The Limehouse Text

by Will Thomas

  Her face turned serious a moment. “Thought you might. I was out celebrating New Year’s with some girl friends. Got home late and found the shop in the possession of Bainbridge and company.”

  “Inspector Bainbridge?” I asked.

  “The very same. Me uncle was found dead behind the counter by some sailors who’d been anxious to sell their kit for a night of revels. It looked like a typical robbery. His neck had been broken with one blow. There was a nasty bruise across the left side of his neck, but nothing stolen out of the jewel case or the safe.”

  “Was Inspector Bainbridge helpful?”

  “I don’t meant to speak ill of the dead, but Bainy always had an eye on me and I don’t think it was a professional one, either. He followed me about and kept an eye on the shop, both before and after. To tell you the truth, I half suspected he did me uncle in. The wound looked just like the mark that club of his would make.”

  “But why would the inspector want to kill your uncle?” I asked.

  “Who knows? Maybe he wanted to make me an heiress so he could marry me.”

  “But he was already married,” I pointed out.

  “Oh, I think he’d do in his missus, if it came to that. Not that I asked him to. He was a copper, after all, and not a pretty one like you,” she said, and actually reached across the table and pinched my nose. “Lawks, if you don’t blush!” She laughed.

  The meal arrived after that. Arrived and kept arriving. The fish dinner, which turned out to be famous in the East End, consisted of eleven fish courses aside from the buns and vegetables. There was plaice and sole, sea bass and halibut, flounder, oysters, herring in mustard sauce, cod, eels, whiting, and shad. My dinner companion proved herself an enthusiastic eater. As to drink, I found we each had a goblet of white wine, a glass of porter, and a half pint of stout, to wash everything down with. Had Barker not been paying for the meal, I’d have begun to worry how much it would all cost.

  By the end of the meal, I was gasping, “My word. I cannot eat another bite.”

  “Eddy takes good care of you, don’t you agree?”

  “He does. I trust this doesn’t all come from the Thames.”

  “Good heavens, no. It comes from Newhaven on the train, first thing in the morning. Eddy hits the fish market early.”

  “Is that what this place is called? Eddy’s? I didn’t see a sign out front besides the one saying Fish Dinner.”

  “I believe its actual moniker is the Billingsgate Family Fish Restaurant and Public House, but if you don’t call it Eddy’s, you’re green.”

  “I see. All this food is making me drowsy. Would you be interested in a short walk? There is a nice place nearby where we can get a good cup of coffee.”

  “I’m game for anything.”

  We received our bill, which was astonishingly inexpensive, I thought, considering all we’d eaten, and after Hettie gave the proprietor a resounding kiss on the cheek, we left. The temperature had grown colder outside and my companion pulled her shawl around her.

  “So,” she said, slipping her hand under my arm for warmth. “Tell me two things I don’t know about you.”

  “Very well. I am a widower, and I have spent eight months in Oxford Prison.”

  I thought I’d surprise her, but she merely nodded. “Thought as much. About the prison, I mean. No man with a choice of positions would do what you do for a living. Not men with sensitive souls, like yourself. I can tell that about you. The death of your old lady musta broke your heart. You’re very young.”

  “It happened when I was at university.”

  “La!” Hestia said. “Look at me. I’m out with a university man. I might have to parade you in front of some of my friends. They’ll be ever so impressed.”

  By now we’d reached Cornhill and I steered us into St. Michael’s Alley. I opened the door and ushered her into the Barbados Coffee House, which is as close to being my home away from home as any place in the world. The proprietor took us to a table and I think I rose several notches in his estimation. The old place rarely saw a woman enter its door and certainly none as attractive as Miss Petulengro.

  “It’s dark as the hole of Calcutter in here,” Hettie said after we’d been seated. Her fingers dipped down into the recess in the middle of the table. “What is this stuff? Smells like tobacco.”

  “It is. Virginia Cavendish, the best tobacco in London. The warehouses from America and the West Indies are across the way there. Cigars from Cuba, sugar from Jamaica, and coffee beans from South America.”

