The Limehouse Text (6 page)

“How is Hsu Tzi these days?” Barker asked. “I have not spoken to her in five years or more.”

“She is well,” Campbell-Ffinch answered tightly. “Or so I’ve heard. You have some interesting friends. In fact, one of them has sent you a message all the way from China.” He reached in his pocket and removed a small packet of paper with a seal on it. Barker took the papers into his hands.

“The seal has been broken,” he noted.

“We are the Foreign Office, old man. We don’t give information from one party to another without inspecting it.”

My employer frowned and opened the packet. One sheet, in white, had been wrapped in an outer layer of thick paper the color of saffron. The writing was in Chinese script so perfect it might have been hung on the wall. Barker translated it and read it out loud for my benefit.

“What is that last bit?” Campbell-Ffinch demanded. “How do you understand each other?”

“He reminds me that I am in his debt. His father was my teacher, which makes him my elder brother. I can deny him nothing. Very well. I shall look into the matter, though the text shall not be as easy to acquire as the first time. Anything may have happened to it now. I shall do what I can to aid the Foreign Office, but my first priority is still finding the killer of my late assistant, Quong.”

“Damn it, man, this has international repercussions. The whole of Her Majesty’s government’s relations with the Imperial Court is at risk. What difference does the death of one Chinaman make—or a dozen, or a hundred, for that matter?”

“It makes a difference to me.”

“I heard you were a rough player, Barker. I must say, I am not impressed.”

In answer, Barker picked up a handful of walnuts and crushed them between his thumb and forefinger. The fragments rained down on the table between us.

“Come, Llewelyn.”

B
ARKER HAILED A CAB AND CONSULTED HIS
watch. “We are cutting it fine. We must get to the inquest in time, as we are to be witnesses.”

“Are the law courts in the City?” I asked.

“They are. Normally, inquests are held there, but it is up to the discretion of the coroner where he holds court. In rural areas it is often in a public house. In this case, it will be at Ho’s.”

“Ho’s?” I asked. “You mean he has not opened his tearoom again?”

“He never had the chance. After we left yesterday, the coroner arrived and ordered Poole to seal the room. I assume that was in order for the jurymen to see the tunnel and how everything is situated there. The coroner is Dr. Vandeleur.”

Vandeleur had been in our first case together. I could never forget how he had wanted to cut up a corpse because the victim had been crucified and he desired to write a piece about it for
The Lancet.
Now it would be we who were vivisected, if only in the dock as witnesses.

At two o’clock, Dr. Vandeleur was sitting behind a table facing the jury, in a spotless black frock coat, while a chair was reserved on the side of his table for witnesses. We and other interested persons sat in chairs along the sides of the room. I was rather nervous, knowing I must eventually give evidence in front of a crowd, but at the same time it was rather thrilling. Then I remembered why I was there—poor Bainbridge—and I was ashamed of my feelings. His widow, it was reported, had suffered nervous collapse and been sedated with laudanum. She would not be in attendance.

Vandeleur called the inquest to order and gave preliminary instructions to the thirteen men of the jury. Being a medical man rather than a legal one like most coroners, Vandeleur gave them all a brief lecture of what he had discovered during the postmortem. As expected, the cause of death had been due to the one bullet through the brain and Bainbridge had been in perfect health for a man of his age.

Next, the jury was taken back to the tunnel and the pertinent facts were presented. I am certain that the gentlemen were mystified as to how Ho’s was run and what its exact purpose was. Vandeleur and Poole were interested in that themselves.

I was called as the first witness and moved to the chair, feeling nervous. Barker had counseled me to keep my usual levity in my pocket for once, and I told the main features of the case as lucidly as possible. Also, on his advice, I left out any mention of the book. Perhaps it was because I went first, but there were comparatively few questions asked me by the coroner and none from the jurymen. Soon Vandeleur dismissed me and I crossed the room to my seat again.

Barker was interviewed next. He had replaced his dark spectacles with a simpler pair, with plain leather strips covering the sides. The attempt was to make him look like any other Londoner; and, as might be expected, it failed. His appearance created a murmur in the court which Vandeleur had to suppress with his gavel. For once, Barker was not as lucky as I. They asked him about the book almost immediately.

“Mr. Barker, would you please give us your history with Inspector Bainbridge?”

