Charley is no stranger to the smoky, shadowy world inhabited by opium smokers – Lotos-eaters, he calls them, after Mr Tennyson’s poem. In his policing days, he was always sure of finding at least one notorious thief there, watching his ill-gotten gains go up in smoke. When such fellows are collared, they’re generally quite agreeable and docile – at least until the effects of the drug wear off. Charley tried a pipe once, just to see what the attraction was; it was pleasant enough, but he didn’t much like the prospect of the tables being turned, of one of those thieves finding him there, with his brain befuddled and his defenses down.
As they have done with fogs and slums and crazed murderers, the penny bloods greatly exaggerate the presence of opium dens and the threat posed by them. Charley has encountered fewer than a dozen in his long career; most were small and innocuous, tucked away in one room of a Chinese boarding house or in the rear of some shop that sells oriental foods and fabrics. The most-frequented puffer’s paradises are in the Isle of Dogs, but those draw mainly Malays and Lascars from the East India Docks. Bohemians and theatre folk and upper-crust gents who are slumming tend to prefer the slightly less gritty surroundings of Bluegate Fields – also known as Tiger Bay, after the tigress-like tarts who lurk there, waiting for prey.
The Fields was once quite a prosperous neighborhood, but the docks have had a bad influence here, too. Though you’re not quite as likely to be bludgeoned and stripped of your clothes and possessions as in the Isle of Dogs, it’s not out of the question. In fact, the area boasts one of the most dangerous dens of vice in the city: Ah Choy’s, a chaotic combination of gambling hall, smoking saloon, and molly house.
In a way, your typical pleasure palace is no different than, say, a department store; it caters to a core of ‘regulars’ who provide most of its business. Ah Choy’s, however, is more like a shearing shed, or perhaps an abbatoir; the poor lambs who are lured there by gay ladies always emerge many pounds lighter – if they emerge at all. Its reputation is such that coppers do their best to avoid it; certainly they wouldn’t think of going in there alone. But Charley is no longer a copper, and has no fellow constables to call upon.
If Davy Pillbeam has indeed disappeared, and if opium is involved, this is a likely place to start looking. It won’t do, of course, to just go barging in; he’d never get past the Chinese Colossus who guards the door. This seven-and-a-half foot giant was once a star attraction on the stages of England and Europe; when the novelty wore off, Ah Choy hired him as both a means of drawing people in and of chucking them out when necessary.
Charley strolls over to the tavern called the Coal Whipper’s Arms and strikes up an acquaintance with the most pitiful-looking of the painted ladies who loiter there; he figures she needs the business. With the girl – whose name is Anna – on his arm, he saunters into Ah Choy’s unchallenged. Once they’re ensconced in a private room Charley pays her off, then excuses himself and goes poking about the premises until the scent of burning opium leads him to the lair of the Lotos-eaters.
With all the money Mr Choy rakes in, you’d think he could provide more pleasant surroundings. There’s only one bed as such, occupied by four slack-jawed smokers. The rest are sprawled on filthy mats or on the bare floor. The room is permeated by a bluish mist and the walls and ceiling are gray-washed with the residue from a thousand pipes. But of course the coves who come here don’t care much about atmosphere. The moment they begin to play the bamboo flute, they’re no longer at Ah Choy’s, or even in England; they’re transported to Lotos Land.
A haggard woman kneels in front of the fireplace, cooking the shredded opium, which is spread on a square of canvas stretched over the top of an ordinary saucepan. Though her skin has a yellowish cast, Charley suspects it’s not a racial trait but a sign of illness, for her features are those of an Englishwoman. At a dilapidated table sits a small Asian man with a queue and a grimy embroidered jacket; he’s preparing the cooked opium for smoking.
It’s a surprisingly delicate, elaborate process. First he heats the tip of a thin-bladed dagger over a spirit lamp; then he dips the blade into a porcelain cup and lifts out a small blob of what looks very much like treacle. He holds it over the lamp until it hardens, then dips out another layer and does the same. When he’s accumulated a ball the size and shade of a roasted coffee bean, he deposits it in the clay bowl of a pipe with a bamboo stem, lights it with a sliver of wood and, like a priest administering the Eucharist, places the holy object in the trembling hands of an eager communicant.