  The proprietor returned and presented me with my clay pipe and asked for our order.

  “Two coffees, please. Would you like some dessert, Hettie?”

  “Nothing, thanks. If I eat anything else, it’ll kill me.”

  After he left, I returned to my questioning.

  “It must be a bit strange running a chandler’s shop in the Asian quarter. What caused your uncle to give up the traveling life and settle down?”

  Hettie took the now lit pipe out of my hands and gave it a preliminary puff. It must have pleased her because I didn’t get the pipe back for the duration of the visit. Her smoking scandalized the owner as he passed once, but she tipped him a wink and charmed him out of his surprise.

  “The Romany people have fallen on hard times,” she explained. “We’re being chased out of towns and villages where we were once welcomed. A lot of us have sold off our wagons or left England entirely. Used to be we could get by on mending pots and telling fortunes, going from town to town, but no more. There ain’t no profit to be made in it. Pretty soon, you won’t see a respectable painted wagon anywhere.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. I want you to take a look at something,” I said, pulling out the daguerreotype of Quong that Barker had given me. “This is Mr. Barker’s late assistant.”

  “I remember him!” she said instantly. “Yes, I wondered where he’d gone. We often get Chinese lads in the shop, salivating over me like I was a hot cross bun in a bakery window. Not him, though. He liked books and odd bits. He’d come through regular and check our bookshelf. Educating himself, I reckon. Tried flirting with him once, just a little, to see what he’d do. You’d think I was a live crocodile. He backed out of the shop, he did, like I was going to bite him. He came back, though, the next week, when some new books came in.”

  “He was engaged to be married,” I explained.

  “Shoulda known. I take it he passed away?”

  “Yes, and in just the same manner as Inspector Bainbridge. Is there anything you’ve left out that might be pertinent to the case?”

  “‘Pertinent to the case,’” she repeated. “No, I don’t know nothing ‘pertinent to the case,’ but if I remember something I’ll send you a message.” I watched her fill the bowl of the pipe and light it with big, smoky puffs. Then she turned it around and slid the mouthpiece with its glazed tip into my mouth as if she were a harem girl and I were the sultan of Persia.

  “How big was your uncle?” I asked.

  “Pretty big, and meaner than two snakes. One of them Chinamen on top of another’s shoulder might reach his neck, but by then he’d have both of them in his teeth like a rat terrier. The only ones I’d say were his match were Bainbridge and your boss.”

  “What?” I asked. “Not me?”

  “Go on,” she laughed. “Pull the other one.”

  When the proprietor finally came to claim my pipe, Hettie handed it to him and patted his hand. One would have thought he was Lancelot receiving a favor from Guinevere. He went back to his corner, no doubt to plan their elopement, while I tossed some shillings on the table and we left. I hoped it wasn’t just the cold that made her slip her hand into mine.

  I summoned a cab and we took it all the way to her shop. I helped her down and there was an awkward moment in front of the shop. She leaned forward, took my ears into her hands, and put her lips to mine. Two seconds of complete bliss, the kind poets write about, and then she was gone, and I was climbing back into the cab.<
br />
  “Lucky beggar,” I heard from the cabman overhead.

  Lucky beggar was right.

  23

  CYRUS BARKER WAS PACKING WHEN I GOT BACK. His suitcase was open and he was taking shirts and other items from a large and ancient wardrobe in the corner of his room.

  “What is going on?” I asked. “Has something happened?”

  “Nothing involving the case. I am moving to our chambers for a few days.”

  “Whatever for?”

  Barker pointed to the stair. “That woman is insufferable. She puts sugar and lemon in my green tea. She moves things about to suit herself, puts vases of flowers on every table, and constantly pesters me with questions. She’ll never say one word when twenty will do. If I do not get out of here, I shall run mad.”

  “Madame is only trying to be nice,” I pointed out. “When shall you return?”

