The Limehouse Text

by Will Thomas

  “Let us investigate a little further then, both of us.”

  Poole had sucked half his cigarette down to ash. He reached toward the ashtray but in doing so, the column of ask broke off and landed on the rug. Poole stomped at it roughly.

  “Perhaps.”

  “I want to thank you, by the way. Your men did a fine job of apprehending Mr. Han.”

  “P.C.s Horton and Finney are good men,” Poole said grudgingly. “With all the action occurring around your place these days, I thought you might need two of our best.”

  “What shall you do about Miss Petulengro? She might be more cooperative about questioning if you let her go tonight.”

  “Possibly,” Poole said. “But the Chinaman stays until I have everything he knows, including his mother’s maiden name, providing Chinese mothers have maiden names.”

  “Agreed.”

  “You know, regardless of who killed whom a year ago, Han or that dollymop could have shot Nevil in that tunnel.”

  “Yes. I had thought of that possibility myself.”

  “This case beggars all. I wish I had never got out of bed the day this fell in my lap. It should have gone to Abberline or Swanson. They know the East End better than I. You know what will happen if I bungle this case, don’t you? They might take me out of the C.I.D. and put me in charge of Bainbridge’s station. A total dead end for my career. I hate Limehouse!”

  “How did Inspector Bainbridge get assigned there in the first place?” Barker queried.

  “He asked for it, as I recall.”

  “Did that seem strange to you at the time?”

  “It did, but then Bainbridge was not what you call ambitious. It is the sort of posting the younger chaps go for, hoping to get some big case that’ll get them promoted to chief inspector. He asked for it, though, and since he had a good record and seniority, they gave it to him.”

  “If an officer were to fall in love with a girl in Limehouse…”

  “Stow that,” Poole said, putting a hand up. “I didn’t hear it. I shall spring her in half an hour, but if she cuts up too fine, I shall toss her right back in again.”

  “That is your privilege. I am staying at my chambers for a few days. Come by for a chat when you are done here.”

  We had a hansom waiting when Hettie came out, looking overwrought and tired.

  “They’re keeping him,” she said when she saw us. “They didn’t say how long.”

  “Inspector Poole is a fair man,” the Guv said. “If Mr. Han is innocent, he shall be released soon.”

  “You have a higher opinion of Scotland Yard than I do, Mr. Barker.”

  “I work with them a good deal, miss. Most inspectors do not take advantage of their position.”

  “Do you think you can get Charlie out? I know he resisted arrest, but he ain’t a bad man. This all sounds awfully complicated.”

  “Cases often do about this time,” he responded.

  “You will try to clear Charlie’s name, won’t you? He’s had a devil of a time in England since he arrived. As for you, Thomas, we shall talk later, shan’t we?”

  I gave her a weak nod. We put her into the cab and she rattled off. Another one came into Whitehall and I secured it, leaving Barker to return to our offices.

  I’m normally curious but just then I was too tired to care what might be said when Poole met with Barker. At home I checked that all the doors were locked and turned down the gas in the hall. Upstairs, I changed into my nightclothes again, crawled into bed, and drifted off to sleep, or tried to, anyway. With my cast biting into my shoulder, it was a wonder I got any sleep at all.

  25

  THE NEXT MORNING BARKER SEEMED REMARKABLY nonchalant about the events of the night before. The Guv did not mention his conversation with Poole. He was more concerned with the morning post.

  A pair of letters had arrived, their envelopes highly visible, for they were a deep crimson color and of an unusual rough texture. One arrived for Barker and the other for me. We each took one from Jenkins’s salver and slit them open, he with his Italian dagger and I with a more prosaic letter opener. The inside of the envelope was lined with gilt paper and the enclosed letter backed with a piece of paper that matched the envelope. The letter was beautifully executed, but I had no idea what it said, for it was all in Chinese. I looked at Barker, who was reading his.

  “It is an invitation to a New Year’s banquet tonight given by Ho,” he explained. “You have been invited, too, I see. It is quite an honor. I had not anticipated you would receive one.”

