by Will Thomas
“What did he say?”
“He didn’t say nothing. That weren’t like ’im, neither. He shut up tight and I couldn’t get nothing out of ’im. Went to bed mad, we did. That was the worse thing. We went to bed mad and ’e never woke up again.”
“Did he make any sound during the night?”
“He cried out in the middle o’ the night and said a word or two in his sleep, but never woke up. I could tell ’e was ill, but I didn’t know what was wrong or what to do. Then ’is kidneys failed ’im, and the blood, oh lands, it was everywhere. Soaked the bed so bad it couldn’t be cleaned. Had to throw it out. Nasty, terrible way for my Alfred to die. No dignity. Hush, you!”
The latter was directed toward the child in her arms, who was alternately wailing and blubbering. Mrs. Chambers-or rather, Mrs. Lynn-seemed to care not a whit that her youngest was crying. Her mind was back on the events surrounding her first husband’s death.
“’Ere now,” she said. “Are you saying there is some connection between Alf’s death and the Chinaman’s?”
“It is possible.”
“Natural causes, they said. You think they’re wrong?”
“That, too, is possible. It’s certainly strange for two men to die of natural causes within twenty-four hours of their arrival in England.”
The woman juggled her baby. “Keep me informed. I may have to speak with my solicitor. Alf didn’t leave me much besides brats. I deserve some compensation. I figure the Blue Funnel can afford it.”
“No doubt.”
By this time, the infant had gone from mewling to full-throated screams. Barker judged he’d gotten what he came for and began to back away. Just then the woman turned the baby around and I was never so shocked in my life. The baby was Oriental.
“Thank you, madam. We’ll let you get back to your bairns.”
We walked a few streets. I tried to keep silent, but I couldn’t. “I thought she said her married name was Lynn.”
“Ling, not Lynn.”
“Why would she marry a Chinaman, sir?”
“They have a reputation among East End women for being good husbands. They work hard, don’t drink, and rarely beat their wives.”
“But socially, sir-”
Barker gave a short cough that passed for a chuckle. “This is the East End, Thomas, not Kensington. People do what they can to survive.”
“All those children and then a little Chinese brother,” I mused.
“I’m sure there are a number of pastors willing to solemnize such a union, but if I may say it, lad, you’re still rather naive. Many of the unions in this area are common law only, and some families have a farrago of children.”
We had passed into West Ferry Road, talking of East-West relations when our minds were suddenly brought forcibly back to the case. A couple of Asian roughs, looking no more than eighteen, came running down the street, chasing each other in high spirits. They barreled into us and would have continued had the Guv not laid hands on the second one. It was one of the oldest dodges in London. The second was a pickpocket, and Barker caught the hand in his coat. That might have been the end of it, but the second snaked his thin leg around his companion and laid a roundhouse kick that caught my employer in the chest. Barker staggered back into a ragged beggar seated against a wall. The latter, in a shapeless coat and hat, put his hands up to ward off my falling employer, but the two men fell over each other. The youths, free again, ran down the street.
“Hey!” I cried. “Come back here!”
“No harm done,” Barker said, rising and dusting himself off, setting the beggar and his cup as they were. I knew what the Guv would ask before he said it, and dropped a shilling into the cup.
“Dratted pickpockets,” I grumbled. “The town is rife with them.”
“That is too much of a coincidence for mere pickpockets, lad,” Barker said. “I think it more likely to be another attempt by Quong’s killer to lay hands upon the text.”
13
Barker blew the steam off a cup of cocoa. The heavens over the waterfront had opened up again and we had taken refuge in a confectioner’s shop. There were no public houses in sight, and the shop afforded some degree of comfort and respectability. The cocoa warmed me better than a pint of bitter could, but the sight of Barker sipping on his cup of Fry’s was certainly a novel one. As a rule, he did not care for sweets.
“What did you think about Poole’s theory that Ho is Mr. K’ing?” I asked.