  “When Madame and her army are gone. Things are working out to your satisfaction, I am sure. All you need do is snap your fingers and there is a young lady at hand to romance. And speaking of young ladies, how was your evening with Miss Petulengro?” he asked irritably, brushing by me to get some ties and suspenders.

  “It went well, but nothing stands out as being important over all. I’ll remind you that I went out with her at your request, sir.”

  “I’m certain it must have been a trial for you. We’ll discuss it at the office tomorrow, then.” He locked the case and secured the straps around it.

  “Why not simply tell Madame she and her maids are sacked?”

  “That would not be fair to Mac. He is not yet ready to return to his duties. In any case, I like having Etienne here at night, since both you and Mac are indisposed.”

  “Are you certain you will be all right?”

  “Of course. We have a camp bed in the office and a fireplace. Public houses are ready to hand for sustenance, and perhaps I shall confound our killer by moving. At the very least, I shall get a moment’s peace.”

  Madame was waiting in the hall. The door was open, and a cab was at the door. She stood silent and glacial, and I wondered if the two had exchanged words. Etienne came in, frowned as Barker passed with his suitcases, and watched along with the rest of us as our employer left. After he’d rattled off in the hansom and the maid had closed the door, Etienne began a fresh argument with his wife. Mac rolled his eyes and limped back into his sanctum, while I scurried upstairs and undressed for bed.

  I had no sooner got under the covers when there came a sound out in the darkness that chilled my blood. It was the long, plaintive cry of a policeman’s whistle. Worse still, at the end of it, it broke off and began again, fitfully, as if the officer blowing the tune was being hindered somehow. Something was occurring again outside the house. The only good thing that could be said was that it wasn’t happening at two or three in the morning this time.

  “Confound it,” I said in the corridor as I threw my dressing gown around my shoulders. After this case was over, I intended to sleep uninterrupted for most of a week.

  Downstairs, I found Mac with his trusted shotgun cradled in his arms. We unbolted the back door and there we heard the most exquisite words in the English language.

  “We’ve got ’im!” Two constables wrestled with a suspect between them, but they appeared to be getting the worst end of it. One had a missing helmet and the other a bloody nose. The suspect was in bracelets, but Poole had not thought to supply these fellows with much needed leg irons. The chap in the middle was kicking their shins, ankles, and anything else he could reach. He was Chinese and unless I was mistaken, he was the elusive Charlie Han. One constable either lost his patience or finally reached the truncheon on his belt. There was a thump and the struggling fellow went limp. Not so gently, they dragged him over the doorsill into the house and dropped him on the floor in our hallway.

  “We need to send for a vehicle,” the first one said, while the other—the one with the bloody nose—conjugated various verbs and practiced his expletives while occasionally giving the prone figure a kick.

  “We have a telephone set,” I said. “I can call Scotland Yard.”

  The constable was able to handle criminals but not the latest contrivances of the modern age. As he watched, I made the call to Scotland Yard, explained the situation, and requested a vehicle. The chief constable demanded to speak to the constable in charge, who picked up the receiver as if it were a king cobra about to strike, but after a short conversation, during which he shouted into the receiver, we finally got it all settled.

  “Blimey,” the constable muttered, backing away from the device and wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. “First time I ever tried one o’ them things.”

  “So, who is this fellow?” Mac asked, regarding the still form.

  “Dunno,” said the second P.C., who’d managed to get half his handkerchief up his nose to staunch the blood. “And I could care even less. Some Chinaman. Found him outside your big round gate, ready to open it. You’ve had some break-ins, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, and we’ve all been attacked, as you can see.”

  “Would you gentlemen care for some tea while you wait?” Mac offered.

  “I could do with a cuppa. What about you, Finney?”

  “That would suit me right down to the ground,” the first constable agreed.

  I reached to turn the unconscious suspect over, but the second constable stopped me.

  “Careful there, guv’nor,” he said. “He could be shamming. Cut up pretty rough out there.”

  “Then help me. I want to get a good look at him.”