“A year ago the inspector was in charge of the investigation of the murder of my assistant Mr. Quong,” the Guv said in his Lowland Scots accent. “The case had never been resolved. Inspector Bainbridge came to my offices Wednesday morning, the fourth of February, 1885, having discovered a pawn ticket among the effects of my late assistant. With my assistant, Mr. Llewelyn, we proceeded to the establishment at 21 East India Dock Road and redeemed the ticket for a book on Chinese boxing.”

“Do you mean a book in Chinese or in English?”

“In Chinese. The book gave every indication of belonging to a monastery, so we took it to Mr. Ho to look at it, for he is a former monk. We discussed the book but came to no conclusion as to its worth or what we should do with it. Returning through the tunnel, Inspector Bainbridge was fatally shot and Mr. Llewelyn had a lantern shot out of his hand.”

A man spoke up from the side of the court. “I have a question, sir, about the book—”

“Might I know who the speaker is?” Vandeleur asked.

“Yes,” said a sturdily built man in his late fifties with a thick mustache. “I am Commissioner Henderson of the Criminal Investigation Department. I wish to know what has become of the book.”

“I gave it to a Chinaman, sir,” Barker replied, turning his head slightly in Ho’s direction. “It was a Chinese text, after all, and of no use to me.”

“My eye!” the commissioner grumbled, loudly enough for everyone to hear. There was a laugh, which Vandeleur quelled with the tap of his gavel.

The head of the jury, a bucolic man who looked more like he should have been planting wheat than participating in an inquest, spoke up. “How long have you been an enquiry agent, Mr. Barker?”

“Six years, sir.”

“And do you often work with Scotland Yard?”

My employer gave a stony smile. “The Yard has little need for my services. They have within their ranks some of the best investigators in all Europe. Occasionally, I will be offered a case first, because the victim wishes to keep the matter private. Other times, I am given a case that Scotland Yard has in its wisdom decided to turn down.”

“Which one was this, Mr. Barker?” This elicited more laughter from the court.

“Neither, sir. This I believe to be a continuation of an earlier case, in which my assistant was killed. Both men were murdered in the same manner.”

“Do you suspect anyone in particular of being guilty in the inspector’s death?” Vandeleur asked.

“No, sir. It remains an open case.”

“Very well, Mr. Barker. You may step down.”

There was widespread conversation among us all after Barker’s interview. Behind me, a reporter from the
Weekly Dispatch
asked me if Barker would be willing to be interviewed by a reporter. Before I could answer we were all hushed again by Vandeleur’s gavel. Ho was called to the chair next. His appearance was quite interesting. He was wearing an English suit, including a claw hammer jacket and wing collared shirt. One couldn’t get beyond the fact that the top of his forehead was shaved, and his earlobes hung to his shoulders, but his queue was discreetly tucked inside his clothes, and he was surprisingly presentable. The most savage part of him—the thick, tattooed arms—were covered by his jacket and boiled shirt.

Vandeleur began the questions. “Is Ho your surname or given name, sir?”

“It is the only name I have,” Ho answered stoutly, causing a ripple of laughter in the court.

The coroner turned to his bailiff. “Is this witness sufficiently able to communicate in English?” After receiving a nod, he continued. “Very well. Mr. Ho, what kind of establishment do you run?”

“It is a restaurant and tearoom.”

“And yet there is no sign outside, nothing which shows that you are open for business?”

“We do local business. I do not encourage Westerners, but some find their way into my establishment all the same.”

“How long have you known Mr. Barker?”

“I have known him for twenty year, in China and in England.”

“According to the police, your restaurant is frequently used for clandestine purposes. Is this true?”

“Who says this?” Ho said, looking around fiercely. “It is a lie. I run a respectable business.”

“And yet there have been some disturbances here in the past year. Isn’t it true that in this very establishment Inspector Bainbridge apprehended an anarchist who was wanted by Her Majesty’s government?”

“Yes,” Ho admitted, “but only after I throw him out. I do not ask of politics. He was drunk and disturbing other customers.”

“What time did Mr. Barker, Mr. Llewelyn, and the inspector arrive?”

“About eleven o’clock, right after we open.”

“Did you at any time accompany them into the tunnel?”

“No. I stay in my office.”

Vandeleur leaned back and considered for a moment. “Tell me about this book. Did Mr. Barker show it to you?”

“I saw the book.”

“In your opinion, is such a book valuable?”

“Not the book but the knowledge inside.”

