The Limehouse Text

by Will Thomas

  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 you
r 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.

  I consulted my repeater. “Half past one, sir. That move, sir, that last move Campbell-Ffinch made, that knocked out the Titan—”

  “What about it?” Barker asked.

  “It was Chinese boxing, wasn’t it?”

  “Very good, lad. Yes, it was. A hook of the wrist, followed by a simultaneous block and punch. He did it well, too.”

  “How do you suppose he learned it?”

  “No Chinese instructor would teach a foreigner, but the man has eyes and a brain. Perhaps he saw it in a fight and copied the move or learned it from someone unscrupulous, such as a dismissed student. I am certain he would pay well for that information.”

  “It’s far too coincidental, sir. He has to be our killer. He is awfully desperate to lay his hands on the book.”

  “Perhaps,” Barker stated diplomatically.

  “Will you speak to Inspector Poole about Campbell-Ffinch’s late night activities?”

  “No, I want to give Poole a chance to solve this one if he can. Setting Scotland Yard and the Foreign Office at each other’s throats will only tie up both agencies.”

  “More room for you, then,” I said.

  “I don’t need them hampered to find Quong’s killer.”

  “Do you know who it is?” I asked, leaning forward.

  “It is still early, lad. One cannot build a house until all the materials are assembled. I counsel patience.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, “but while we are being patient, we have a houseful of servants and stable fees and other expenses to pay.”

  “Spoken like an assistant. I thank you for your concern,” he said, “but there is no amount I could pay that would equal the sacrifice Quong himself made in my service.”

  Of course, I had no rejoinder to make to that. After we pulled into Victoria Station, Barker moved forward to get out and I saw him wince, striations in the skin below his black spectacles.

  “How are you feeling?” I dared ask.

  “The ride has done nothing good for my lower back. My kidneys are still sore, but I take that as a good sign. Things must hurt before they can heal. They must get worse before they can get better.”

  I stepped out of the station doors and raised my good arm to hail a hansom. I always hate it when Barker sounds prophetic.

  22

  BARKER RESTED MOST OF THE NEXT DAY. HE HAD been pushing himself since he’d first awakened from his injuries. When I got back from the office, Mac informed me that the Guv hadn’t even been down to lunch. We were talking sotto voce but we should have known the Guv would have heard me enter the house. He called down from the top floor. I set my stick in the hall stand and went upstairs.

  My employer was still in bed, clad in his dressing gown. Upon my entrance, he reached into the table by his bed and removed a small daguerreotype, no larger than a playing card. I scrutinized it. It showed a young Oriental with a serious expression on his face against a backdrop painted to look like a Hellenic grove.

  “Is this Quong?” I asked.

  “Yes. I want you to take it with you to dinner with Miss Petulengro. See if she recognizes it.”

  “But I haven’t asked her yet, sir.”

  “Then you had better make haste, lad. A young woman as attractive as that is not going to wait for you to get up your courage.”

  I slid into the shop a few minutes before closing time, making certain the bell jingled to attract Miss Petulengro’s attention. By the time I reached the counter, she came in from the rooms behind.

  “Oh, it’s you, again,” she said, flashing what might be the prettiest teeth in the East End. “What brings you here?”

  “I was in the neighborhood and thought I might take the chance that you had not eaten dinner yet.”

  “Here, I ain’t that kinda girl, I’ll have you know,” she said, putting her hand on her hip.

  “Oh! I do beg your pardon! I didn’t mean—”

  She broke out in a laugh. “Oh, your face. Four shades of red, it is. I meant I ain’t the kinda girl you have to impress with a meal, if you get my meaning.”

  “I see.”

  “But you might have warned me, you know. I might have made plans of me own. I been asked to dinner twice today already, and I turned them down. What makes you think I’d go out with you?”

  “Because being an enquiry agent makes me irresistible to women,” I bluffed. “Air of danger and all that.”

  “Ha! As far as I’m concerned, it’s just another name for copper. I suppose your real plan is to open me up and ply me with questions.”

  “Well, yes, that’s exactly the idea, but there’s no reason why we cannot do it over a nice meal and a bottle of wine.”

  “I reckon you’re right. Best offer I had all day, I’ll admit. Where shall we go?”

  “I don’t know the East End well. Is there somewhere special you would like to eat?”

  “There’s a nice restaurant over by Billingsgate where you can get a fish dinner you won’t forget. Haven’t been there in a while. Will that suit your sensibilities or do you want to go somewhere posh? You are dressed like a toff tonight.”

  “A fish dinner sounds wonderful.”

  “Perfect. I’ll lock up and be down directly.”

  It was more like ten minutes, but she had transformed into a swan during that time. She’d changed into a long skirt and white blouse with lace at the collar and wrists, covered by a mantle of dark silk paisley that emphasized her gypsy looks. She had pinned back her henna-colored hair and traded the large hoops she wore for a more delicate set of ivory cameo earrings. Her cheeks were flushed but I couldn’t tell if it were due to the rouge pot or merely the result of looking forward to a good evening.

  The East End wasn’t easy to negotiate on a weekday evening. We walked a few blocks until we reached the tram, which took us west a while. Eventually we got off on Commercial Road and hired a four-wheeler. Hettie looked quite beautiful in her evening outfit, and had she behaved herself I’m sure she could have graced any West End establishment. But she wouldn’t behave herself, I knew. She was simply too wild. I was certain she could snap her fingers and have a dozen Limehouse denizens at her beck and call.

  The restaurant, when we finally arrived, was hard by the Fish Market, in a converted warehouse overlooking the Thames. Inside, it looked more like a cross between a pub and a well-established supper club. As I stepped in, the aroma of melted butter and oyster stew met my nostrils. I had to admit I was hungry.

  “’Ello, Eddy, old boy!” Hestia cried out to the maître d’, an old gentleman who reminded me of Fezziwig from Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, round as a ball and jovial as a doting grandfather.

  “Why, Miss Petulengro! Bless my soul! How pleasant to see you again! What outrage have we performed that you’ve stayed away so long?”

  “How could you do anything wrong, Eddy? You know you’ll always be my favorite.”

  “I see no other option, my dear,” the old fellow said, �
��than to give you and your gentleman friend here the best seat in the house.”

  He led us through a maze of corridors full of booths with people dining until we finally came to a set of windows overlooking the Thames, where we were seated. The river, for once, looked almost romantic, and the row of windows looking out on the water made me feel like we were in the stern of an clipper ship. Our table was lit by candles, and it even boasted linen. I noticed not a few eyes upon us, but when one goes out with such a beauty, I suppose one must grow accustomed to that.

  “Shall you and the gentleman be having the house dinner, miss?”

  “We shall.”

  “Excellent. I hope everything will be up to your expectations. You, sir. Would you care to see the wine list?”

  “I believe,” I said, “that such a selection is best left in your capable hands. I would not presume to consider my opinion higher than your own.”

  “Spoken like a man of discernment. Very well. I am to be given a free hand, so to speak. Enjoy your meal, and let the courses begin.”

  “Courses?” I asked Hettie after he had gone.

  “Yes. I hope you brought your appetite, ducks. I’m starved.”

  “Is the food as good as the view?” I asked, looking out at the river.

  “Oh, it is. Now I know you have some questions from that boss of yours. Go on.”

  “If I may, I’d like to begin with your uncle.”