The Limehouse Text

22

Barker rested most of the next day. He had been pushing himself since he’d first awakened from his injuries. When I got back from the office, Mac informed me that the Guv hadn’t even been down to lunch. We were talking sotto voce but we should have known the Guv would have heard me enter the house. He called down from the top floor. I set my stick in the hall stand and went upstairs.

My employer was still in bed, clad in his dressing gown. Upon my entrance, he reached into the table by his bed and removed a small daguerreotype, no larger than a playing card. I scrutinized it. It showed a young Oriental with a serious expression on his face against a backdrop painted to look like a Hellenic grove.

“Is this Quong?” I asked.

“Yes. I want you to take it with you to dinner with Miss Petulengro. See if she recognizes it.”

“But I haven’t asked her yet, sir.”

“Then you had better make haste, lad. A young woman as attractive as that is not going to wait for you to get up your courage.”

I slid into the shop a few minutes before closing time, making certain the bell jingled to attract Miss Petulengro’s attention. By the time I reached the counter, she came in from the rooms behind.

“Oh, it’s you, again,” she said, flashing what might be the prettiest teeth in the East End. “What brings you here?”

“I was in the neighborhood and thought I might take the chance that you had not eaten dinner yet.”

“Here, I ain’t that kinda girl, I’ll have you know,” she said, putting her hand on her hip.

“Oh! I do beg your pardon! I didn’t mean-”

She broke out in a laugh. “Oh, your face. Four shades of red, it is. I meant I ain’t the kinda girl you have to impress with a meal, if you get my meaning.”

“I see.”

“But you might have warned me, you know. I might have made plans of me own. I been asked to dinner twice today already, and I turned them down. What makes you think I’d go out with you?”

“Because being an enquiry agent makes me irresistible to women,” I bluffed. “Air of danger and all that.”

“Ha! As far as I’m concerned, it’s just another name for copper. I suppose your real plan is to open me up and ply me with questions.”

“Well, yes, that’s exactly the idea, but there’s no reason why we cannot do it over a nice meal and a bottle of wine.”

“I reckon you’re right. Best offer I had all day, I’ll admit. Where shall we go?”

“I don’t know the East End well. Is there somewhere special you would like to eat?”

“There’s a nice restaurant over by Billingsgate where you can get a fish dinner you won’t forget. Haven’t been there in a while. Will that suit your sensibilities or do you want to go somewhere posh? You are dressed like a toff tonight.”

“A fish dinner sounds wonderful.”

“Perfect. I’ll lock up and be down directly.”

It was more like ten minutes, but she had transformed into a swan during that time. She’d changed into a long skirt and white blouse with lace at the collar and wrists, covered by a mantle of dark silk paisley that emphasized her gypsy looks. She had pinned back her henna-colored hair and traded the large hoops she wore for a more delicate set of ivory cameo earrings. Her cheeks were flushed but I couldn’t tell if it were due to the rouge pot or merely the result of looking forward to a good evening.

The East End wasn’t easy to negotiate on a weekday evening. We walked a few blocks until we reached the tram, which took us west a while. Eventually we got off on Commercial Road and hired a four-wheeler. Hettie looked quite beautiful in her evening outfit, and had she behaved herself I’m sure she could have graced any West End establishment. But she wouldn’t behave herself, I knew. She was simply too wild. I was certain she could snap her fingers and have a dozen Limehouse denizens at her beck and call.

The restaurant, when we finally arrived, was hard by the Fish Market, in a converted warehouse overlooking the Thames. Inside, it looked more like a cross between a pub and a well-established supper club. As I stepped in, the aroma of melted butter and oyster stew met my nostrils. I had to admit I was hungry.

“’Ello, Eddy, old boy!” Hestia cried out to the maitre d’, an old gentleman who reminded me of Fezziwig from Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, round as a ball and jovial as a doting grandfather.

“Why, Miss Petulengro! Bless my soul! How pleasant to see you again! What outrage have we performed that you’ve stayed away so long?”

“How could you do anything wrong, Eddy? You know you’ll always be my favorite.”

