The Limehouse Text

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?

“I-I’m so sorry,” I stammered.

She said nothing but regarded me out of black, almond-shaped eyes. I wanted to protest, but couldn’t find the words. How could I have known? For that matter, what was a Chinese girl doing dressed up like an Englishwoman-though I had to admit she was attractive in her close-fitting widow’s weeds. Some movement of my face must have betrayed my thoughts, for she suddenly stepped forward and before I could move, slapped my face hard. It reminded me of the fact that I myself had already been ill-used. True, I had tossed her in the Thames, but she had half kicked me down a stairwell, not to mention trying to scratch my eyes out. I thought we were about to have another set-to, but thankfully Barker had finally finished communicating the exact formula for extracting algae from a fish pond and came up beside me.

“Miss Winter, I believe you have already made the acquaintance of Mr. Thomas Llewelyn. Thomas, may I present my ward, Miss Winter, or as she is known in Chinese, Bok Fu Ying.”

All fierceness deserted her face, as a cat retracts its claws, and she curtseyed graciously to me.

“How do you do?” she asked without a trace of an accent.

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Did you say ward?” The last, of course, was directed toward the Guv. A full year’s service I had put in, and never once had he mentioned having any such thing.

“Yes. I am her guardian,” Barker stated, as if it were the most logical thing in the world, and perhaps it was in China. “I have been for over five years now. Miss Winter is in mourning. She was betrothed to my late assistant.”

The young woman cast down her eyes and seemed to retreat into herself.

I believe until that time it hadn’t really registered in this poor brain of mine that Quong had been a real person. I sleep in his room, even have worn his coat and hat a time or two, but there was nothing personal to remind me of his having come before, no photographs or mementos. Certainly nothing as personal as a girl he had left behind. Poor fellow, I thought. He once had an interesting career and a beautiful fiancee, and then one day he came across that blasted text and by end of day was a corpse floating in Limehouse Reach. So much promise of a good life, ended too soon.

“I regret your loss, miss. I’ve heard nothing but good things about Mr. Quong since I came here.”

The girl bowed her head gravely, and there was nothing left to be said. She left in her carriage while Barker and I walked across the road to the Metropolitan Tabernacle. Spurgeon preached upon forgiving thy neighbor. I wished Miss Winter had been in attendance.

After lunch, a joint of mutton in herb sauce prepared by Madame which was at least as good as her husband’s, Barker reached into the sideboard and pulled out a large pad of paper. “Get out your notes, lad, and see if you can reproduce Bainbridge’s blotter. Perhaps it will give us some clue as to who the killer is.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, and set to work. I had no training in art beyond a lesson or two in draftsmanship during my school days, but I persevered for over an hour, copying with my notebook in front of me, using both it and my memory to copy Bainbridge’s work as closely as possible.

When I was finished, Barker waved me out of my chair and propped up the tablet against the back. Then he pulled the visitor’s chairs away from the desk and we sat down and looked at my work, or more precisely, my interpretation of Bainbridge’s work.

“This entire sketch is about Hestia Petulengro,” he stated. “She is key to this entire picture, and yet she has little or no connection to the book that I can find. There can only be two reasons for her to be here on the blotter. Either she is actually key to this investigation and we don’t know how, yet, or-”

“Or,” I said, continuing the thought, “Bainbridge had some sort of infatuation or relationship with Miss Petulengro. I notice he didn’t dare try to reproduce her face, as if he were not worthy of the attempt.”

“I’m afraid you are correct. These initials in the corner are personal rather than professional. It is a schoolboy’s habit to turn the object of one’s affections’ initials into a talisman, copying them endlessly. And him a married man. Och, this is not pretty, lad.”

I was about to say, neither was Mrs. Bainbridge, but that was not fair. Instead I concentrated on some of the other figures in the drawing.

“Sir, most of this is very much connected to the murders. Here is Jan Hurtz, lying dead, and here is Luke Chow, hanging on the lines. And this fellow with the hat and fur-collared coat is Mr. K’ing. You will note that he’s not even looking at Hettie Petulengro. I don’t think he knows her.”