“Might someone kill to obtain such an item?”

Ho considered the questions for a moment. “I believe someone already has.”

Any witness following Ho would be anticlimactic, and that position fell to Inspector Poole. I believe Mr. Gilbert said it best: “A policeman’s lot is not a happy one.” The inspector took the stand and answered questions.

I personally thought Poole gave a rather antiseptic version of what happened, making himself sound the calm, logical officer leading the case with a cool head, whereas at the time, I thought the inspector had been overdramatic, while Barker alone had remained cool.

“Do you feel your acquaintance with Inspector Bainbridge might have in any way prejudiced your judgment in the case?” Vandeleur continued.

“No, sir. I was acquainted with the inspector. I was more concerned that a member of the Metropolitan Police force had been shot.”

“Was the second bullet found?”

“It was, sir. It had knocked a chip out of the second step and bounced along the tunnel. It was all out of shape, but by its weight, I could see it was a thirty-eight millimeter shell.”

“Were either of the preceding witnesses armed?”

“Mr. Barker was. He carries two American Colt revolvers, both forty-four millimeter. Such a weapon would have done much more damage.”

“Did you search the restaurant for a possible weapon?”

“I did, sir. There were no firearms to be found.”

“The restaurant’s customers left before you got there, however, and one could have taken the gun.” Vandeleur turned to the jury. “I am trying to eliminate any blame for anyone on the premises, you see.”

“Yes,” Poole stated, “it is possible someone might have picked up a gun and carried it out.”

“Did Mr. Barker, Mr. Llewelyn, or Mr. Ho leave the premises?”

“Mr. Llewelyn left to telegraph Scotland Yard, sir.”

I suddenly felt forty pairs of eyes on me. I had only done what Barker had told me to do. What were we supposed to do, sit around and wait for Scotland Yard to deduce that one of their inspectors had been killed?

“Very well,” Vandeleur replied. “We shall take your comments into consideration, Inspector. You may step down.”

Since the court had no more witnesses, the jury convened into another room, one I had not noticed before, while Barker and I sat and waited. It was no more than twenty minutes before the jurymen filed back into the room and took their seats again.

“Have you reached a verdict?” the coroner asked. The head juryman handed over a slip of paper which the bailiff passed to the coroner. Vandeleur nodded decisively.

“The jury finds Inspector Bainbridge’s death to be willful murder by person or persons unknown.”

Dr. Vandeleur brought the gavel down a final time and we were dismissed. It was not like a court trial in which there are winners and losers, and so there was not much reason to stand about and discuss the case. The coroner was the first out the door, on the way to another postmortem, most likely. Henderson stood in a corner and talked with Poole, while the rest of the spectators and the jurymen left the building, ready to put the inquest and Limehouse behind them as soon as possible.

In the kitchen, Ho popped the button on his celluloid collar and it sprang open. He pulled out the thick plait of hair he had been hiding. He made some remark to Barker in Chinese, and they both gave a grim laugh.

“He said since none of the waiters or cooks showed up for work this afternoon, he doesn’t intend to pay them for today,” Barker explained.

Inspector Poole suddenly stepped around me and ignored Barker as if he weren’t there.

“Mr. Ho,” he said, “you are under arrest.”

“On what charge?” Barker demanded.

Poole pointed at a slip of paper on one of the walls. “Expired license to serve victuals, to begin with. Commissioner Henderson wants to know what sort of place this is and what sort of patron it caters to.”

“How long?” Ho asked. “One day? Three day?”

“I don’t know yet, but the more you cooperate the faster you’ll get out again. I am going to have to put these darbies on your wrists.”

There was a tense moment and I wondered if Ho would fight. His knives and cleavers were within easy reach. Instead, he shrugged a shoulder and put out his hands. Poole, surprised it had been so easy, clapped steel on them.

“Lock up,” Ho said to Barker.

“I shall,” came the response. The Guv could not let the matter pass. “I suppose these are Henderson’s orders.”

“Of course they are,” Poole said bitterly. “He wants this man in for questioning. Be glad it isn’t you. I have no freedom in this case. Everyone is telling me what to do. If they would just leave me alone, I could get on with it. I didn’t buy my way to becoming an inspector, you know.”

Barker looked away and nodded.

“This one looks like a trained fighter,” Poole warned his constables. “Keep your distance and be ready should he try to escape. Let us go.”