barker chuckled, then winced at the pain. A few moments later, a beleaguered Poole returned.

“Cyrus.”

“Madame Dummolard is at present my housekeeper, Terry,” the Guv explained. “It is her duty to keep house. Perhaps your constables are not returning the items they are searching to their original positions. You should either instruct your men to be more careful or carry her up here bodily, and I shall instruct her to be more helpful.”

“I think you are enjoying this.”

“My home has been invaded and yet you complain about resistance. If it is too much trouble, go back to Whitehall and leave us in peace.”

Poole shook his head and went downstairs while Barker returned to his newspapers.

“What are you reading, sir?”

“Stead’s article in the
Gazette
about Khartoum. Parliament simply must consent to send a force to retrieve Gordon’s body.”

Gordon, of course, was General Charles Gordon, who had fallen with his troops in January in the Sudan. News had arrived that he had been slain by the Mahdi’s Muslim warriors. Gordon’s likeness had begun to appear in placards and magazines and in photographs in shop windows. England likes its dead heroes even more than its live ones. I remembered Bainbridge had mentioned his name. His nickname was Chinese Gordon. I wasn’t well schooled in Chinese history, but as I recalled, he had defended Shanghai against the Chinese rebels some twenty years before and Barker had fought with him. “Did you ever meet the general, sir?”

“I served under him,” he said. “We were called the Ever Victorious Army—Chinese troops led by English and American officers at the behest of the Chinese government.”

“How did you get mixed up in all that?” I asked.

“I was working on the docks at Foochow when the entire south was overthrown. My parents had died of cholera a few years before and I made my way to Shanghai to try to locate my elder brother, who was at a private school for Europeans along the Bund. I finally found him, but he was keen to join the fighting and soon I found myself with an English unit as an interpreter while my brother helped the Americans. The armies split up and I never saw him again.”

“My word.”

“Yes, the Americans accused England of aiding the secessionist side in the War Between the States. There were two civil wars going on at once. In the chaos after the English and Americans split, Gordon was assigned to my regiment. He was unaccustomed to leadership and something of a Christian mystic, but he had a way of inspiring the troops. He was fearless, walking into battle as if God Himself was protecting him.

“After three years fighting, we finally broke the back of the rebel forces and routed them. The rebel leader died, killed himself some say, and that was it. Gordon was decorated and sent home to England a hero. I understand his straightforward talk earned him enemies in the War Office and he lay fallow for many years until he was finally offered a chance against the Mahdi’s troops. It was suicide, lad, a shabby way to treat one of England’s greatest leaders of men.”

My mind was taking it all in, a young, impressionable Barker and a valiant leader in war-torn China. I had to say something or he would close up on me again.

“So when did you meet the Dowager Empress?”

Barker ran a hand over his brow wearily. “Some other time, lad.”

Some other time,
I thought.
It’s always some other time.

B
ARKER EXPECTED ME TO EARN MY SHILLING.
There would be no hanging about the house waiting for him to need something. I went to the office by cab, bundled up and under cover from a light snow.

Once inside I watched the snow stop and start, paced, and waited to see if someone needed an enquiry agent. No one did, or perhaps they merely put off their need for our services to a more clement day. If so, I thanked them, much preferring to sit inside looking out at the swirling flakes in Craig’s Court than to be out in them.

The morning dragged on until lunch. I skipped around the corner to the Sun, which was full of Yard men, and had some beef from the joint and a half pint of bitter. All too soon I was nipping my way back again.

The post was barren of interest that day and though I tried to ponder the case, my brain was preoccupied. I was never so glad for six o’clock to come ’round. I had successfully whiled a day of my life away doing absolutely nothing. I rather envied Jenkins as he ran out the door at five thirty. At least he had somewhere to go.

Back in Newington, Barker had had a day as exciting as mine, though he’d been able to rest through most of it. He resisted Madame Dummolard’s offer to bring up his meal and insisted on dressing for dinner. The nurse attempted to help him, but the Guv ordered both women out of the room, with less than the usual politeness he granted the fairer sex. Once downstairs, he looked almost like his normal self, though a trifle gaunt.

“We shall be going out again tonight, lad,” he informed me as we helped ourselves from the sideboard. “I’ve received a message from Forbes. Campbell-Ffinch shall be boxing, and I want to see him fight. It shall be bare knuckle and therefore illegal.”

Late that evening Barker and I took a hansom cab to Victoria Station where we boarded a train bound for Wimbledon to attend the match. Secretly, I was hoping to see Campbell-Ffinch grassed or at least to see his supercilious expression wiped from his face.

