The Limehouse Text

by Will Thomas

  “Are you going to ask her?” I countered. “Even the Guv was afraid to turn her down. She is a formidable woman. Besides, I don’t think the thief or killer will come back as long as the house is teeming with people. I say let Barker tell her when he is himself again. I’m sure you can get on for a few more days having your cushions fluffed and your meals fed you by maids.”

  “They’re using the wrong polish on the floors,” he complained. “And if they move one paper up in the Guv’s rooms, I’ll be the one swinging for it when he wakes up.”

  He closed the door, leaving me alone in the hall. I turned, planning to go upstairs again, but I stopped as Bok Fu Ying came in the back door.

  She stood in her black bustled dress with her hands folded in front of her, looking forlorn. I should have alerted her that Barker had been injured, but it had not occurred to me. I walked down the hallway to her and took her hand.

  “How is my guardian?” she asked.

  “Ill, but not gravely, I think. Dr. Quong has been here. Come this way.”

  I led her upstairs. I thought she was prepared to see the Guv, and I think she thought so herself, but she still stiffened when she first saw Barker.

  “What is wrong with him?” she asked.

  “It is his kidneys.”

  “Kidneys. That is serious, is it not?”

  “Very serious,” I answered.

  She nodded and after a moment a tear or two fell down from her lashes, missing her cheeks entirely, breaking into droplets on her collar and glancing off. I reached for my handkerchief and held it out, but she took no notice, keeping her eyes glued to Barker. Finally, her lids fluttered and she accepted my proffered handkerchief.

  She broke down then completely, crying silently, as if making noise were forbidden. I helped her down the stairs, saying whatever soothing words came to me. I led her into the kitchen and seated her in one of the chairs by the window. Dummolard was mid-puff on his short French cigarette in front of the cutting board and he looked at us in surprise.

  “Etienne, could Miss Winter have a cup of tea?” I dared ask. It was an unthinkable breach of the chef’s unwritten rules, I knew, but this was an emergency. I waited a second while he considered verbally dicing me like a clove of garlic. Finally, he gave a Gallic shrug, turned, and put the teapot on the hob.

  Miss Winter coughed and spoke, her voice hoarse. “I apologize. Forgive my emotion. He is all I have now. I lead a very circumscribed life.”

  “I quite understand.”

  “He simply cannot die. If he does, I shall die myself, and then who will look after Harm?”

  “You think very highly of that dog,” I said, trying to distract her from talking of death. For one thing, I couldn’t definitely say Barker wouldn’t die, though I hoped Old Quong or Applegate would relieve all our minds soon.

  “I have to, you see,” she answered. “Da Mo owns me.”

  “Da Mo?” I asked. “Who is Da Mo?”

  “The dog. His Chinese name is Da Mo.”

  “What do you mean, he owns you?”

  “I mean I belong to him. I was given to Sir by the Dowager Empress to look after him. I am the dog’s slave.”

  “His slave?” I could not believe my ears.

  “Of course. He is an imperial dog raised by the Dowager Empress herself and is entitled to a slave. If I had performed my duties unworthily or displeased him in any way, or should he sicken and die, I would have been beheaded in the Forbidden City.”

  “That’s monstrous!” I couldn’t help saying. “It is barbaric!”

  “It is the way,” she said as if that excused it. “Sir was obliged to accept me and to see to my needs, but when we left China soon afterward, he gave me a writ of freedom. Slaves are not acceptable in modern England, he says, but he was not obligated to take such good care of me and to make me his ward. He is a noble man.”

  Dummolard reached between us and set a cup of tea in front of her. “Here you are, mademoiselle.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur Dummolard. It is good to see a familiar face on this cold, inhospitable day.”

  The Frenchman nodded gruffly and left me to look after the girl with a look that said, Be careful or you’ll answer to me.

  “May I ask how you and Quong met?” I asked.

