Both men showed no shame, but they were finished with the conversation. “Well,” the fishmonger said. “We’ve warned ye.”
“If you like to think so.” I gave them a nod to show them I knew my manners if they did not. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
I walked past them, Tess scurrying at my side, keeping the wall of my body well between her and the two fishmongers. I felt them watch me go, but I did not give them the satisfaction of looking back.
As we left the market for Southampton Street, Tess let out a breath. “You’re a brave one, ain’t ye? Put those two right in their places. Will you teach me to be like you, Mrs. H.?”
“If you learn how to behave well and expect others to do so, there is no need for bravery,” I said. I did not tell her that my knees still wobbled and my breath hitched. It’s all very well to stand up to a bully, but sometimes they respond with a blow. “Now, I want to look in on Mr. McAdam’s rooms, on chance that he’s there.”
Tess skipped a few steps. “That would be a fine thing. Mr. McAdam always makes me laugh.”
“Yes, he is seldom serious.” Whenever Daniel was somber, things were in a dire state indeed.
Before long, we stopped before the pawnbrokers on Southampton Street—the door beside it led into a boardinghouse.
I wasn’t certain Daniel still hired the rooms there, as he’d been living in the small house in Kensington, but I suspected he kept bolt-holes all over London. I knocked and pushed open the door into the clean stairwell.
Mrs. Williams, the landlady, bustled out from a room in the back. Her gray frock was as severe as ever, but her new apron sported five rows of ruffles. “Mr. McAdam isn’t in, dear,” she said. “But his friend is upstairs. Studying.”
I brightened. “Do you mean Mr. Thanos?” I climbed the stairs with eagerness.
“And—” Mrs. Williams’s word cut off behind me as I opened the door to Daniel’s front room.
Mr. Thanos was indeed there, his spectacles on the end of his nose, his dark hair as awry as his coat. He was waving his hands to make some point, not seeing me in the doorway.
The second man in the room was almost as young as Mr. Thanos, in his thirties perhaps, a shock of red hair giving him the look of a friendly dog. This man caught sight of me and rose in surprise from the desk where he’d been sitting, proving himself to be unnervingly tall.
Mr. Thanos looked around in bewilderment, observed me, and rushed at me in delight.
“Mrs. Holloway, how wonderful to see you!”
What I liked about Mr. Thanos was that when he said it was wonderful to see a person, he truly meant it. He advanced on me, hand outstretched, and I had no choice but to clasp it.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Thanos.” I glanced behind him, uncertain of the welcome I’d receive from the second gentleman.
“Good Lord, my terrible manners.” Mr. Thanos released me from his squeezing grip and waved at the second man. “Mrs. Holloway, this is Mr. Alastair Sutherland. Southy, this is Mrs. Holloway and Miss Parsons. Southy is an expert on China—the absolute authority in the world.”
Mr. Sutherland contrived to look modest. “Well now, I don’t know about that.”
“He is,” Mr. Thanos insisted. “We were up at Cambridge together, and he’s still there—one of the youngest chaps ever to be made a fellow.”
One would hardly think to look at the gentleman that he was a professor and a scholar of all things Chinese. He was rawboned and a bit ungainly, though his suit fitted him well. The clothes were not costly, but not shabby either—he obviously had a good salary but not an ostentatious one. His eyes were light blue, which highlighted his rather bony face.
Mr. Sutherland made a courteous bow but glanced curiously at our baskets filled with produce.
Tess grasped my basket and had it off my arm before I realized. “I’m off to the kitchens to have a chat. Sing out when you’re ready, Mrs. H.”
Her words were cheery as she banged her way out, but I knew Tess was uncomfortable with strangers of the above-stairs world. She didn’t mind Mr. Thanos or Lady Cynthia, but anyone else made her uncertain.
“Mrs. Holloway is McAdam’s friend,” Mr. Thanos said after Tess had gone. “She’s uncommon clever.”
Mr. Thanos did not add “for a cook,” or “for a woman,” or any other caveat, because it would never occur to him to do so.
“Mr. Thanos is quite flattering,” I said. “How do you do, Mr. Sutherland?”
“Very well, and don’t I know it. Mr. McAdam was looking for a Chinese fellow, Thanos tells me, and my name came up in connection. If he is the Mr. Li you describe, I do know him.”