“It is erroneous but not entirely preposterous. Ho has always run deep. There is an underworld in China of boxers and bodyguards and secret schools of martial training and Ho has always been involved in it.”
“How did you meet Ho, sir, if I may ask?”
Barker put down his mug and wiped his mustache. “It was during the Chinese Civil War. Hong Xiuquan, leader of the rebellion, was out to destroy the monasteries at the time. He believed in a mangled form of Christianity, with himself at the right hand of God. Like most fellows my age, I joined as a soldier. One day, we were marching through a village outside Yangan when we came upon an army of rebels setting fire to a temple and killing the monks. Now, General Gordon was a Christian but he couldn’t stand by and watch a group of monks being slaughtered, even if they were Buddhists. He led us into the fray. What we didn’t know was that there was a second army behind the monastery.
“We fought all day and most of the night. There were heavy casualties on both sides. We had rifles and bayonets to their spears and arrows, but there was plenty of smoke from the burning monastery, and we fought at close quarters. By the end of the night, between my wounds and sheer exhaustion, I could hardly hold my rifle. I wandered among a sea of corpses, blood up to the horse’s bridle, as Revelation says, and the only living man in sight was a monk coming toward me with a spear in his hand. When he got close enough, he threw the spear at me. I ducked, amazed that he’d done it, after I’d just tried to save his monastery. What I didn’t know was that a wounded rebel was standing behind me with a broad sword, preparing to hack off my head. The spear caught him full in the throat. After all this time, I can still picture the look of surprise on the fellow’s face.
“The monk was Ho, of course. His head was shaven and he wore a long saffron robe splashed with gore, but you would have recognized him. He was only in his twenties, but I was not more than seventeen, myself. He put his foot on the chest of the freshly killed rebel soldier and pulled out the spear. We stood and watched the monastery burn. His first words to me were, ‘Perhaps this is a sign that I was not meant to be a monk.’”
I smiled at that image, and then asked, “What shall we do about Mr. K’ing?”
“There is nothing for it, lad. We shall have to beard the fellow in his den.”
“Perhaps Ho could furnish an introduction.”
“That would compromise Ho and possibly endanger him. Surely this fellow has a dwelling in Limehouse and an office where he conducts business. There must be someone who knows where he lives.”
“Dr. Quong?” I asked.
“Quong is an honorable man. I would not feel right about approaching him with such a request.”
“Jimmy Woo, then.”
“Excellent. I believe he is the very man. As an interpreter, he must travel all over Limehouse. I believe the rain has stopped. Let us go to the Asiatic Aid Society and see if we can find him.”
The Asiatic Aid Society was an organization much like the more-well-known Strangers’ Home, whose purpose was to care for aged or infirmed Eastern sailors who had found themselves washed up on our Western shores. Located in East India Dock Road, the building may once have been the mansion of an admiral in the days of Napoleon and Wellington. Now its halls were given over to aging lascars in the early stages of dementia and sad, neglected-looking Chinamen in bath chairs. There was a smell in the air of mold and dry rot, Asian food, and the sickbed that my nose didn’t like and my stomach cared for even less. The atmosphere was bleak and oppressive. I hoped our time here wou
ld be brief.
Sometimes I forget how deeply ingrained Barker’s faith is and how seriously he takes it. Perhaps it is because I’ve been present on so many occasions when he has had to resort to violence. To him, it must have been the most natural thing in the world to drop down on one knee beside an old Chinaman’s bath chair and converse quietly with him in Chinese. He actually fussed over the toothless old fellow, pulling up the blanket which had fallen around his knees, making some remark that made the old man’s eyes light up. The old salt, who had been lethargic when we came up to him, began to chatter to the Guv animatedly, nodding his head so his straggly beard wagged. He raised a finger, deformed and crippled from arthritis, and pointed down the hallway with a yellowed nail. Barker stood, they bobbed respectful bows at each other, and we proceeded down the hall.
“It is a pathetic end, lad,” he commented as we passed down the corridor, “but with no living relatives, he’s better here than in China.”
