The Limehouse 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 would 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.