I forgot any shyness as my interest piqued. “Oh yes? Of all the Chinese men in London, you happen to know him?”
“It is not as far-fetched as it sounds,” Mr. Sutherland said with a faint smile. “My Mr. Li is Li Bai Chang, a scholar from Peking. He has been working as a translator here in London, and I hired him to assist me with texts that have never been rendered into English. I speak Chinese fluently, but getting the exact context correct needs a native speaker who understands the nuances.”
I tried to stem my excitement. If we indeed spoke of the same man, I had been right that Mr. Li was a scholar and not a laborer. I did not much know about professors in China, but in England, they could be rather threadbare, even if they were gentlemen. This could explain why Mr. Li’s clothes looked costly, if worn at the seams, rather like Mr. Sutherland’s suit.
What it did not explain was why Mr. Li had been in Mayfair. An errand runner or carter would not be an unusual sight, but a translator from China’s imperial city? Why should he be diving between carriage wheels on Mount Street?
“Did your Mr. Li know Sir Jacob in China?” I asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.
“No idea if he knew him at all,” Mr. Sutherland said. “But the odd thing is, about a month ago, Li asked if I could strongly hint to one Sir Jacob Harkness that he would do well to consult with Li about markings on the ancient pottery Sir Jacob had brought back from China. I could approach Sir Jacob as one Chinese expert to another and suggest a translator go through his pots and ancient writings. I suppose Li thought a Chinaman approaching Sir Jacob directly wouldn’t be welcomed, but I could smooth the way. I tried to tell Li that a Chinese scholar from Cambridge and an Old China Hand like Sir Jacob were not the same thing, and besides, I’d never met the man. But Li insisted, and I promised to look into it. I did manage to make an appointment, but when we turned up for it, Sir Jacob was out. Dashed annoying.”
Annoying, but interesting. “When was this?” I asked.
“Weeks ago,” Mr. Sutherland answered. “Last month, anyway.”
Which might have nothing to do with Sir Jacob’s murder—or everything to do with it. “Don’t most Englishmen go to Shanghai?” I asked. “Not Peking?” I was a bit fuzzy on the geography of China, but I’d heard that Shanghai was a notoriously wild city full of foreigners—that is, foreigners to the Chinese. “What I mean is that if Mr. Li worked in Peking, he’s not likely to have met Sir Jacob there, is he?”
Mr. Thanos answered. “You are quite right—the trading ports are Shanghai, Hong Kong, Fuzhou, Canton, and a few more. Traders can move freely throughout China now, but they do most of their business in these cities. But that does not mean Sir Jacob’s and Mr. Li’s paths would never have crossed.”
I thought of Sir Jacob Harkness, a tradesman who’d made a great deal of money, and Mr. Li, tall, dignified, and learned. I could imagine that in China, Mr. Li would not want much to do with someone like Sir Jacob, Old China Hand or no.
In London, however, so many from all over the world mixed with those they’d never have contact with elsewhere. I had to wonder why Mr. Li had been so adamant to reach Sir Jacob, and if he had, in fact, succeeded, even if the appointment Mr. Sutherland had set up had not been kept. The possib
ilities made me worry.
“We must ask him,” I said.
“We must indeed,” Mr. Thanos agreed. “Would he come here, do you think? Neutral ground, so to speak.”
“I haven’t seen Mr. Li for some weeks,” Mr. Sutherland said. “Not since the failed appointment. We finished the last text, and we weren’t due to begin another for some time. I could write to him, I suppose.”
Mr. Thanos looked disappointed. “Would it be too rude to arrive at his rooms and thump on the door? Or—”
He never completed the thought because the door banging open interrupted him to admit a lad with windblown hair, the new coat he’d already grown out of exposing colt-like wrists. James McAdam glanced around at us in both surprise and relief.
“Mrs. Holloway,” he said politely, but it was clear he hadn’t come looking for me. He fixed on Mr. Thanos. “Dad thought you might be here, sir. He wants you to come. Inspector McGregor has arrested a man called Mr. Li, and he wants you to bring Mr. Sutherland around to find out if it’s the right Mr. Li.”
