The Limehouse Text

by Will Thomas

  “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.”

  Then we were alone. A half hour before, the room had been full of people, but now it had an empty, forlorn aspect.

  Barker heaved a sigh. “This is not good,” he said. “If I engage my solicitor for Ho, it shall only confirm his guilt in the eyes of Henderson. He shall have to spend a few days in custody. But then, it won’t be the first time Ho has been in jail.”

  We turned off the gas and made our way to the stairs. The Guv lit one of the naphtha lamps. It was not a time to be taking chances.

  7

  BY THE TIME WE GOT BACK TO OUR OFFICES, IT was five thirty, by the tolling of Big Ben around the corner.

  “Are we done, sir?” I asked. A great deal had happened since my less-than-brilliant decision to follow Miss Winter’s cab this morning. I had been in several public conveyances and would like nothing better than a good, stationary easy chair.

  “One more place, I think. What would you say to a visit to the Café Royal?”

  “The Café Royal? Are you serious?” Barker was not the type of person who frequented fashionable restaurants and evening establishments.

  “I am always serious, lad. You know that.” He raised a hand and a moment later, a cab glided to a halt in front of us.

  Ten minutes later, we pulled up in Regent Street and alighted. I had always wanted to stop at the Café Royal but had never had the money and the time together. The Royal catered to the arts crowd. The arbiters of next year’s tastes in literature, art, fashion, and thought were here, and one could rub shoulders, sometimes quite literally, with famous men. Mr. Whistler came here, as did Oscar Wilde. I had to wonder what would bring Barker to such a place.

  I looked about the room at the gilt fittings, the pantheon of immortals painted on the ceiling, and the mirrored walls, which gave the room added depth. Almost every table was full. I saw one shaggy-looking fellow arguing volubly with another man. Barker stood in the doorway, inevitably drawing attention to himself, then slowly, he reached up and touched the side of his nose. Recognizing it as a signal, I glanced about, to see if it was returned. It was, but in the most unlikely of places. A group of wags were seated upon the crimson velvet benches staring at the figure that is Cyrus Barker. While his comrades laughed, one reached up and touched the side of his nose. He rose and went toward the back to consult with one of the waiters, who wore long white aprons over black waistcoats and trousers. Then he continued out of the room.

  Barker raised his chin and I immediately followed the dandy, the Guv after me. We went into the next room, past the entrance of a Masonic temple, of all things, then down a spiral staircase to an anteroom, occupied by one other person, a large burly man who was leaning back with his head against the wall, sleeping. His lips formed an O under his mustache and he was, in general, an uncouth-looking creature.

  “I hope you do not mind,” the dandy said. “There is nothing as unaesthetic as an enquiry agent, and I have a reputation for taking my frivolity seriously. I had to tell my friends you were bailiffs, like our friend here.”

  “As hard as you try,” Barker rumbled, “I doubt you could create a debt your father could not repay. Forbes, this is my assistant, Thomas Llewelyn. Thomas, the Honorable Pollock Forbes. Speaking of paying, Pollock, how do we stand on credit? Do I owe you or do you owe me?”

  Forbes ran a finger along his chin as he reflected. He had the longest, thinnest fingers I have ever seen. He was a casual looking fellow, in the latest style from Savile Row, a lounge suit. Despite the name, it looked expensive. “I believe I’m in your debt, old man, and it’s not the kind the pater can pay off. What are you working on?”

  “I have a case involving a book stolen from a Chinese monastery. The Chinese government and the Foreign Office are hunting for it. The latter is represented by Mr. Trelawney Campbell-Ffinch.”

  “Campbell-Ffinch. I haven’t heard that name in ages,” he said, fluttering a hand at a waiter in the hall. “Lonnie was in my house at Cambridge, a few years ahead of me. He’s always been a bully and a frightful bore. Chumley, bring us a bottle of the Veuve Clicquot, there’s a good chap.”

  The waiter, who had appeared silently at my elbow, glided off as quietly as he came. Something about Forbes’s inflection made me pause, and then it came to me. Like Barker, he was a Scot. Detective work was one of those occupations like engineering that seemed suited to the Scottish temperament.