As Charley weaves his way among the limp forms of the Lotos-eaters, he gives each a glance; one is all it takes, in most cases. He rules out two of them right away, since they’re women. And, unless Master Davy has donned the tarry canvas clothes of a sailor, half a dozen others aren’t worth a second look.
But several of the men wear more genteel attire: flannel trousers, linen shirts, checked waistcoats. Charley lingers a bit longer over these, scanning their faces. There’s no need to compare them to the photograph provided by Mrs Worthing; even allowing for the changes that a drug-induced stupor may produce, not one of them remotely resembles Davy.
To his surprise, though, Charley finds two of the faces quite familiar. One belongs to a celebrated stage actor whose name you would surely recognize if I revealed it, though I won’t; for all we know, this may be his first and only visit to an opium den. Everyone is entitled to one mistake. The other face might be drawn from the pages of Mr Lavater’s Science of Physiognomy, for it strongly supports the theory that a criminal looks like a criminal.
Though Charley’s last encounter with Bad Hat Henry was five years ago or more, there’s no forgetting the fellow’s face – it would not look out of place on an orangutan – or his despicable deeds, which run the gamut from beating helpless animals to slitting throats. In fact, Charley had no intention of forgetting him; Henry occupies a prominent place in his list of Wrongdoers Who Got Away, lagging behind only Neck and Neckless. And if that’s not enough of a reminder, there’s always the six-inch scar that decorates one of Charley’s forearms. Seizing a fistful of shirt and waistcoat, he pulls the muzzy miscreant to his feet.
‘Is it time?’ murmurs Bad Hat Henry.
‘Yes,’ says Charley. ‘It’s time.’ Time the man was locked up, or maybe hanged. Though the inspector has always been willing to go easy on those who show some remorse and some promise of improvement, Henry used up all his chances long ago.
Charley wishes now that he’d got himself another pair of handcuffs. But he may not need them; the prisoner seems quite content to follow wherever he’s led. The man with the queue makes no objection, either; he barely registers their passing. It looks as if Charley may manage to get out of the place as effortlessly as he got in.
It doesn’t look that way for long. Just as he’s about to open the door, it flies inward, nearly knocking him off his feet. Apparently his new friend Anna has sensed something amiss and summoned help, for standing in the doorway – filling it completely, in fact – is the Chinese Colossus.
SIXTEEN
The Colossus has to duck his head quite low in order to enter the room. It’s the perfect opportunity for Charley to ram his walking stick into the giant’s midsection and then make a run for it. But after five years of hunting Bad Hat Henry, he’s not about to leave the bloke behind. ‘This man is a notorious criminal!’ he announces to the room at large. ‘I’m turning him over to the police!’
The Colossus is not inclined to discuss the matter. He yanks Charley’s stick from his hand and tosses it aside, then wraps his massive arms around the detective as if greeting a long-lost friend – though he must have a serious shortage of friends if he’s accustomed to squeeze them this tightly. Charley is lifted off his feet as easily as he himself lifted Rosa’s daughter. Unable to move or protest or even breathe, he’s carried like a sack of grain into the hallway and down the stairs to the rear exit, where he’s flung into the soot-sprinkled, piss-laden snow that fills the alley.
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p; He’s had the wind knocked out of him in the ring more times than he can count, but that was thirty years ago. Now, it takes him a while to recover, and even then it hurts to breathe; the outsized oaf must have sprung one or more of his ribs. Well, that’s nothing new, either. Groaning, he gets to his feet. There’s probably no point in going back in there; Bad Hat Henry will be long gone, and in any case the Colossus would only throw him out again – or perhaps do him in.
Charley is no coward, but neither is he a fool. He and Henry will surely cross paths again, when the odds are more in his favor. Besides, he’s learned what he needs to know – that he’ll have to look elsewhere for Davy Pillbeam. When Charley does find him, the little blighter and his doting da had better be very grateful. For one thing, they’re going to buy him a new walking stick.