  She smoothed her skirt carefully and took a sip of her tea. “He used to work in his father’s shop and when he heard Sir was the famous Shi Shi Ji, he made bold enough to ask if he could become his student. I was living in the house then, looking after Da Mo and the Pen-jing trees. We began to greet each other when he arrived. Sir must have noticed. He rarely misses anything, for he likes the nuances of life. He considered for a while in his private way, then invited Dr. Quong to tea in the small pavilion at the back of the garden. I remember that day well. They had pots of tea and wheat rolls and discussed our future together.”

  “You mean that it was an arranged marriage?”

  “You make that sound like an evil thing,” she said. “We trusted them implicitly, and it was obvious to them that we cared for each other. We benefited from their wisdom and experience.

  “At that time, Sir considered hiring an assistant, saying that in his work two were often safer than one. He proposed to Dr. Quong that his son first go to live in Three Colt Street, and after he became Sir’s assistant, he came to live here while I stayed in Limehouse among my own people, with the doctor and Uncle Ho visiting me occasionally to see after my welfare. Naturally, I would have been happy to marry right away, but he was a virtuous young man. He did not want to rely on the largess of his father or my guardian but to make his own way in the world.

  “Sir opened new opportunities for him, but I do not believe my fiancé intended to stay an enquiry agent forever. He ranged all over Limehouse looking for possible business opportunities. He read widely and interested himself in the affairs of our people in London.”

  “You make him sound very serious,” I said.

  “He was serious,” she admitted, “but he clothed his manner in humor. When we stepped into a shop he spoke to the owner, making jokes with him and passing the time of day, but when he left he could tell me what new stock had come in and what was selling well. He knew the name of every merchant in a street. Often someone wished to hire him, but Shao Zu felt an obligation to stay with Sir until he had acquired enough money for us to be married.”

  “You must have been distraught to lose him.”

  “I cannot describe the misery to you of that terrible waiting and then the news that he was found dead. I thought my life was over. Many times since I have considered taking up the knife and doing away with myself. I thought I had nothing to live for. And now my guardian stands upon the brink of death. I do not know how I can stand it.”

  I looked at Dummolard, who had been listening to the tale with such rapt interest his cigarette had become one long ash. Like myself, he felt for the girl. The cook tossed the end of his cigarette onto the slate floor and left the room, shaking his head, leaving me with the bereaved girl.

  “Don’t worry,” I told her. “He will get well. Dr. Quong will make sure of it.”

  She nodded and wiped her eyes with my handkerchief, which must have been sodden by then. I couldn’t bear the thought of this girl giving way under her burden and killing herself.

  Just then the door to the kitchen flew open and Madame Dummolard came in.

  “Ah, ma petite! I just heard you were here. Don’t you worry. M’sieur Barker will be well again before you know it.” She held the crying girl to her. Bok Fu Ying looked like a doll in her arms.

  Harm scratched on the back door. I got up to open it and followed him out into the garden to allow the women some privacy.

  It was cold and starting to snow outside, but it felt good after the stuffy heat of the kitchen. Everything was dormant save for the plants in the greenhouse. There was a thin ring of ice around the perimeter of Barker’s artificial pond, but spotted goldfish were coming up for the morsels the gardener had toss
ed in.

  I wandered among the grass-ringed stepping-stones and reached the small bridge. There were stone newel posts on both sides, with a small figure atop each one. My hands ran over the cold surface of the carved stone and the fierce faces of the creatures. Lions. They were stone lions. I looked back over my shoulder. The dormer windows above looked like a pair of eyes staring down at me, the glass as black as the Guv’s spectacles.

  “Wake up,” I murmured. “Please, sir, wake up.”

  18

  A FEW HOURS LATER, THE MAID CAME UP THE stairs, interrupting my reverie. I had been sitting and staring into the fire in Barker’s hearth for who knows how long, worrying.

  “Monsieur Llewelyn, there is a visitor.”

  “Send him away,” I said. “There have been too many people up here already.”

  “But he is not here to see M’sieur Barker. He wishes to see you.”

  “Show him to the library, then. I shall be along in a few minutes.”