  Together we rolled him over. One glance and I knew I was right. He had a head of shaggy hair cut in the European style and one of those Chinese mustaches that don’t meet in the middle. It was the last suspect from Bainbridge’s sketch, the fierce face.

  “Charlie Han,” I stated. “He’s a known criminal in Limehouse, in the betel nut trade. He’s got a large arrest sheet.”

  “All right, Mr. Han, get up! On your feet. We can’t have you a-droolin’ on no gentleman’s floor.”

  The half-conscious prisoner raised his head and tried to focus. He looked tough, possibly tough enough to take on Barker in the tunnel or Mac in the study, but the constable’s truncheon had done for him.

  “Pull yourself together, man,” the constable went on, hauling the Chinaman to his feet roughly. I’d have felt sorry for him if it weren’t probable he had come to kill us all. Just then the fellow made his move. He swung the constable around until he collided with me and we both went down. With the cast over much of my upper body I could not get up fast enough. Then, as the first constable came forward, Han gave him a strong heel in the stomach. He hadn’t reckoned on Mac, however, who cocked and raised his shotgun to his shoulder. With the rest of us temporarily down, Han made an easy target.

  “I am very well trained in how to use this weapon, sir,” Mac spoke with some authority, “and I am quite willing to use it. I suggest you do not move.”

  Han must have seen that he was serious. For a butler, Mac can look quite bloodthirsty. I’ve never seen him so happy as when he was sending a load of buckshot into a crowd of rowdies. Charlie Han settled down and was soon seated in a chair between the two constables with a pair of leg irons about his ankles on loan from Barker’s weapon collection. The spirit had gone out of him, I was glad to see. I took the opportunity to go upstairs and change out of my nightclothes.

  When the police vehicle arrived, I asked if I might come along. They demurred, but I pressed my attack, pointing out how difficult it was to get a cab in Newington at that time of night. I told them that the owner of the house needed to be told and that he was in the same street but one from Scotland Yard. That is why at near midnight, when all sensible people are in bed, I was traveling in a Black Maria. At least I could say I wasn’t the one in leg irons this time.

  Promising to return for a statement, I left the constables to handle their prisoner into A Division and popped ’round to ou
r offices on the next street. I gave the door a good, hard knock.

  The door opened slowly and I was treated to the sight of my employer in his dressing gown, his hair askew, with a Colt in his hand.

  “Are you going to use that thing?” I asked.

  “I am debating it. What are you doing here at this hour?”

  “The trap is sprung. We’ve caught a rodent, but whether it is a mouse or a large rat, you must decide.”

  “It is too late to be cryptic,” he growled. “I’ll get dressed while you explain. Come.”

  I went over everything from the whistle I heard in the alley to my knocking on the office door. During it all, Barker was in the back room making himself presentable for Scotland Yard.

  “What is your impression, lad?” he asked. “Do you think Han might be the one we are looking for?”

  “It’s possible,” I said. “I must say he put up a real struggle. I wouldn’t have wanted to be on the receiving end of that heel to the stomach or fist to the nose, for that matter. And he was reaching for our gate, remember.”

  “True,” my employer conceded from the side room. “He was also one of Bainbridge’s suspects. I wonder where he’s been hiding himself. Poole’s been running a dragnet for over a week now.”

  He came out, neat as a pin as always, despite the late hour. In a few moments we were walking along Whitehall toward Scotland Yard. It appeared the most peaceful of nights. Everyone was at home asleep in bed, everyone who was not an enquiry agent, that is.

  At the station, we made our way through the halls of the Criminal Investigation Department. All had been rebuilt after a bombing had occurred last year, but as Inspector Munro of the Special Irish Branch had threatened, the area where Barker had once taught antagonistics for the benefit of officers had now been turned into offices. One of those offices was for questioning.

  In response to Barker’s knock, Poole came out and ran a hand through his thinning hair. Evidently, it wasn’t just private agents who went without sleep. Poole gave a big yawn and shook his head.

  “Have you got a confession?” Barker asked.