We found Woo in an office off the hall. He was helping a sailor process paperwork at his desk and waved us to a pair of chairs. He got out a seal and appended his name to the side of a document in red ink. Then came the prolonged leave-taking with the individual, with all its bows and grins. Being Chinese, I realized, is all about protocol.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Woo said, greeting us. “Managed to stay out of the wet? It’s raining cats and dogs, I said to myself this very morning. What can I do for London’s illustrious enquiry agent?”
“We were wondering if you are acquainted with a merchant in Limehouse known as Mr. K’ing.”
Woo’s hand, which was constantly in motion when he talked, stopped suddenly, and he tried to cover it up quickly by shooting his cuffs and adjusting the stickpin in his tie.
“Really, you know, he’s just a myth. There’s no such animal, I assure you. He’s just a creation thought up by certain merchants hoping to keep some of the dockside gangs at bay.”
“Inspector Bainbridge thought otherwise,” Barker pursued. “He even provided a sketch for us.”
Woo blinked twice behind his monocle. “Wouldn’t know about that, myself. I can only say that I’ve never met him, and if anyone would know about him, it would be me. You mark my words; he’s just a clever ploy on the part of merchants to draw some people in and keep others out. Mr. K’ing does not exist.”
“I see,” Barker said, but I was certain he thought otherwise. “Do you work here all day? When do you have time to discharge your duties to the Foreign Office?”
“I am in and out of the office all day and much of the night, as well. My work here is not suitable for my needs and so I must supplement my income with odd jobs. For example, I gave a reporter a tour of Darkest Limehouse just the other day.”
What needs did Woo have? I wondered. Obviously his tailor was one of them. His cravat and handkerchief were silver today, with a black cutaway and striped trousers.
“How is Mr. Campbell-Ffinch of the Foreign Office faring these days?” I dared to ask.
“Oh, he’s managed to successfully alienate most of Limehouse. I do my best to temper his remarks, since he doesn’t realize what gross insults he gives everyone. Poor chap, he’s doing more harm than good.”
“When did he arrive in London, Mr. Woo?” Barker asked.
“Just plain Jimmy will do. Let’s see. It was after Christmas last year. No, it must be two years ago, now, since it is February.”
“So Campbell-Ffinch has been on this case for over a year? The Foreign Office must be more forgiving than I thought.”
“Don’t think they haven’t threatened him, but I gather he’s furthered a few other cases in and around this one, through his bullying tactics and his group of Old Boys. I don’t believe the needs or desires of the Imperial Government come at the top of the F.O.’s list of priorities.”
“What about yours, er-Jimmy?”
“You mean regarding the Finch? That’s what I call him-the Finch. He sings and blusters all day, but no one really pays attention. He treats me abominably, but the F.O. compensates me for it. I’ve had worse employers. One merely has to understand that he’s going to take his frustration over his own inadequacies out on you.” He eyed my employer. “Do you mind if I ask you another question, the one everyone in the district is dying to know? Do you have any Chinese blood? Are you one of us?”
“Yes.”
Woo actually stopped and took Barker by the arm. “Really? You’re Chinese?”
“Yes, I really do mind if you ask me another question.”
I saw Woo hesitate a moment, then he threw his head back and roared with laughter. It rang false to me, but that was the impression all Chinamen gave me: that they laughed when they had been caught out or embarrassed.
“Good one, sir. Didn’t know you detectives had such a sense of humor.”
“Enquiry agents.”
“So sorry.”
“Shall you return to China someday, Mr. Woo?” Barker asked.
“Oh, I do hope so, sir. I miss the old place, Shanghai, Peking, the beauty of the Sung Mountains.”
“Ah, a northerner,” Barker was quick to say. “I’ve only been to Peking once to aid the Dowager Empress, but I found it spectacular. You must be very familiar with the Forbidden City.”
“Of course. I see we understand each other.”
There it is again, I thought to myself, that phrase. First Barker’s friend Huang Feihong used it in the letter and now Woo. What did they understand now?