  “It is addressed to me?” I asked, looking at the letter. “What does he call me?”

  “Little brother.”

  “Are you seriously telling me that Ho considers me his little brother?”

  “Not his, lad. Mine.”

  “How do we accept the offer?”

  “I must respond in kind. Fetch some water, would you?”

  Retrieving a ewer from a lacquered tray, I took it out into the yard behind the office and filled it from the pump. The wind snatched the frigid breath from my lips, and the silver ewer grew icy in my hand as I eased the handle up and down. I hurried back inside to find Barker occupied.

  There was a small black tray on his desk, a brush, and several sheets of paper. Barker pulled a minuscule bowl no larger than his thumb from a bottom drawer, a tiny spoon, and finally, a box containing a stick of what looked like coal. He was composing a response to the invitation.

  Barker picked up the stick and began to grind it against the surface of the tray, which was made of slate.

  “Is that ink?” I asked.

  “Yes. It is made of soot and resin. Pour the water into that bowl there.”

  He whisked the ink around with one of the brushes, mixing the water and soot and then pulled a paper in front of him. He placed the brush near the right-hand corner and began to paint.

  “What are you writing?”

  Barker raised a finger and went back to finish his note. I’ve noticed his power of concentration was sometimes complete. Chinese calligraphy is something of an art, I understand, and my question was not unlike interrupting an artist at his easel. He finally finished and leaned back to examine the completed letter.

  “I have graciously accepted the invitation and thanked Ho for the honor. He is a stickler for protocol.” While the letter dried, Barker put the writing materials back. He sealed the letter, affixed Her Majesty’s penny effigy in the corner, and gave it to Jenkins to post. Then we forgot the matter for the rest of the afternoon.

  As we made our way to Ho’s that evening, I attempted to turn the Guv’s attention back to the banquet in my usual manner, by hitting him with a barrage of questions.

  “How many invitations were sent out, do you think?” I asked.

  “Not over fifty. Ho would want it to be exclusive.”

  “So, it is a kind of party, then?”

  “Of a sort, though the meal is the most important part.”

  We stepped out and found a cab within a few minutes. I pressed him further.

  “Will we be the only Occidentals?”

  “I would imagine so.”

  “And the purpose of the event is to celebrate the New Year and the fact that Ho has been released from custody?”

  “Correct.”

  “I don’t believe that is the whole story. I admit Ho might celebrate these things, but he has other reasons, I’m certain.”

  “Very good, lad. I see you are developing your deductive skills. What other reasons might he have?”

  I hadn’t expected the question to be thrown back at me so quickly. “Well, he’s been in jail, which must include some sort of loss of face among the community. He might have a banquet as a show of strength that he has not been inconvenienced.”

  “Good. Go on.”

  “He deals in secrets and information. While he was away, it might have gone elsewhere. This meal could be an attempt to bring it back again.”

  “And?”

  I ha
d run dry. I thought for a minute or two. Nothing came to mind.

  “Consider Mr. K’ing.”

  “What would such a meal mean to K’ing?” I asked. “Is Ho trying to say ‘We have the same friends and are one’ or ‘These are the supporters I can take away from you, if I wish’?”

  “Surely you know the answer to that question. Think more subtly.”

  I pushed my imagination as far as it could go. If I were Ho, what would I do with K’ing breathing down my neck? “Both,” I finally answered.

  “Very good, lad. Now you are thinking like an Oriental.”

  “Will K’ing be there, do you think?”

  “He will be issued an invitation, surely. It is not only given to friends but to all respected members of the Chinese community, even those with dubious reputations.”

  “Shall Bok Fu Ying be there?”

  “Ho treats her as a favored niece, but she is busy preparing for the New Year’s festivities. She has been asked to perform. She will not be in attendance.”

  My mind flitted between two thoughts just then. The first was wondering what sort of performance she would give, while the second was trying to imagine Ho as a doting uncle and not succeeding. Bellicose, perhaps; ungracious, certainly; but not doting.