  Who wished to speak with me? To tell the truth, I didn’t much care. I would go downstairs and tell whoever it was to go away. I wasn’t expecting a friend.

  Israel Zangwill rose from the fireside chair in the library as I entered. His hat was on his knee, mottled with melting snow. It was early afternoon and yet Israel was here, instead of at his position at the Jews’ Free School.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I started a new position, Thomas. I have given up teaching,” he said, a smile on his Pucklike face. “I have become a reporter for the Jewish Chronicle.”

  “That’s marvelous, Israel. Congratulations.” I shook his hand. “No more first period gymnastics for you now, eh?”

  “Exactly. Who is the new maid in the hall and what has become of Mac?”

  I explained the immediate situation and Israel took it all in.

  “So he was attacked in Limehouse, you say. Does this have anything to do with a fellow named Mr. K’ing?”

  “How on earth do you know about K’ing?” I asked. “His name is hardly spoken above a whisper.”

  “I’ve been investigating him for an article after a few of our crowd lost a painful amount at fan-tan. I suppose telling the Chronicle was a way to get even.”

  “You haven’t by chance been given a tour of Limehouse by an individual named Jimmy Woo?”

  “‘Individual’ is a good word for him. Yes, that was me. He showed me all over the district until I mentioned Mr. K’ing. Then he shut up so tight I might as well have stuck a cork in his mouth.”

  “K’ing has that effect on people. Woo says he doesn’t even exist.”

  “He exists, all right. He owns an opium den in Pekin Street.”

  “How did you come by that information?”

  “I’m a reporter. I bought it. I thought your employer might be interested, though I didn’t know he was working on a similar case.”

  “It’s just the sort of information he’s been looking for, but I doubt he’ll be up for several days, if at all. He hasn’t woken up since he was attacked.”

  “Drat!” Zangwill said. “I spent my last shilling on the information and now I can’t even afford to get inside. You’re the only fellow I know with both the courage and the ready to go there with me.”

  “I’m sorry, Israel, but I can’t leave Barker’s side, and, besides, you shouldn’t be going to an opium den. It’s dangerous and terribly addictive.”

  “Oh, I’m going, all right. I have to. My employment depends upon it. I rather sold it to my editor, you know, ‘Sinister Oriental, pipe of poppy, white slave trade’ and all that. I’ve got to go through with it. I’ve rather burned my bridges behind me.”

  “I wish I could help you, but Barker’s health, his life is too precarious now.” I studied my friend. “I can’t believe you threw over a good position.”

  “It is your fault,” he retorted. “You are the one that got me thinking. You’re always doing important things, risking life and limb daily, and what do I do? I wet-nurse a group of children. It was stultifying. This last week has been the most exciting of my life! If I have to visit an opium den or stalk Limehouse for an underground criminal leader to get a story, I shall do it.”

  “Your parents must be livid.”

  Zangwill gave me a pained smile. “They are not overjoyed, but it is already done. If I fail, I shall have to find other work, but I refuse to fail. Look, supposing this place is pertinent to the case and you’re spending precious hours here when you could be solving it. How would you like to serve your employer a finished case on a platter when he wakes up?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry, Israel. The Guv would caution me just as I am cautioning you. Slow down and think this over.”

  He ran a hand through his shock of curly hair. “I have an idea, then. I won’t go tonight if you go with me tomorrow night. Your boss might wake up in the morning. I really need your help. If you don’t go with me, I shall have to take Ira.”

  Ira Moskowitz was a close friend of ours. He is built like a sack of potatoes and would be of no help at all in a desperate situation.

  “All right, all right,” I relented. “I shall go with you tomorrow night if Barker’s condition does not worsen or if he wakes up and feels it is the right thing for me to do. But I’ve already made one mistake in this case and I do not want to make another if I can help it. You’re not actually going to smoke the stuff, are you?”

  “Surely you don’t think I’m the sort that would go to such an establishment for pleasure.”

  “No,” I said, “just to beard the most dangerous man in London in his den.”