  “You’ll like it, I think,” he said, referring to the wine. “The Royal has one of the best cellars in the world. To tell the truth, I didn’t know Lonnie was in London again. He’s like a bad sailor, always being posted farther and farther east. Something big must have occurred to have them dare bring him back. Is any of this in my line?”

  “It has international repercussions,” Barker said, “but I do not believe any heads shall roll, save for one fellow’s, who has been killing people to get the book.”

  “Where?”

  “The East End,” the Guv stated. “Limehouse.”

  “Isn’t that where…. Oh, yes, I see it now. Your late assistant was mixed up in this, was he not?”

  “He was.”

  The waiter arrived with the Clicquot and opened it with a ceremonial pop. I had never tasted pink champagne before. It was sweet and tickled my nose.

  Barker emptied his glass and set it back on the table. “Very nice,” he pronounced. I knew for a fact that he did not care for wine of any sort and I doubted he could tell a Dom Pérignon from a third-rate Italian table wine.

  Pollock Forbes coughed discreetly behind his hand. “So what exactly would you like me to undertake?” he asked.

  “I would like to know when Campbell-Ffinch arrived in London again and if he was summoned. I want to learn how he has been spending his free time and with whom. His knuckles are swollen. I believe he may have been fighting recently.”

  Forbes extracted a short pencil from his pocket and recorded the questions on his cuff. “Got it. Anything else?”

  “Have you ever heard of a Mr. K’ing?”

  “The Chinaman? Of course. I hear his name often. ‘Lost ten quid to Mr. K’ing at puck-a-poo,’ ‘Lost fifty poun’ at mah-jongg to that blighter K’ing.’ I gather between the gambling parlors and the opium dens, he’s doing all right for himself.”

  The snoring fellow in the corner had awakened and even now, they were setting his meal before him: game hens with pomme frites. I had heard the cooking here was as good as any restaurant in Paris. All the French political exiles ate here and why shouldn’t they? Even if the food were not superb, there was the authentic decor, as if a slice of Versailles like a three-layered cake had been set down in the middle of London.

  “Stay for dinner?” Forbes asked, as if reading my thoughts. Barker pondered it as his fellow Scotsman refilled his glass. The Guv tossed it down again like so much well water and sh
ook his head.

  “No, we must be going.” He turned to me. “What’s wrong, lad?”

  “Nothing, sir,” I grumbled.

  Barker took my remark at face value, but I must have caught Forbes in mid-breath, setting him coughing behind his hand. It was then that my instinct or training took over: the coughing, the sunken skin around his eyes, both signs of illness.

  We took our leave, after Forbes promised he would look into the matter. I wondered if he was a plainclothes policeman working sub rosa, as I understood the Royal was a haven for refugees and anarchists. But, no, he was too genuine, too imaginative, too aesthetic, to use his word. We passed out into Regent Street again and stood at the cabstand.

  “He is consumptive, isn’t he?” I asked.

  Barker nodded slowly. “Yes. Very good, Thomas, but then, you are familiar with the symptoms, are you not?” He referred, of course, to my late wife, Jenny, who had wasted away of the disease while I was in prison. A shudder went down my back. The memory had been dredged up too quickly, before I’d had a chance to prepare myself.

  “How advanced is his condition?”

  “He’s had it at least three years. His father is the laird of Aberdeenshire and chief of the Clan Forbes. Pollock is the oldest son and due to inherit, but he shall not survive his father. He’ll not be getting his threescore and ten, I ken.”

  “Is he some sort of…enquiry agent?”

  “Not as you or I know it,” he said. “Forbes once said we would split the city between us. He would take the West End, I the East. To be more precise, he looks after the aristocracy. When they get into a spot of trouble—blackmail, perhaps, or a scandal—they come to him. He takes care of them better than they deserve. He is a walking Burke’s Peer-age. He can tell you line by line the honors and lineage of England’s most powerful families. It occupies him, I think. He cultivates a flippant exterior, but behind it lies one of the best brains in London. His father does not understand, poor fellow—keeps trying to order him back—but he will not go, not until the very end. I imagine that seeing what he shall miss must be far too painful.”

  “It is abominable, sir.”