This was one of those instances where being a private enquiry agent was better than being an officer of the law. Were a constable to stumble upon the scene he could only arrest a fellow or two and let the rest of us go. None would cooperate, some would lie, and the few detained would be released in the morning. We, on the other hand, could walk among the participants and learn what there was to learn.

We arrived at a public house with the promising name of the Ring. There are many types of public houses, according to the interests and dispositions of the proprietors, and this one was a sporting pub. Prints of famous boxers of the past lined the walls, going back to Mendoza, along with reliquaries the Roman Catholic Church could not have preserved better: Jack Randall’s shoes from the 1820s, a bust of Bob Gregson from the Royal Academy, and a loving portrait painted on a Staffordshire jug of the great Dan Mendoza himself, heavyweight champion in the days before gloves and rules, a glorious time which shall never see its like again, at least according to the publican. A great boxer, he assured us after Barker had struck up a conversation with him, even if the famed man had the misfortune of being a Jew. Our host was the sort of fellow who believed every English youth should be six feet in height, a good twelve stone at least, and muscled like a plow horse, and any deficiencies were due to Norman blood or other generational mistakes.

Barker had made a radical change in his attire: he was wearing a diamond-set horseshoe stickpin. It is funny how the least thing will allow one to fit in. He went from sober private enquiry agent to sporting enthusiast in a moment, and his entire personality changed.

“I heard a rumor,” he said, leaning over the bar, a bundle of energy, “that there might be sport to be had in this neighborhood this evening, if one played one’s cards right. My friend and I have come an awfully long way at a chance for a flutter.”

“We might be able to accommodate you and the young gentleman,” the publican said with oily enthusiasm.

“Yes, we were just at the Athletic Club the other day, watching the most pathetic match between Strothers and Carson. Twelve rounds. They weren’t even hurting each other! It was as if they had taped cushions to their hands. I started talking about the old days and some of the great fights, such as Cribb versus Molineaux, Randall versus Martin, and Sayers versus Heenan. My poor friend here has never seen a bare-knuckle match, a true gladiatorial contest, and I promised him I would take him to see one if we had to leave England to do it.”

The publican ran a thumb across his lower lip with a canny look. “I don’t think a man would have to go as far as that to see a good matchup.”

“That is what my sources have told me.”

“Oh, really now?” he said. “And who might these sources of yours be?”

“I am not at liberty to say,” Barker said, looking offended, though I knew it was an act.

“You’ll have to tell me if you want to see some blood sport,” the man pressed.

“I do not put the finger on my friends,” Barker continued to insist.

“Suit yourself, then. I never said nothing about nothing.” And with that, the man began wiping the counter with a towel. He’d brought us some Watney ale, which was better than the house deserved. We each took a pull from our tankards and let the matter cool for a moment.

“Oh, very well,” the Guv said to me. “If you’re going to give me that look. It was McLain that told me about the…meeting.”

“Handy Andy?” the man spoke up. “He’s out of it!”

“Aye, he is out of it, but he is not dead, yet. He still hears things. Word says this Campbell-Ffinch fellow can fight. A real up-and-comer.”

“They don’t call him the Hammersmith Hammer for nothing. Time!” The latter was bawled over our shoulders to the crowd.

“So,” Barker said, putting down his half-empty pint glass and wiping the foam from his mustache, “were one interested in what you so rightly call blood sport, where might one go?”

“Watch and learn, gentlemen,” was all the response we got. “Watch and learn.”

The clock struck eleven and the lot of us were ejected at closing time. This was not your average closing, however. There were over fifty of us standing in one or twos along the old road, stamping our feet in the cold. The pub owner locked his door with a flourish and led us down the road for a quarter mile. It must have been an odd sight for someone in one of the cottages along the way, half a hundred marching along silently in the dark. Well, almost silently. Everyone had been drinking, after all, and looking forward to a fight.

I had heard somewhere about clandestine fights that sometimes they took place in the middle of the roadways, the better to vanish if constables should appear. Surely that would be in warm weather, however. Were I a professional fighter, there wasn’t enough money in the Bank of England to make me take my shirt off outside that night. Things improved considerably when the publican led us up to an ancient-looking tithe barn and opened the time-sprung doors. The fighters were already in their places, warming up. There were several lanterns lit, but they dared not risk any sort of fire in the dried-out structure, so it was very cold inside the building.