“I see no other option, my dear,” the old fellow said, “than to give you and your gentleman friend here the best seat in the house.”

He led us through a maze of corridors full of booths with people dining until we finally came to a set of windows overlooking the Thames, where we were seated. The river, for once, looked almost romantic, and the row of windows looking out on the water made me feel like we were in the stern of an clipper ship. Our table was lit by candles, and it even boasted linen. I noticed not a few eyes upon us, but when one goes out with such a beauty, I suppose one must grow accustomed to that.

“Shall you and the gentleman be having the house dinner, miss?”

“We shall.”

“Excellent. I hope everything will be up to your expectations. You, sir. Would you care to see the wine list?”

“I believe,” I said, “that such a selection is best left in your capable hands. I would not presume to consider my opinion higher than your own.”

“Spoken like a man of discernment. Very well. I am to be given a free hand, so to speak. Enjoy your meal, and let the courses begin.”

“Courses?” I asked Hettie after he had gone.

“Yes. I hope you brought your appetite, ducks. I’m starved.”

“Is the food as good as the view?” I asked, looking out at the river.

“Oh, it is. Now I know you have some questions from that boss of yours. Go on.”

“If I may, I’d like to begin with your uncle.”

Her face turned serious a moment. “Thought you might. I was out celebrating New Year’s with some girl friends. Got home late and found the shop in the possession of Bainbridge and company.”

“Inspector Bainbridge?” I asked.

“The very same. Me uncle was found dead behind the counter by some sailors who’d been anxious to sell their kit for a night of revels. It looked like a typical robbery. His neck had been broken with one blow. There was a nasty bruise across the left side of his neck, but nothing stolen out of the jewel case or the safe.”

“Was Inspector Bainbridge helpful?”

“I don’t meant to speak ill of the dead, but Bainy always had an eye on me and I don’t think it was a professional one, either. He followed me about and kept an eye on the shop, both before and after. To tell you the truth, I half suspected he did me uncle in. The wound looked just like the mark that club of his would make.”

“But why would the inspector want to kill your uncle?” I asked.

“Who knows? Maybe he wanted to make me an heiress so he could marry me.”

“But he was already married,” I pointed out.

“Oh, I think he’d do in his missus, if it came to that. Not that I asked him to. He was a copper, after all, and not a pretty one like you,” she said, and actually reached across the table and pinched my nose. “Lawks, if you don’t blush!” She laughed.

The meal arrived after that. Arrived and kept arriving. The fish dinner, which turned out to be famous in the East End, consisted of eleven fish courses aside from the buns and vegetables. There was plaice and sole, sea bass and halibut, flounder, oysters, herring in mustard sauce, cod, eels, whiting, and shad. My dinner companion proved herself an enthusiastic eater. As to drink, I found we each had a goblet of white wine, a glass of porter, and a half pint of stout, to wash everything down with. Had Barker not been paying for the meal, I’d have begun to worry how much it would all cost.

By the end of the meal, I was gasping, “My word. I cannot eat another bite.”

“Eddy takes good care of you, don’t you agree?”

“He does. I trust this doesn’t all come from the Thames.”

“Good heavens, no. It comes from Newhaven on the train, first thing in the morning. Eddy hits the fish market early.”

“Is that what this place is called? Eddy’s? I didn’t see a sign out front besides the one saying Fish Dinner.”

“I believe its actual moniker is the Billingsgate Family Fish Restaurant and Public House, but if you don’t call it Eddy’s, you’re green.”

“I see. All this food is making me drowsy. Would you be interested in a short walk? There is a nice place nearby where we can get a good cup of coffee.”

“I’m game for anything.”

We received our bill, which was astonishingly inexpensive, I thought, considering all we’d eaten, and after Hettie gave the proprietor a resounding kiss on the cheek, we left. The temperature had grown colder outside and my companion pulled her shawl around her.

“So,” she said, slipping her hand under my arm for warmth. “Tell me two things I don’t know about you.”

“Very well. I am a widower, and I have spent eight months in Oxford Prison.”

I thought I’d surprise her, but she merely nodded. “Thought as much. About the prison, I mean. No man with a choice of positions would do what you do for a living. Not men with sensitive souls, like yourself. I can tell that about you. The death of your old lady musta broke your heart. You’re very young.”