  We arrived in the narrow lane but found it transformed. The broken stone arches overhead were unchanged, but the debris had been swept away and the walls around the entrance given a coat of whitewash. We stepped through the door and found the tunnel lit by two naphtha lamps, and as we progressed down the steps, we found another lamp halfway down. At the bottom there was a red carpet about five feet wide, extending the entire length of the tunnel, with lamps on each side every ten feet or so. There would be no bumping into things in the dark for the distinguished guests, not to mention opportunities for further assassinations.

  “Ho is sparing no expense,” I said.

  “Far be it from him to leave anything out,” Barker agreed.

  The main dining room had been transformed. Red paper lanterns hung from the ceiling and the walls had large letters cut from gilt paper, which I assumed offered luck and prosperity in the coming year. A long table ran down the center of the room, laden with bowls full of every kind of edible thing imaginable. Each bowl appeared to contain a different ingredient. There were hundreds on that long table, it seemed, and in the very center, given pride of place, a single dish sat on a tray. A very unusual ingredient it was, too, sticks of something that looked like whale blubber.

  “What exactly is that?” I asked Barker in a low voice, for the room was quickly beginning to fill with people, all men and all Chinese.

  “It is shark’s fin,” he said, “a great delicacy reserved for the New Year.”

  I looked at the grayish strips of flesh dubiously. “I don’t think I could eat it.”

  Barker shrugged his wide shoulders. “Suit yourself. It is rather too late for the shark, I fear.”

  I began to wonder if this feast might not be to my liking at all, and moved closer to the table. The first bowl confirmed my fears. It held what looked like some sort of snake. Another contained what looked like eel. The contents of one after that was more mundane, being slices of raw carrot. There were no prepared dishes, I noticed, such as one normally saw at Ho’s. Everything here appeared to be mere ingredients. There were florets of broccoli and cauliflower; bowls of boiled eggs of every size and origin; and Asian delicacies such as water chestnuts, litchi nuts, and bamboo shoots. I saw prawns and chicken, duck and pigeon, giblets of who knows what, beef, venison, pork, and the usual bowl of unidentified meat that I would avoid. As we circled the table, I saw one section was given over to spices and another to sauces of every color and aroma. I was at a loss. How was anyone expected to eat this meal?

  The chairs around the tables were quickly filling, and Barker and I took seats. My stomach was telling me either I was very hungry or about to be ill, depending upon what I would put into it.

  Ho stepped out of the kitchen then, resplendent in a floor-length gown of green and gold silk, though it was thrown on casually over his singlet and trousers and remained open in the front. Not everything could change, I expect. He began to pontificate in a loud voice while I wondered if it might eventually become necessary in this occupation of mine to learn Chinese. Ho spoke loudly and gestured grandly. I assumed he was greeting everyone and telling them about his unjust incarceration in a British jail. Mercifully, Ho is a man of few words and soon he clapped his hands and ended his speech. Waiters began streaming out of the kitchen, dozens of them, some obviously employed for this event only. Each carried a large bowl so hot and steaming the waiters needed towels to hold them. Fifty bowls for fifty guests, give or take. Mine was finally set down in front of me. It was full of hot water and noodles, but nothing to flavor them. Slowly light dawned. We were to make our own soup from the dozens of items before us, adding meats and vegetables, mixing flavors, each of us creating our own unique soup.

  We waited until all fifty were given a bowl, and one could feel the tension growing in the room. Ho stepped up to the table, raised his arm high, and then barked a word. The room erupted into chaos. The men leapt at the long table of food and began stabbing at the bowls with their chopsticks. I seized my own and joined the fray, spearing right and left. Chicken, prawns, and broccoli went into my steaming bowl. Plover’s eggs, bamboo shoots, the fried soy cakes I liked, and a ladleful of the yellow sauce followed. I avoided the bugs and snakes, of course. A water chestnut here, a bit of Chinese cabbage there, a slice or two of leek, half a clove of garlic. I was creating a masterpiece even Ho would envy. Beside me, Barker crowned his own creation with a large slice of shark’s fin.