“I do not believe Inspector Bainbridge was entirely forthcoming with us, lad, or entirely honest. He had secrets of his own, such as why he was content to be working down here in Limehouse the last few years. He and I had a working relationship but not a friendship such as I have with Terence Poole.”

“But, sir,” I pointed out, “you got into quite an argument with Poole just the other day.”

“That proves it, lad. Friends can shout at each other and express their opinions and know their friendship will not be affected by it. It was different with Bainbridge. We aided each other, but we were competitors. He wanted to solve the case himself. He was not about to hand it over to a private enquiry agent. He needed me because he had to know what had been pawned. You saw that he tried first without us. Anything he said to us, then, is suspect. If, for example, he could have connected the murder to K’ing and then brought him in, he would be a hero at the Yard.”

“Are you saying he might have forged such a connection? That he was dishonest?”

“I would not cast aspersions upon the dead, not without evidence, anyway. I do not know his character. In my discussions with Poole, I gather he didn’t know him well, either. Bainbridge kept himself to himself.”

“Perhaps not with Miss Petulengro.”

“Yes, we shall have to speak with her again but not just yet. I shall have to think how best to go about it.”

We gazed at the picture again for a moment. The Guv leaned forward and tapped the paper with a thick finger. “This fellow with the menacing look, what did the constable say his name was?”

I consulted my notebook. “Charlie Han, petty criminal, connected with the betel nut trade. What is betel nut, sir?”

“It is a mild narcotic. Now this other fellow, the bearded one leering at her, he looks unnaturally stiff. Was he that way in the original picture?”

“Yes, sir.”

Barker scratched under his chin in thought. “His eyes look out of focus, though his expression is fierce enough. This is an odd shadow along his neck. Could I see your original sketch?”

I showed him the notebook.

“You know, lad, I don’t think this is a shadow at all. It is a bruise. This is Miss Petulengro’s uncle, drawn from death. I still see no reason for the murder of Mr. Petulengro, unless it actually was a robbery. Quong had already purchased the book. I doubt the killer would have murdered him out of pique.”

I let that sink into my thoughts for a while, then didn’t care at all for what came back. “Do you think Miss Petulengro killed him herself and made it look like a robbery?”

“It is very possible, lad. She had several motives. She feared for her safety. She inherited a good business. She got out of matchstick making, which is a dangerous occupation.”

“So she is a viable suspect.”

“I would say yes, except for the method of death. She is a bold, feisty girl. I would have taken her for a stabber. Do you remember the row of clasp knives in the case? She would have gone for one of them. A club is not her weapon at all.”

“But it was Inspector Bainbridge’s weapon,” I said.

“Yes, lad, it was. He was a devil with a truncheon. But if he were after the text he still had no reason to kill Lazlo Petulengro. Of course, there is another possibility, that they planned Petulengro’s death together.”

“Mind you,” I said, “there is no motive I can see in either of them killing to find the text. I don’t see how they would benefit.”

“True,” Barker conceded. “There is even the possibility that the shop was in fact robbed and he was killed by the thieves, as it appeared. Chandleries are often robbed by the very sailors who frequent them, and New Year’s is a common time for robberies.”

“So, you’re saying Mr. Petulengro was either killed by his niece, Hettie; Inspector Bainbridge; both of them; the nameless killer we are after; or the thieves who appear to have broken in.”

“Aye. Or someone else.”

“Someone else?” I cried. “Who is left? The Lord Mayor?”

“I have not asked for his alibi, lad. No, I am talking about our fierce friend, Mr. Han, the other man leering at Miss Petulengro in the drawing. I believe we shall have to track the fellow down and ask him some questions. I suggest we not be gentle about it.”

Just then Jenkins brought in a message. Barker scrutinized it and then nodded his head in approval.

“Mr. Han must wait,” he said. “This is from Poole. The Yard has finally released Ho.”