Will Thomas - The Limehouse Text

“Yes, but the Chinese have superior numbers, and if they were trained in dim mak, they would think themselves invincible. They would fight like devils.”

“When might this happen? Soon?”

Barker shrugged. “Who can say? Soon, if the aggression gets worse. What concerns me is that if there is a sudden war, we have half a thousand Chinese within a few miles of the royal family. If just one of those five hundred has the knowledge of dim mak, then I am justified in fearing both for the monarchy and also for the innocent citizens of Limehouse.”

“Might the government round them up?”

“I would hope so, rather than face a purge of the district by the citizenry after a clash overseas.” Barker looked down and ran a hand over the back of his neck. “But perhaps it shall not come to pass. Let us concentrate on the present and see if we can ferret out Bainbridge’s killer before he harms anyone else.”

In the predawn hours of the next morning, I was awakened by a sudden sharp crash outside my door. I cursed myself for a fool for not keeping some sort of protection in my room. I opened my door cautiously, ready for anything. As it turned out, I was ready for anything but what I found there.

Cyrus Barker was in his nightshirt lying across my sill. The porcelain chamber pot he had carried from his room upstairs had shattered on the polished floor, spilling its contents. The liquid, even by the low light of the turned-down gas jets, was a dull rusty color and thick as blood.

“Sir!” I cried, going down on one knee and trying to lift his head with my one good arm. Barker was unconscious. It must have taken all he had to climb down from his upper chamber. I placed my hand on his chest, fearing the worst, but though faint, I detected a beating heart. What could I do? If I didn’t act quickly, my employer, my mentor, the man to whom I owed practically everything, would be dead.

There was a sound on the stair, but it was only Harm. He took in the scene before him with his bulging eyes, seemed to gather himself for a moment, and then raised his head and howled the most mournful wail I had ever heard from an animal. I can only compare it to the funereal dirge of a bagpipe. It was obvious that Harm thought his master dead.

“What has happened?” Mac called up from the foot of the stairs with a thrill in his voice that told me he expected the worst.

“The Guv has passed out in the hall,” I cried.

Mac managed to hobble up the stairs with the aid of a walking stick, just as the door opened behind me and Madame and Monsieur Dummolard emerged. They had taken the trouble to don proper dressing gowns and slippers. On seeing the sight, Dummolard let out a remark that should not be repeated in English or French.

Mac reached the landing and surveyed the scene. “This is bad,” he stated. “You had better call Dr. Applegate.”

“Of course,” I said, and took the stairs down three at a time. The Harley Street physician answered the telephone as soon as I was put through. I was not at my most coherent, but somehow I managed to communicate the direness of the circumstances and he rang off, saying he would be along in a few moments. I looked at the clock in our hall. It was shortly after five in the morning. Then I ran upstairs again.

Barker still had not come around. He is a man known for his immobility and yet seeing him there so inanimate was unnerving. What if he died? I wondered. What then? My mind leapt ahead to the funeral, the settling of the estate, the selling of the house and dismissal of his servants, myself included. How could I bear to be cast adrift again, after all this? Surely Fate could not be that cruel.

Madame Dummolard was already soaking up the mess on the floor by laying towels across it before sweeping up the shards of pottery.

“Do we dare move him to a bed?” Maccabee asked. “I cannot bear to see him like this, prostrate in his own hallway.”

“We had better not risk it. Applegate lives but a few streets away. He should be here soon,” I answered.

The doctor arrived in ten minutes, commenting that we were keeping him busy these days. He authorized Barker’s removal to his bed upstairs and it took the five of us to carry him there, slack-limbed as he was. Applegate then herded us out before examining his patient. Mac, Dummolard, and I stood in the corridor uncertainly. Barker was our leader and now we were left without direction.

“Let’s have some coffee,” I suggested.

“Bon!” Dummolard responded, relieved at having something to do.

The four of us went down into the kitchen, where Dummolard boiled coffee on his gas stove while I wrestled with my inner demons. At the moment, they were conjuring images of Barker’s funeral. Would it be a big one when the time came? Barker, if he even made plans, would have favored a brisk, businesslike affair at the Baptist Tabernacle. As far as he was concerned, his soul was in heaven and his body was merely so much humus to be set aside, awaiting the Second Coming. I had no idea where he might wish to be buried, perhaps with his ancestors in Scotland. There were many that were indebted to Barker, including the Prince of Wales himself, who might be desirous of attending. Then there were the Chinese who would wish to be there, led by his very own ward. As for me, my life would be shattered, as it had been shattered when I had lost my wife. I managed to take hold of myself. After all, the man was not dead yet.

The Dummolards and I were seated at the deal table in the kitchen. Madame Dummolard poured coffee for all of us and we sat in woeful silence.

“I’m sorry,” I said finally. “This whole thing has me out of sorts.”

“That is understandable,” Mac replied, and for once he unbent a little. “I cannot believe this is happening. He has not been sick once for as long as I have worked for him, going on five years.”

Just then Dr. Applegate came into the kitchen. Mac poured him a cup of coffee and he fell into the unoccupied seat.

“His condition is very grave, gentlemen,” he said, running a hand over his features until they were ruddy. “His kidneys are failing. I do not understand it. He is a very healthy man. I won’t be coy with you. Cyrus Barker is at death’s door. But we won’t give up without a fight, will we?”

It was then that the last piece of a puzzle clicked together in my head. The sailor Chambers had died from kidney failure. This was no accident. It was dim mak. I thought back to the two youths who had tried to steal his wallet. Had it been they? No, more likely it was the innocent-looking beggar they had knocked Barker into, the one who had reached up and caught the Guv, with both hands against his back as they fell over. He had been dressed in a long hooded cloak and shapeless hat, obscuring his face, and now, a day later, the Guv’s kidneys were giving out as if his insides were made of clockwork gears and the hour had tolled.

I leapt to my feet, suddenly sure of what I must do. Mac and the Dummolards looked up in astonishment.

“I must go,” I said. “Etienne, find whatever weapons you can. Get them from Barker’s bedchamber if you must. Mac, fill your shotgun and guard the front door. I must leave and this is just the sort of opportunity the killer might use to attack the house again. I’ll be back!” Then I turned and rushed out the back door.

I ran through the streets, raising the eyebrows of the few people out on this slowly dawning morning. My plan involved getting to our horse Juno as soon as possible. As I ran toward the rising sun it occurred to me that the murderer, whoever he was, was winning. He had killed Quong and shot Bainbridge, downed Mac and now he had even brought down Cyrus Barker. If anyone had a chance of besting the killer it was Barker, and right then I felt as if his life or death was in my hands. The only man who could possibly save Barker’s life, if in fact it were savable at all, was Dr. Quong. Somewhere in his antiquated shop with its bowls of roots and bottles of herbs and its pins, there might be a cure. I had to get to him and bring him back as quickly as possible.