11
James did not include me in the invitation, but I was not about to go meekly home while the gentlemen rushed to Scotland Yard.
I gave Tess the fare for an omnibus back to Mayfair and asked if she minded carrying my basket as well as hers. She agreed readily when she discovered where I planned to go—Tess had a healthy dislike of the police.
James volunteered to see Tess home, and I left them running for the omnibus, James with my basket of produce over his arm. I was a bit surprised James did not want to accompany us, but I had a feeling Daniel had admonished him not to return. Daniel had become even more protective of James since the lad had been hurt this spring.
I thought the gentlemen would fetch a conveyance, but Mr. Thanos started off in a robust stride to the Strand, Mr. Sutherland falling into step with him. I hurried to keep up.
The Strand was packed with carriages and horses, carts and wagons. The odors of horse and human melded with that of the river, the wind bringing the stench on top of us all.
Not far along was the pawnbrokers in which Daniel had once lurked, waiting to catch criminals. Beyond that was the great expanse of Charing Cross Station, and around the corner, toward Whitehall, lay Great Scotland Yard.
Mr. Thanos led us through the arched doorway of the brick building of Scotland Yard to the counter beside the stairs. A sergeant greeted us listlessly, asking in a monotone what our business was. Only when Mr. Thanos announced we were here to see Inspector McGregor did he show a bit more courtesy.
“Oi, constable—show these gents and the lady upstairs to the inspector,” he said to a young man at a tiny desk behind him. “Look sharp.”
The lad, in a creased uniform, every hair in place and his boots shined, rose hastily and gestured us to follow him.
We ascended several flights of stairs before the constable ushered us into an office, behind which was a room for interrogating prisoners. This chamber was not as stark as the one in which Daniel had interviewed the terrible villain Mr. Pilcher months ago, but it was still not a pleasant place.
Inspector McGregor and Daniel waited inside this room, gazing down at a dispirited-looking Mr. Li. He was indeed my Mr. Li, with his long beard, shaved forehead, and dark eyes, which were now quiet with resignation.
They’d shackled Mr. Li’s wrists, but hadn’t chained him to the table. I hoped that the lack of severe restraints meant they weren’t certain he was a murderer, but more likely, Inspector McGregor did not worry that such a frail-looking man could escape him.
When we entered, Mr. Li blinked in surprise and began to rise. He stared at me, then at Mr. Sutherland, and then bowed his head, as if ashamed, and sank back down.
Inspector McGregor gave me a cold eye. “I did not send for you, Mrs. Holloway.”
Mr. Thanos indignantly began to speak, but Daniel cut over him.
“Let her stay,” he said. “She knows this man.”
McGregor’s neck above his collar turned a fine shade of red. He did not look at Daniel but pointed a long finger at a chair in the corner. “Sit there and do not speak,” he said to me.
Daniel gave me a reassuring nod as I took the seat. I wondered anew that Daniel could give a command, which an inspector obeyed, if churlishly. Assisting the police and giving them orders were two different things.
The room became rather crowded once we all squeezed in. Daniel sat beside Mr. Li while Mr. Thanos and Mr. Sutherland took the ends of the table. McGregor waited impatiently while they settled themselves before he sat down across from Mr. Li.
“I asked McAdam to fetch you, Mr. Sutherland, because he tells me you have worked with Mr. Li, and that he assists you to translate books. I have difficulty believing that, as Mr. Li will not respond to me in English. Will you tell him, in Chinese, that we know he was an acquaintance of Sir Jacob Harkness. He was seen arriving at the house a few weeks ago by the valet and the botanist, Mr. Chancellor, who also saw him outside the night of the murder.”
Mr. Sutherland launched into a speech of fluid syllables. I knew full well Mr. Li spoke perfect English, but I could sympathize with him not wishing to directly answer Inspector McGregor.
When Mr. Sutherland paused, Mr. Li, after a moment’s hesitation, spoke, also in Chinese. He had such a gentle, pleasant voice that I wanted to close my eyes and enjoy it.
Mr. Li trailed off softly, and Mr. Sutherland cleared his throat.
