The Limehouse Text

20

The next morning, I found Barker in his big Georgian bed with the heavy damask curtains drawn back. He was leaning against a nest of cushions with newspapers from the last few days spread about and a pot of tea on a tray in front of him. I was glad to see he was not getting ready for work.

“Did Dr. Quong order you to bed, sir?” I asked.

“He did,” Barker said. “I might ignore one doctor, but when they collude, I am forced to obey. Look at this!” He pointed with scorn at a small vase containing a rose on his tray. Barker kept no roses in the greenhouse and it was February, so it must have been brought in from a hothouse somewhere.

“Very nice.”

“Nice,” he repeated, as if the word were poison in his mouth. “I presume you and Mac have reached an understanding with Madame Dummolard’s staff while I was-” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I cannot speak for Mac, sir, but I’ve been too busy or worried about you.”

“She is driving me mad.”

“Madame?”

“If she is not hovering about, her maid or nurse is. The fair sex will fuss over a fellow when he is ill, I suppose, but flowers are not a good sign. Next they shall voice concerns over the arrangement of the furnishings.”

I had a mental picture of a woman, any woman, telling Barker where to put the sofa and could not help smiling. The first thing to go, I speculated, would be the collection of antique weapons he kept on the red walls of his bedchamber. Madame could not do it, but I knew there was a certain widow he visited from time to time who might.

“What else have you been doing with yourself?” Barker asked. “Have you pressed your suit with that Petulengro girl?”

“I haven’t taken the opportunity of your sudden attack to go out spooning every night, sir, if that is what you are implying. Your health and your visitors have kept me occupied,” I said, ignoring his jibe.

“Something about the gypsy shop owner’s death still jars me. She is hiding something. I think you should buy her dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“I am not saying you should make a habit of taking suspects to dinner, but it seems the best way to get her to talk, short of buying up her entire stock piece by piece.”

“I see. You still count her a suspect then?”

“I do not imagine she killed the monks in the monastery in China, but I assume she is capable of shooting a gun in a tunnel. You have got to understand these matchstick girls, lad. They are rather hardened.”

“So, who are the suspects?”

“Ah, no. You’ll not be catching me out that way. You have been in charge for a few days. You tell me.”

I ran my hand across my face a couple of times to give myself time to think. “Well, Mr. K’ing, of course.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You don’t think so?”

“I did not say that, but you cannot just say he is a suspect. You must say why we must consider him.”

“Very well. He is the leader of a criminal organization in London. I don’t think anything of such a magnitude would happen in his district without his having a part in it.”

“Perhaps. Continue.”

“There’s that fellow on the blotter. The betel nut man.”

“Charlie Han.”

“Yes. He is a known criminal. Bainbridge seemed to think him dangerous and so far we have not been able to find a trace of him.”

“How would you proceed?”

“By finding out how long he has been in London?”

“Excellent. Who else?”

“Campbell-Ffinch. He has been in town the proper amount of time and is extremely anxious to get the book.”

“And?”

“Jimmy Woo, I suppose. He seems to know a lot of what is going on in the Asian quarter and he has been here for a long time.”

“We should check that.”

“What if all these murders are really not the work of one man? We’ve got different methods, different times, and even different countries. How do we know the killer of the monks in the monastery over a year ago is the same fellow who shot at us last week?”

“You make a good point,” Barker conceded. “In defense, I can only say that those who kill once often kill again and that I sense I am on the right road here.”

“I still wonder what his motive is,” I said. “Why does he want the book so single-mindedly? Having lost it, most people would have given up by now.”

“It is an Oriental trait to wait patiently but an Occidental one to hang on out of sheer doggedness. All shall be revealed in the fullness of time.”

There was a footstep upon the stair, and the maid appeared with a tray in her hand, an envelope upon it. Barker took it from her with a slight glare in her direction, then ripped it open. He extracted a piece of paper and began reading.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It is a court order giving permission to search my home.” He turned to the girl. “Tell Madame Dummolard we will have supper as usual. If they are going to search my house, I wish them to see that we are not inconvenienced in the least.”

The maid curtseyed and left.

Inspector Poole and Campbell-Ffinch were suddenly at the top of the stair and were taking in the sight of Cyrus Barker in bed, surrounded by walls bristling with weaponry.

“Very impressive,” Campbell-Ffinch said, but whether he meant Barker at home in his Regency bed or the collection of weapons, I couldn’t say.

“What is wrong with you?” the Foreign Office official demanded.

“I had a set-to with your killer. I am on bed rest for a day or two.”

“Did you see him? Did you see who it was?”

“No, drat the luck.”

“Did he get the text?”

“It is not in my possession,” Barker declared. “Feel free to search the premises, since you have already obtained legal permission to do so. I hope you have more profitable subjects of inquiry, for I assure you that these next hours shall bear no fruit.”

Campbell-Ffinch pulled two more envelopes from his pocket with a gesture of triumph. “I have two additional court orders: one to search your offices and another for the property you own in Three Colt Street.”

“I also keep a horse and carriage in a stable a half mile from here. You might get an order for that, as well.”

