Will Thomas - The Limehouse Text

“Can’t the doctor do anything?” he asked.

“We’ve had two in,” I said, saving for myself the fact that one of them was a Chinese herb healer. “I think the immediate danger has passed, but there is no telling when he shall awaken.”

“Hard times,” Jenkins said.

“Indeed. Are you going back to the office now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why don’t you lock up at five? No sense staying open late. We’ve already got a case we’re working on.”

“Thank you, Mr. L.” Jenkins left the office at five thirty every workday, bound for the Rising Sun public house where he held court. “I could use a drink after this.”

Going down, I met Inspector Poole on the stairs. He looked strained, as I suppose I looked myself.

“I need to speak to you,” he said, taking my arm.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t believe we have a suspect for you just yet.”

“I’m not here for that. I understand the house was broken into and your butler injured.”

“Yes.”

“And now this. I don’t believe all this Oriental mystical nonsense, but would you say Cyrus’s injury was probably due to this case and the book?”

“Probably. I’m not certain how yet and won’t be until I speak to Mr. Barker, but it has to be more than a coincidence, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would. I want you to know I’m putting a pair of constables in the area until further notice. Good men. They both saw time in India.”

“Thank you, Inspector.”

He sighed and shook his head. “I can’t believe this. I’m going to catch this fellow, just you wait.”

Having had his say, I saw him to the door. My view of the street was obstructed by the large black growler he had come here in. He climbed inside, then smacked the door of the vehicle with his hand. “Limehouse!”

“Was that Poole?” Mac asked from the doorway of his room. He was still in his dressing gown and leaning on a pair of crutches.

“Yes. He’s sending two men to keep an eye on the house.”

“Good!” Mac responded. “Though I don’t think the fellow I encountered would be dissuaded by a couple of constables.” Mac gestured to me, so the maid in the drawing room couldn’t see. He brought me into his room and closed the door. “The maid is getting on my nerves,” he said. “She was entertaining at first, if a bit Frenchy, but with the Guv hanging on for life upstairs, it’s maddening being ten feet from the door and not being able to answer it. The killer could stroll right in and kill us one by one.”

“I don’t think it’s as bad as that,” I said.

“I can almost get about, I think,” Mac continued, ignoring my remarks, as usual. “We could get by with just the charwoman for a few days. I know the governor cannot make any decisions. Do you think we should ask Madame Dummolard to pack up her maids and leave?”

“Are you going to ask her?” I countered. “Even the Guv was afraid to turn her down. She is a formidable woman. Besides, I don’t think the thief or killer will come back as long as the house is teeming with people. I say let Barker tell her when he is himself again. I’m sure you can get on for a few more days having your cushions fluffed and your meals fed you by maids.”

“They’re using the wrong polish on the floors,” he complained. “And if they move one paper up in the Guv’s rooms, I’ll be the one swinging for it when he wakes up.”

He closed the door, leaving me alone in the hall. I turned, planning to go upstairs again, but I stopped as Bok Fu Ying came in the back door.

She stood in her black bustled dress with her hands folded in front of her, looking forlorn. I should have alerted her that Barker had been injured, but it had not occurred to me. I walked down the hallway to her and took her hand.

“How is my guardian?” she asked.

“Ill, but not gravely, I think. Dr. Quong has been here. Come this way.”

I led her upstairs. I thought she was prepared to see the Guv, and I think she thought so herself, but she still stiffened when she first saw Barker.

“What is wrong with him?” she asked.

“It is his kidneys.”

“Kidneys. That is serious, is it not?”

“Very serious,” I answered.

She nodded and after a moment a tear or two fell down from her lashes, missing her cheeks entirely, breaking into droplets on her collar and glancing off. I reached for my handkerchief and held it out, but she took no notice, keeping her eyes glued to Barker. Finally, her lids fluttered and she accepted my proffered handkerchief.

She broke down then completely, crying silently, as if making noise were forbidden. I helped her down the stairs, saying whatever soothing words came to me. I led her into the kitchen and seated her in one of the chairs by the window. Dummolard was mid-puff on his short French cigarette in front of the cutting board and he looked at us in surprise.

“Etienne, could Miss Winter have a cup of tea?” I dared ask. It was an unthinkable breach of the chef’s unwritten rules, I knew, but this was an emergency. I waited a second while he considered verbally dicing me like a clove of garlic. Finally, he gave a Gallic shrug, turned, and put the teapot on the hob.

Miss Winter coughed and spoke, her voice hoarse. “I apologize. Forgive my emotion. He is all I have now. I lead a very circumscribed life.”

“I quite understand.”

“He simply cannot die. If he does, I shall die myself, and then who will look after Harm?”

“You think very highly of that dog,” I said, trying to distract her from talking of death. For one thing, I couldn’t definitely say Barker wouldn’t die, though I hoped Old Quong or Applegate would relieve all our minds soon.

“I have to, you see,” she answered. “Da Mo owns me.”

“Da Mo?” I asked. “Who is Da Mo?”

“The dog. His Chinese name is Da Mo.”

“What do you mean, he owns you?”

“I mean I belong to him. I was given to Sir by the Dowager Empress to look after him. I am the dog’s slave.”

“His slave?” I could not believe my ears.

“Of course. He is an imperial dog raised by the Dowager Empress herself and is entitled to a slave. If I had performed my duties unworthily or displeased him in any way, or should he sicken and die, I would have been beheaded in the Forbidden City.”

“That’s monstrous!” I couldn’t help saying. “It is barbaric!”

“It is the way,” she said as if that excused it. “Sir was obliged to accept me and to see to my needs, but when we left China soon afterward, he gave me a writ of freedom. Slaves are not acceptable in modern England, he says, but he was not obligated to take such good care of me and to make me his ward. He is a noble man.”

Dummolard reached between us and set a cup of tea in front of her. “Here you are, mademoiselle.”

“Thank you, Monsieur Dummolard. It is good to see a familiar face on this cold, inhospitable day.”

The Frenchman nodded gruffly and left me to look after the girl with a look that said, Be careful or you’ll answer to me.

“May I ask how you and Quong met?” I asked.

She smoothed her skirt carefully and took a sip of her tea. “He used to work in his father’s shop and when he heard Sir was the famous Shi Shi Ji, he made bold enough to ask if he could become his student. I was living in the house then, looking after Da Mo and the Pen-jing trees. We began to greet each other when he arrived. Sir must have noticed. He rarely misses anything, for he likes the nuances of life. He considered for a while in his private way, then invited Dr. Quong to tea in the small pavilion at the back of the garden. I remember that day well. They had pots of tea and wheat rolls and discussed our future together.”