Campbell-Ffinch looked a worthwhile opponent, I’ll say that for him. Were I a betting man, I’d put my shilling on him. Stripped to the waist, in his silk drawers, long hose, and boots, he looked formidable. He was brown all over, and where there was brown, there was muscle, too. He seemed to glow with health, and as he shadowboxed, a fine layer of steam rose from him like from a Thoroughbred after a run.

As for his opponent, I’ve seen one like him in every village: big-chested, bigger bellied, spindle-shanked, and past his prime. He was the sort that had shown promise once, but it had all been brawn, and he’d never developed the brain to go with it.

The publican showed a flair for sportsmanship and an ability to ape his betters in the boxing fancy. He announced the fight as if it were a national title event, and to his way of thinking, it was. The sport of bare-knuckle or old rule boxing had been declared illegal and could not now bring together champions from all over England as it once had. Campbell-Ffinch, the Hammersmith Hammer, was called the champion. The contender’s name was not worth remembering, but his moniker was the Titan of Tunbridge Wells.

Our host was kind enough to point out the bookies whose takings would provide him his fee, no matter who won that evening. We were one of the few in the crowd who did not partake, but we were not conspicuous about it. The attention went back to the center of the ring, where the boxers were given the rules. A man at the side of the room rang a bell and the fight commenced.

I had boxed a little when I was in school, and I had seen a few matches as well. This wasn’t like those fights at all. It was more like fighting against a bully when I was a lad. The fists slamming into jaws and stomachs were mostly bone with a thin layer of tissue over it. It hurt to see it. The skin of both men began to turn an angry red. Surely it wouldn’t last long. The old boxer was game, I’ll give him that, but he was no match for Campbell-Ffinch. It was give-and-take for a while, and then there was a bell.

In the second round, the Foreign Office man’s opponent came out, determined to even the odds, but Campbell-Ffinch got him up under the jaw with a juicy one that made him stumble and shake his head. He would have been downed if the bell had not rung again.

The Titan was slow off his stool for the third round, and it became obvious that the Hammer was toying with him. The Titan tried a final desperate ploy and shot out a jab. Campbell-Ffinch’s left arm came up, hooked ’round the fellow’s wrist, and pushed it down. He stepped in so close, their chests almost touched, and as his left countered any move the Titan might try, his right delivered a vicious hook punch to the Titan’s temple and down he went, like a bullock at Leadenhall market. There was no shaking of the head or straining to get up. The man would be lucky if he awoke before mid-morning.

A number of audience members voiced their displeasure, but there was nothing they could do about so short a match. One couldn’t exactly complain to the village constable, and if sometimes a match was short, the next might be overlong. So are the vagaries of boxing between two human engines without gloves.

Campbell-Ffinch was pronounced the winner, someone threw a towel over his shoulders, and the Titan’s trainer attempted to revive him. Campbell-Ffinch finally saw us and his eyes narrowed.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Watching a bit of sport,” Barker stated. “Good match.”

“I do this merely to keep in shape, you know,” he said. “Strictly amateur.”

Amateur, my eye,
I told myself. If I knew my man, he’d wagered heavily on himself and had somebody there to pick up his winnings. He was trying to convince us, because he didn’t want us to tell the Foreign Office what illegal activity he was up to. If I knew Barker, he’d keep it to himself. Campbell-Ffinch would be in his debt, and that kind of debt is always harder to work off than money.

“I thought your doctor forbade your getting out of bed,” Campbell-Ffinch said.

“I could not resist the opportunity to see you fight. By the way, I apologize for wasting the time of all those good constables this morning, hunting for the text. I assume they never found it.”

“I’ll find it, Barker, make no mistake about it. I hope you realize you are blackening your name irreparably with the Foreign Office.”

“We shall see whose name shall be blackened, sir.”

“Wait!” Campbell-Ffinch called, daring to put a hand on Barker’s shoulder. “How are you coming along on the case?”

“I should be able to lay my hands upon the man,” the Guv said, looking pointedly at the hand on his shoulder, “within a week, if matters unfold as I plan.”

“You are certain?”

“Ask for no certainties on earth, sir. I shall do my best and am optimistic.” He turned to go.

“What did you think of the fight?” he called out as we left.

“It was unevenly matched. I would like to see you against a better opponent.”

“What about yourself, sir? I’ve heard you are rather good. Perhaps we can set up a match!”

“Ah,” Barker rumbled, “but there again, it would be too unevenly matched.”

We made our way back to the train station and into a compartment on a train.

“What o’clock is it?” he asked.