“If necessary, we shall,” Campbell-Ffinch said. “I must say, I do not care for your attitude, Barker. You’ve lost an assistant and an acquaintance, yet you still appear as obstinate and uncooperative as ever. I only hope your fee is sufficient to assuage the inconvenience I’m going to put you through.”

“It is a small book, sir,” Barker replied, “but you are fortunate. England is a small island.”

“If it is here, we shall find it!” The official scowled and marched down the stairs.

“I’m sorry about all this, Cyrus,” Poole said. “If there were any other way…”

“I understand, Terry. I am not blaming you.”

“Why not just give him the stupid book? What could it hurt?”

“You do not know what you are asking. If Campbell-Ffinch throws me in jail and takes all that I possess, it still would not be as catastrophic as if he had that text. And let me be firm about that, even with you. I do not have possession of it.”

Poole gave me a look of utter misery.

“Don’t look at me,” I told him. “I cannot help you. I have no idea where the text is.”

The inspector gave a shrug and went downstairs. A few minutes later I heard Dummolard below. They had dared enter his domain without permission. Poole returned a few minutes later.

“Cyrus, I must ask you to restrain your Frenchman.”

“As you see,” my employer replied, “I am incapacitated. If you can induce him to climb the stair, I shall instruct him to allow the search, as long as you do not go poking fingers into his pies. Etienne is very sensitive about his crusts.”

I couldn’t help it. I snorted. The Guv is a very serious person most of the time, and one might feel he has no sense of humor, but being pressed by some authority brought out a touch of drollness in him.

Poole scowled at me and I shut up. “If he gives us trouble, I’m taking him to A Division for questioning and possible charges of assault.”

“You shall have to take that up with him,” my employer said. “He is capable of making his own decisions. Arrest him, if you like, but my experience of Dummolard has been that he is generally uncooperative.”

“I wish I had never heard of that blasted book,” Poole grumbled.

“There,” Barker said. “We agree on something.”

Poole went back downstairs.

“Where were we?” Barker asked.

“I don’t recall. How are you feeling, sir?”

“Rather weak, I’m afraid, and my kidneys hurt. I shall be glad when Dr. Quong returns.”

“Sir, does Old Quong have the text?”

“Best not to ask, lad. You wouldn’t want to perjure yourself in the dock under a barrister’s questioning, if it comes to that.”

There was a scream down below and a second torrent of French, female this time. Barker chuckled, then winced at the pain. A few moments later, a beleaguered Poole returned.

“Cyrus.”

“Madame Dummolard is at present my housekeeper, Terry,” the Guv explained. “It is her duty to keep house. Perhaps your constables are not returning the items they are searching to their original positions. You should either instruct your men to be more careful or carry her up here bodily, and I shall instruct her to be more helpful.”

“I think you are enjoying this.”

“My home has been invaded and yet you complain about resistance. If it is too much trouble, go back to Whitehall and leave us in peace.”

Poole shook his head and went downstairs while Barker returned to his newspapers.

“What are you reading, sir?”

“Stead’s article in the Gazette about Khartoum. Parliament simply must consent to send a force to retrieve Gordon’s body.”

Gordon, of course, was General Charles Gordon, who had fallen with his troops in January in the Sudan. News had arrived that he had been slain by the Mahdi’s Muslim warriors. Gordon’s likeness had begun to appear in placards and magazines and in photographs in shop windows. England likes its dead heroes even more than its live ones. I remembered Bainbridge had mentioned his name. His nickname was Chinese Gordon. I wasn’t well schooled in Chinese history, but as I recalled, he had defended Shanghai against the Chinese rebels some twenty years before and Barker had fought with him. “Did you ever meet the general, sir?”

“I served under him,” he said. “We were called the Ever Victorious Army-Chinese troops led by English and American officers at the behest of the Chinese government.”

“How did you get mixed up in all that?” I asked.

“I was working on the docks at Foochow when the entire south was overthrown. My parents had died of cholera a few years before and I made my way to Shanghai to try to locate my elder brother, who was at a private school for Europeans along the Bund. I finally found him, but he was keen to join the fighting and soon I found myself with an English unit as an interpreter while my brother helped the Americans. The armies split up and I never saw him again.”

“My word.”

“Yes, the Americans accused England of aiding the secessionist side in the War Between the States. There were two civil wars going on at once. In the chaos after the English and Americans split, Gordon was assigned to my regiment. He was unaccustomed to leadership and something of a Christian mystic, but he had a way of inspiring the troops. He was fearless, walking into battle as if God Himself was protecting him.

“After three years fighting, we finally broke the back of the rebel forces and routed them. The rebel leader died, killed himself some say, and that was it. Gordon was decorated and sent home to England a hero. I understand his straightforward talk earned him enemies in the War Office and he lay fallow for many years until he was finally offered a chance against the Mahdi’s troops. It was suicide, lad, a shabby way to treat one of England’s greatest leaders of men.”

My mind was taking it all in, a young, impressionable Barker and a valiant leader in war-torn China. I had to say something or he would close up on me again.

“So when did you meet the Dowager Empress?”

Barker ran a hand over his brow wearily. “Some other time, lad.”

Some other time, I thought. It’s always some other time.