“It must bring back good memories for you,” Barker continued.
“I look forward to the day when I arrive in Peking again and can see the roofs of the city. Shall you return yourself, sir, and continue the legend of Shi Shi Ji?”
Barker actually thought over the question. “I consider myself a resident of the world, Mr. Woo, but I must admit I also have a soft spot for China. Perhaps someday I shall return, at least to visit.”
“I think sometimes I could just jump aboard a ship and say good-bye to London, even after all these years,” Woo said, “but then I come to my senses and remember I’ve got responsibilities here.”
Woo showed us to the front door and we passed a group of old salts content to sit around the square tables, playing endless games of mah-jongg. It was pretty to look at, but it made chess look as easy as draughts by comparison.
“Well, I must take my leave. The Finch expects me to translate for him within the hour, and, if I know him, I’ll be fetching and carrying, as well. Pleasure seeing you chaps again.”
Off the fellow scampered like Alice’s White Rabbit. He really was one of the most eccentric fellows I’d ever met. Barker and I walked several streets to the tram, which took us out of Limehouse again.
“What did he mean by the two of you understanding each other?” I asked.
“Have you noticed Woo’s voice?” my employer asked.
“It is rather high and strident.”
“The Forbidden City is not open to normal males, since it contains the Prince’s wives and consorts. It is heavily populated and run by eunuchs.”
“Are you saying?”
“Yes. To anyone familiar with China, the voice is a dead giveaway.”
“He’s a…castrato?”
“Not castration, lad, I mean a complete sacrifice.” He made a cutting gesture with his hand, like a cleaver.
“My word!”
“It is the price young men in China must pay if they are intelligent, talented, and ambitious.”
Ambition is one thing, I thought, but that is a price I consider too dear merely to get ahead.
14
The next morning, the Sabbath, I stopped just long enough to down a cup of coffee and snatch a brioche before stepping outside. My employer was directing one of the workers in how he wanted the algae removed from his fish pond before it froze, with the aid of a long-handled bamboo rake. He stopped on seeing me and gave me an appraising look. I had grown very good at estimating his moods based upon the raising and
lowering of the brows behind his spectacles and the crinkling of his eyes at their corners. He shot a glance toward his Pen-jing collection, and I followed his gaze to where Miss Winter stood in her heavy veil, brushing Harm on top of a flat-topped rock Barker used to prune his miniature trees. The dog, at least, had manners enough to yip a greeting at me while Miss Winter brushed the dog’s fur as if I weren’t there. It was chilly in the garden that morning and I didn’t merely mean the weather. I waited until I received the smallest of grudging nods from my employer, who went on discussing the removal of the algae, as if it required Pythagorean mathematics. It was all the permission I required. I took off my hat and offered my most sincere bow.
“Miss,” I ventured, “I apologize for the unfortunate turn of events of three days ago. It was not my intention to enter into a disagreement with your maid, and the circumstance that resulted in her lying on a mudflat was entirely an error in judgment on my part. I was concerned over the welfare of the dog, you see, which of course, was stupid of me, for he obviously could not have been in better hands.”
The woman stood there stock-still, as they say, with her brush still buried in Harm’s fur, while I waited, hat over my chest, for her forgiveness. Ducking one’s ladies’ maid in the river was certainly a breach of etiquette, I reasoned, but it was not exactly a crime. Not an unforgivable one, anyway. Would she accept my apology?
She stood there a moment or two, lost in thought. Finally, she finished her stroke, set the dog on the ground, and put her brush away in a little leather box she had brought with her. Even from a distance of five feet, her veil was impenetrable, but as I was noting it, she leaned forward and lifted the heavy tulle from her face.
“I have no maid, Mr. Llewelyn,” she stated.
A shiver ran down my spine that wasn’t due to the fact that it was cold in the garden. How was I to know that the Chinese girl I had fought and the girl who tended after Harm at our home once a week were one and the same?