  Zangwill leaned forward. “Do you really think he is the most dangerous man in London? Oh, I like that phrase. I simply must use it.” He pulled a small pad from his pocket and made a notation in pencil.

  “You’re treating this like a game, Israel,” I told him. “K’ing is very real and, I suspect, very dangerous. I, for one, would not care to be under his scrutiny.”

  “Look, we’ll go in and buy a few pipes. It’s not illegal and we won’t smoke them, though people do it all the time. I’m more interested in what goes on behind the opium den than what occurs inside it.”

  “That’s what I am afraid of.”

  “Tomorrow, then,” Zangwill said as I saw him to the door.

  “Very well. Tomorrow. Where and when?”

  “Pekin Street. Let us say seven.”

  Dr. Quong arrived about an hour later. He tried a different kind of needle treatment this time, involving small cups with holes in the bottom through which the needle was passed. A bit of cotton on the end of the needle was ignited, which sucked the air out of the small chamber and adhered the cup to the skin. In ten minutes, Barker was covered in little glass cups.

  “It doesn’t hurt?” I asked.

  “I would no hurt Shi Shi Ji,” Quong said. “He will find my son killer.”

  “When can I get this cast off?”

  “You Westerners all the time hurry. Chop, chop. Cannot rush healing body. Chinese medicine work slowly but good.”

  After he had pulled every pin from Barker’s body and massaged a bottle of liniment into his back that turned it bright yellow, he left us alone. Harm came in, sniffed at everything, and hopped up on the corner of the bed. He put his almost chinless head on his paws and sighed.

  “I know how you feel,” I told him.

  At a loss for what to do, I explored the books on Barker’s shelves. The walls slope from the apex until they meet a line of low, long bookcases on both sides. They contained mostly religious texts. I pulled an old copy of Pilgrim’s Progress from the shelf and reacquainted myself with Christian, Mr. Worldly Wiseman, and my personal favorite, the Slough of Despond. Barker stirred and sighed in his sleep twice during the evening but did not wake up. I debated sleeping in a chair but allowed the night nurse when she arrived to shoo me off to bed like a mother.

  The next morning, Barker was still profoundly asleep, one foot firmly planted in this wor
ld and the other in the one to come. I was sure he would have woken by now. Was he getting better or was this bad news? Applegate came midmorning and spoke cryptically. He said the Guv was doing “as well as can be expected,” but would not make any further comment. I asked if I should go out and pursue an inquiry that evening involving the case. He said he thought that the fresh air would do me good.

  The way it is described in the guidebooks, one would think Limehouse a kind of Brighton-on-the-

  Thames instead of a worn-down and bedraggled district with outdated sewer systems and buildings teetering on stilts by the edge of the river, a constant source of worry for the Lord Mayor.

  Arriving at my destination, it occurred to me that it takes a certain measure of courage for a man to go to a place that might be dangerous and another measure before going in. I had brought the first but I was not positive about the other.

  “Does this place have a name?” I asked Israel, for I saw no hoarding bidding people to enter, nothing save for a small gas lamp over the entrance door.

  “Jimmy Woo says this place is called Inn of Double Happiness,” Zangwill said.

  “This is an inn?” I asked skeptically. It looked more like a house of assignation to me.

  “How should I know?”

  “Are you sure about this, Israel?” I asked as we stared at a flickering gas jet over the door.

  “Yes,” Zangwill said steadily, then wavered. “Well, sureish.”

  I felt as if we were schoolboys daring each other to go into a deserted house. “There’s no way you could impress the editors at the Jewish Chronicle with some other story?”

  “Not unless I can create a hair-raising account of the annual meeting of the Daughters of Judah that would thrill the world in its entirety. How is Mr. Barker doing?”

  “He is…recovering.”

  Zangwill played with his upper lip, a habit he has when he is debating something. It was accompanied by a tapping of his foot, much in the way Harm jerks his leg when I scratch his stomach.

  “Let’s go in, then,” he finally said.