In terms of both atmosphere and clientele, the place known as Poppy’s is several steps up from Ah Choy’s. The entryway and the smoking saloon are decorated with ornate mirrors, cloisonné vases, stylized statuary, silk hangings painted with Chinese characters. Poppy himself is a cordial chap of indeterminate age who speaks perfectly acceptable English, not the pidgin variety. Though he dresses in the traditional robe and baggy trousers – after all, what self-respecting smoker would trust an opium master who looks like a bank clerk? – he forgoes the queue, preferring to shave his entire head.
Poppy has proven helpful to the police more than once, and Charley and his colleagues have always treated him with a certain amount of respect – the sort of respect that doesn’t depend on being seven-and-a-half feet tall. ‘I apologize for my appearance,’ says Charley. ‘I had a bit of an altercation with the Chinese Colossus.’
‘Altercation?’ says Poppy. ‘Do you mean a fight?’
‘No, no, I’ve been in many fights, and this wasn’t one, I assure you.’
‘You went into Ah Choy’s alone? Why would you do such a thing?’
‘I’m trying to find this boy.’ Charley shows him the daguerreotype.
Though Celestials are known for being inscrutable, it’s clear that Poppy recognizes the face. ‘Is he wanted for a crime?’
‘Only if you consider being stupid and lazy a crime. When was he here?’
‘He came two days ago,’ says Poppy. ‘He gave me a sovereign and said to keep filling the pipe until the money ran out.’
‘And you obliged? Do you realize the boy is only seventeen?’
Poppy grimaces; so much for inscrutability. ‘If I had, I would have thrown him out.’
‘Even worse, his father is a real big shot. That is to say—’
‘I know the meaning of the phrase. Do you think the father will make trouble for us?’
‘He might. No doubt he has some very influential friends. But maybe I can avoid telling him where I found his son.’
‘I would be grateful, Inspector. And I can be very generous in showing my gratitude.’
‘So I’ve heard. Well. The first order of business is to get him out of here.’
For a novice like Davy, the effects of a pipe can last several hours. Unfortunately, he’s starting to stir and, when Charley and Poppy lift him to his feet, he protests. ‘What’re you doing?’ he mumbles. ‘Where’re you taking me?’
Charley knows better than to say To your father. ‘To the privy.’
‘Oh,’ says Davy, and smiles dreamily. ‘Thank you.’
Though even the most shabby hackney coach bears only a superficial resemblance to a privy, Davy seems unable to make the distinction. As soon as the cab door closes, he starts unbuttoning his trousers. ‘No, no,’ says Charley. ‘Not yet.’
The rocking of the cab makes his injured ribs feel like knives stabbing him. It also throws Davy off balance and onto the seat. Puzzled, the boy pats the upholstery. ‘There’s no hole in this privy.’
‘I lied,’ says Charley. ‘It’s a coach. We’re going to visit the Queen.’
‘Oh, good. I was just dreaming about her, you know. She’s very pretty.’ Davy curls up in the corner of the seat and closes his eyes. ‘Let me know when we get to Buckingham Palace, will you?’
With any luck, he’ll sleep all the way to St James’s. If necessary, Charley can administer a dose of the opium tincture provided by Poppy, who also turned over a wallet that Davy gave him for safekeeping – Mr Pillbeam’s, no doubt.
The boy is not asleep after all. He murmurs, ‘My father won’t be there, will he? I get nervous when he’s around. I feel as if I can never do anything right.’
Charley knows the feeling well, thanks to Jane and the mother. ‘Indeed? From what I hear, your father thinks you can do no wrong.’
‘Well, but, that’s the thing, isn’t it? How am I supposed to live up to that?’
‘So, you’re doing your best to show him that he’s mistaken.’
Davy gives a wry grin. ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose I am.’
When the cab lets them out at Pillbeam’s place, Davy still needs a bit of support, and Charley provides it, ignoring the complaints from his poor ribs. Mrs Worthing greets them at the door. ‘Oh, Master Davy! You had us so worried!’
For the moment, young Mr Pillbeam forgets his insistence on being called David; he seems content to be treated like a naughty boy who has run away from home or eaten too much marzipan. Charley passes him off to a maid, who helps him upstairs.