  Just when I was about to dig into my wonderful creation, a waiter leaned over and poured oil into my bowl. I looked up in disgust. What was he doing? He had ruined everything. All my work and now I would have to start over.

  Barker spoke into my ear as the waiter did the same to his bowl.

  “There is a village in China with a factory that has produced earthen bowls for centuries. It is in a small valley with mountains on either side and a river bisecting the town. The factory is on one side of the river and the village on the other. When women prepared lunch every day, it grew cold before they reached their husbands across the bridge. One day, a woman accidentally spilled oil in her husband’s bowl and discovered that not only did the oil seal in the heat so it could be carried, but the food continued to cook beneath it. That is how the soup got its name, Across the Bridge Soup. We must let it sit for five minutes, which is just enough time for toasts.”

  Vessels of plum wine were served. An elderly Chinaman stood and spoke, and we downed our cups. Several toasts followed and I was beginning to get light-headed. Barker gave a toast for both of us and then Ho finished for us all, after which we attacked our bowls.

  From childhood, the Chinese are trained to suck noodles. One could stretch a single noodle out ten yards and any Chinese man, woman, or child worth his weight in rice could suck it down in a matter of seconds. I am a rank amateur, but was still willing to give it a try. I launched into my bowl and did not surface for several moments. It was pure ambrosia. I was a genius. Who knew I had such unplumbed depths when it came to creating meals?

  Barker had his bowl wedged up under his chin and was shoveling shark meat in like a trencherman while my neighbor on the other side gnawed his way through a glutinous sow’s ear. It was a race of sorts. We were a roomful of gluttons. I was glad that there were no women present to witness such a spectacle.

  Ten minutes later there were fifty very full and groaning men with empty bowls. Some of us listlessly picked among the dregs at the bottom while the team of waiters brought tea.

  “I have never eaten so much in my life,” I commented. “I thought I would taste the oil, but I didn’t.”

  “Yes. The nameless woman who spilt oil in her husband’s meal deserves our thanks.”

  The pipes came out after that, for those who
smoked. Barker, of course, lit up his Turkish meerschaum while others went for the modern convenience of the Western cigarette. Still others favored thin metal pipes with patterns in cloisonné. Ho brought out his water-can contraption and was smoking it while talking with guests. He worked his way through the room, I noticed, and spoke to practically everyone. I hadn’t thought him so outgoing. As for me, I was in a funk. There was a slight ringing in my ears and I found I had been staring at one of the large letters on the wall for several minutes, trying to decipher it.

  “I need some air,” I said to Barker.

  “Good idea, lad. We should take a walk around the district. They should be getting up the decorations for tomorrow.”

  Just then Ho came up between us. He bowed benevolently to some of the guests nearby. Then he leaned forward and spoke in English, just loud enough for us to hear. “K’ing is up to something. He recently purchased a warehouse in the area and has had carpenters working day and night. English carpenters, who won’t reveal his plans to anyone. No one knows what he is about, but something is happening.”

  “Thank you for the information. I see K’ing never arrived. What of Woo?”

  “I did not issue him an invitation. He has seen fit to criticize my cooking, that Peking popinjay.”

  “We are going for a walk,” Barker said.

  Ho raised a warning finger. “Be careful,” he admonished. “Remember what I said about digging your own grave.”

  Limehouse had become enchanted that night. Every wall was festooned with messages in gilt and streamers of red paper and firecrackers. Entranceways that no one had bothered to sweep all year were now swept and mopped. The drab and mean streets of the area had become a fairyland, like Andersen’s tale of the nightingale, provided one did not look too hard at what lay beneath. I theorized that visitors came here for the celebration each year and never saw its harsher side. Perhaps that was how the district’s exotic reputation had begun.

  Limehouse was astir, but the killer was not. Apparently, he had taken off the night and that was a good thing, as far as I was concerned. Barker and I were so full, we could not have given him much of a fight.