“I should explain, Inspector, that I have been working at the British Museum for the last few months translating Chinese documents,” Mr. Sutherland said. “That is how I met Li.” He then told the inspector what he’d conveyed to me and Mr. Thanos—that Li had asked if Mr. Sutherland would contrive a meeting for him with Sir Jacob. “Li told me Sir Jacob had some ancient pottery he wanted a look at, purely for scholarly reasons. I wrote to Sir Jacob and managed to arrange an appointment one evening last month.”
McGregor scowled at Mr. Li. “How were you going to ask Sir Jacob about his pottery if you don’t speak any English?”
“Sir Jacob spoke fluent Chinese,” I said from my corner. “He was tiresome about it.”
“As do I,” Mr. Sutherland said. A smile pulled at his thin lips. “Though I hope I am not tiresome. And I agreed to attend with Mr. Li, to smooth the way. In any case, when Mr. Li and I arrived for the appointment, Sir Jacob was not at home. Mr. Chancellor was there, and we spoke to him briefly, but Sir Jacob did not come. We waited for a time then departed.”
McGregor turned his keen stare on Mr. Li. “You were seen the night of the murder, my friend. Why were you in Mount Street that night, eh? Ask him, if you will, sir.”
Mr. Sutherland gave Mr. Li an apologetic look and began to speak.
Mr. Li answered in his soothing voice, his long fingers moving restlessly on the table.
“He does not remember,” Mr. Sutherland said. His high forehead wrinkled as though doubting the words he spoke. “He was walking, Li says—he misses his home and often simply walks until he is tired. Mayfair and St. James’s remind him of the more beautiful places in Peking, and the emperor’s palace in the mountains.”
McGregor glared at Mr. Li. “The hell—” He broke off, flushing as though remembering one of the fairer sex was in the room. “Tell him that such a flimsy excuse will only get him convicted. I believe I have enough evidence now to charge him.”
“He was there to see me,” I broke in.
All eyes turned to me, including Mr. Li’s. His held a pleading for me to be silent, and Daniel’s look was warning. I ignored them both, deciding that truth was needed to end these games.
“Mr. Li came to see me that night,” I said. “I had run into him on the street the day before and knocked the man over. He came to give me a gift—for helping him up, I suppose—a small box of Chinese tea. Which is excellent, by the bye,” I said to Mr. Li. “It was generous
of you.”
Mr. Li shook his head. “Do not listen,” he said to McGregor in broken English, still playing his part for whatever the reason.
“Of course you should listen, Inspector,” I said. “Mr. Li gave me the tea, and then he went away. It was shortly after nine of the clock, and he walked in the opposite direction from Sir Jacob’s house and was gone. If your coroner can determine the time Sir Jacob was killed, I am certain there are witnesses, besides myself, who can place him elsewhere.”
“I doubt the coroner can fix the time at exactly five past nine,” McGregor snapped.
“Well, if it is near enough to nine, then I am his alibi. I will swear Mr. Li did not go to Sir Jacob’s at nine in the evening and climb through a window, which I imagine would be difficult for him, in any case. It is a long way to Limehouse from Mayfair, and I am sure others saw him on his journey.”
“Or witnesses who saw when he doubled back to commit the deed,” McGregor said in a hard voice but then let out a resigned sigh. “Would you be prepared to swear in court that you saw him clearly at nine o’clock, Mrs. Holloway?”
“Of course I am prepared,” I said. “Because it is the truth.”
Daniel’s gaze held approval, and Mr. Thanos watched me in admiration—I half expected him to erupt into a cheer. Mr. Sutherland looked surprised at my vehemence, his pale forehead remaining wrinkled. Only Mr. Li was distressed, shaking his head.
“No one will take the word of a Chinaman,” McGregor muttered.
“Which is why I will speak up for him,” I said. “They may take my word.”
I knew Inspector McGregor wanted to explode, but he was at heart a fair-minded man. Unlike some policemen, he wanted the correct culprit to be caught, not just any person so he could close the case.
“Do you have any reason to hold him?” Daniel asked. “Between eight and ten is indeed the time the coroner puts the death down to, Mrs. Holloway, and we have the word of Sheppard that Sir Jacob went to bed at nine. If there is a witness that can prove Mr. Li was elsewhere at nine, and then walked in the opposite direction, it narrows that window considerably . . .”
Death in Kew Gardens Page 11