‘How did you manage to find him, Inspector?’ asks the housekeeper softly.
‘Oh, I never divulge my methods, Mrs Worthing.’ He hands her the daguerreotype and the bottle of laudanum. ‘He’s going to be sick for a while, almost as if he had the ague. Give him a spoonful of this, and decrease the dosage each day, until he’s better.’
‘Yes, sir. If you’ll wait here, I’ll fetch Mr Pillbeam.’
Though Charley dodged the housekeeper’s questions deftly enough, her master is not so easily put off. Pillbeam wants a detailed account of all that transpired, as if he suspects the detective of inventing the whole episode and means to trip him up. Charley obliges, but omits the part about the Chinese Colossus; he has his pride, after all. Nor does he mention the name or the whereabouts of Poppy’s establishment.
That’s not good enough for Pillbeam. ‘Inspector, I am a man of business. Now, I suppose you expect to be rewarded for your services – even though I didn’t actually engage you and so, strictly speaking, I’m under no obligation to pay you.’
‘What I expected, sir, was that you would be grateful to have your son back.’
‘Oh, I am, Inspector, I am. And I have every intention of showing my gratitude. But—’ The man raises his voice and an admonishing finger, as if delivering a speech in Hyde Park or on the floor of Parliament. ‘I also intend to see that the blackguards who prey upon young men like my son are not permitted to get away with it. If they want to cater to the vices of sailors and other riffraff, let them. But when they begin luring innocent lads of good families into their clutches, it’s time for law-abiding citizens to say, “Enough!” No, if you want anything from me, Inspector, you must first give me what I want – the exact location of this den of depravity.’
Charley suspects that the man means what he says. But he also suspects that, as a businessman, Pillbeam is used to bargaining. ‘I’ll consider it, under one condition.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You hire back the servants you let go.’ He digs out the wallet and places it in the man’s hand.
Pillbeam’s face falls. ‘Oh. You … um … you didn’t find a watch, by any chance?’
‘No. I imagine it was sold.’
‘I see.’ Pillbeam takes a moment to regain his composure. ‘Very well, I agree to your condition. Now. The location of that opium den.’
With a sigh of defeat, Charley takes out his notebook and sets about sketching a crude map of Blue Gate Fields.
That very night, there’s a spectacular fire in Tiger Bay that sends the tigresses and the gamblers and the Lotos-eaters scattering like sewer rats. Though the district fire brigade is on the scene within
ten minutes, the Leather-Breeches make no attempt to save the building that houses the opium den. One might almost think that they had been instructed by Superintendent Braidwood – who is, no doubt, a friend of Mr Pillbeam – to let it burn. With the help of a dozen bystanders who man the pumps, the brigadiers wet down the adjacent buildings, though, to prevent the flames from spreading.
Within half an hour, all that remains of Ah Choy’s is a mound of charred timbers and smoking ash; at least one of the Lotos-eaters is observed inhaling the smoke, determined to get his money’s worth. The other clients and the displaced employees view the ruins with resignation, confident that Mr Choy will quickly establish a new base of operations. That’s one thing you can count on: Vice will always find a place to flourish.
Like all conflagrations, this one has attracted most of the local populace, including Mr Poppy. Needless to say, the opium master is not sorry to see his competitor’s place destroyed – though it wasn’t the competition that bothered him so much as the fact that Ah Choy’s was giving the whole neighborhood a bad name. He’s a smart fellow, is Poppy, and he surely knows how the fire got started; hiring an arsonist is a simple enough matter, and not even very costly. No doubt he also knows why Ah Choy’s establishment, rather than his own, ended up as the target of Mr Pillbeam’s wrath. A few days from now, Charley will be receiving a package from Poppy, containing a very unusual and quite extravagant token of his gratitude.
Mr Pillbeam, who is not ordinarily known for his generosity, has already displayed his gratitude in the only way he knows – with money, and far more of it than Charley expected. He also took a small stack of Charley’s new business cards and will hand them out to his wealthy friends, along with a glowing recommendation. It begins to look as if Charley will be able to pay his rent after all.
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