“It happened when I was at university.”

“La!” Hestia said. “Look at me. I’m out with a university man. I might have to parade you in front of some of my friends. They’ll be ever so impressed.”

By now we’d reached Cornhill and I steered us into St. Michael’s Alley. I opened the door and ushered her into the Barbados Coffee House, which is as close to being my home away from home as any place in the world. The proprietor took us to a table and I think I rose several notches in his estimation. The old place rarely saw a woman enter its door and certainly none as attractive as Miss Petulengro.

“It’s dark as the hole of Calcutter in here,” Hettie said after we’d been seated. Her fingers dipped down into the recess in the middle of the table. “What is this stuff? Smells like tobacco.”

“It is. Virginia Cavendish, the best tobacco in London. The warehouses from America and the West Indies are across the way there. Cigars from Cuba, sugar from Jamaica, and coffee beans from South America.”

The proprietor returned and presented me with my clay pipe and asked for our order.

“Two coffees, please. Would you like some dessert, Hettie?”

“Nothing, thanks. If I eat anything else, it’ll kill me.”

After he left, I returned to my questioning.

“It must be a bit strange running a chandler’s shop in the Asian quarter. What caused your uncle to give up the traveling life and settle down?”

Hettie took the now lit pipe out of my hands and gave it a preliminary puff. It must have pleased her because I didn’t get the pipe back for the duration of the visit. Her smoking scandalized the owner as he passed once, but she tipped him a wink and charmed him out of his surprise.

“The Romany people have fallen on hard times,” she explained. “We’re being chased out of towns and villages where we were once welcomed. A lot of us have sold off our wagons or left England entirely. Used to be we could get by on mending pots and telling fortunes, going from town to town, but no more. There ain’t no profit to be made in it. Pretty soon, you won’t see a respectable painted wagon anywhere.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. I want you to take a look at something,” I said, pulling out the daguerreotype of Quong that Barker had given me. “This is Mr. Barker’s late assistant.”

“I remember him!” she said instantly. “Yes, I wondered where he’d gone. We often get Chinese lads in the shop, salivating over me like I was a hot cross bun in a bakery window. Not him, though. He liked books and odd bits. He’d come through regular and check our bookshelf. Educating himself, I reckon. Tried flirting with him once, just a little, to see what he’d do. You’d think I was a live crocodile. He backed out of the shop, he did, like I was going to bite him. He came back, though, the next week, when some new books came in.”

“He was engaged to be married,” I explained.

“Shoulda known. I take it he passed away?”

“Yes, and in just the same manner as Inspector Bainbridge. Is there anything you’ve left out that might be pertinent to the case?”

“‘Pertinent to the case,’” she repeated. “No, I don’t know nothing ‘pertinent to the case,’ but if I remember something I’ll send you a message.” I watched her fill the bowl of the pipe and light it with big, smoky puffs. Then she turned it around and slid the mouthpiece with its glazed tip into my mouth as if she were a harem girl and I were the sultan of Persia.

“How big was your uncle?” I asked.

“Pretty big, and meaner than two snakes. One of them Chinamen on top of another’s shoulder might reach his neck, but by then he’d have both of them in his teeth like a rat terrier. The only ones I’d say were his match were Bainbridge and your boss.”

“What?” I asked. “Not me?”

“Go on,” she laughed. “Pull the other one.”

When the proprietor finally came to claim my pipe, Hettie handed it to him and patted his hand. One would have thought he was Lancelot receiving a favor from Guinevere. He went back to his corner, no doubt to plan their elopement, while I tossed some shillings on the table and we left. I hoped it wasn’t just the cold that made her slip her hand into mine.

I summoned a cab and we took it all the way to her shop. I helped her down and there was an awkward moment in front of the shop. She leaned forward, took my ears into her hands, and put her lips to mine. Two seconds of complete bliss, the kind poets write about, and then she was gone, and I was climbing back into the cab.

“Lucky beggar,” I heard from the cabman overhead.

Lucky beggar was right.