Will Thomas: The Limehouse Text

“Thank you sir,” I said tightly. “I believe I shall put on a fresh shirt and take that walk now.”

“You do that, Thomas. You realize there is still one thing I haven’t worked out.”

“And what is that?”

“I still must decide what to do with the text.”

I passed the Elephant and Castle, decided not to stop for a pint, and walked down the Old Kent Road. It was cool that evening, but I believe winter’s hold on London had finally been broken. I walked, and as I walked, I thought. The book, that bloody, bloody book, had been in my cast from the beginning. Jimmy Woo, Mr. K’ing, Campbell-Ffinch, and Inspector Poole might have reached out at any time and laid hands on it. Barker had fooled them, had fooled us all. It was brilliant, though I hated to admit it.

When I came back in the front door, I noticed a smell and when I reached the staircase I realized it was burning paper. He’s done it, I thought. He’s burnt the manuscript. I took the staircase two steps at a time.

Barker looked over his shoulder from the fender where he knelt poking the fire. There was ash and black shreds of curling paper rising up the chimney.

“You burnt it!” I murmured.

“No, but I sat here for the last half hour considering it. It would be a wise decision, but ultimately I do not believe it is mine to make. The text belongs to the monks of the Xi Jiang Monastery.”

“So what did you burn?”

“I made a copy that first night, in the basement, a personal copy. It is not a long book, not more than seventy-five pages.”

“But if Woo had laid hands on it, he wouldn’t have needed the original.”

“I know. I translated it into Yiddish. I assumed the killer would search for the book here and be able to read English and possibly Chinese.”

“But why burn it now?”

“It is knowledge no one should have, not even I. I already know too much about dim mak and wish to learn no more. I do not desire to become a personal engine of destruction. Do you recall making nitroglycerine in the Irish case last year? Do you remember what you told me afterward?”

“Yes, sir. ‘Never again.’”

“Exactly. I feel the same about dim mak. Never again.”

“So what shall you do with the real text, sir?”

“I wish I knew, lad. I shall spend a long night praying over it. Perhaps I shall have an answer in the morning.”

I left Barker with the text and took myself off to bed. I was still dissatisfied and felt that justice had been thwarted somehow, but at least I had my cast off and could finally get a good night’s rest.

The next morning, Poole arrived at our chambers. One would think that after the successful capture of a murderer, an inspector would be jubilant, but apparently, such was not the case.

“How did Chief Inspector Henderson receive the news?” Barker asked his friend.

The inspector sighed. “Let us say he was less than enthusiastic. Don’t forget, Cyrus, a murder suspect died under my supervision.”

“But you caught him, nonetheless, and his murderer at the same time. That is two in one.”

“That’s not how Henderson sees it.”

“You are not under report or suspended from duty, are you?” Barker asked.

“No, but he gave me an earful I shall not soon forget.”

“That is not so bad,” the Guv pronounced. “Earfuls, one can live through. I thought you might be in disgrace, but it turns out you are merely in trouble. You successfully arrested the killer. Why should your superiors be so particular?”

“They know it was you who uncovered Jimmy Woo and they were not impressed by my cooperating with your plan to bring all the suspects together at Ho’s. Henderson had some choice words about that.”

“And yet he is acting smug enough in The Times this morning. ‘Inspector’s Killer Meets Fate.’ It has only been two weeks since Bainbridge’s death. I wouldn’t have your position for anything, Terry. If you ever decide to become a private enquiry agent, you might consider putting up your brass plate outside and taking one of the vacant offices upstairs.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he said, putting his bowler back on his head. “Next time you decide to bring all the suspects together in one room like that, let me know so that I may get safely out of the country. Good day, gentlemen.”

We watched him leave the room. I moved to the bow window and gazed out as he marched along Whitehall to his offices, swinging his stick so aggressively I thought he might strike a pedestrian.

“Ungrateful, I call it,” I said.

“When one works for Scotland Yard, one must always deal with superiors and their quest for power. That is one reason I prefer private enquiry work.”

Not long after that, Campbell-Ffinch made an appearance in our chambers. He looked somewhat diminished and tired and fell into a chair at Barker’s invitation. I would not have been quite so charitable as my employer.

“For the last time, Barker,” he said wearily, “where is the text?”

“I made that perfectly clear yesterday,” Barker stated. He sat immobile in his chair, and the situation was rather reversed from how things had been when we’d first met Campbell-Ffinch at the Oriental Club.

“I do not believe you, sir, but I cannot compel you to hand it over to me, though I believe you should for the good of the country.”

Barker offered the fellow a cigar from the box on his desk. As Campbell-Ffinch took a vesta to it, I wondered if my employer was seriously considering the request or merely stalling.

“I am not the sort of person who believes every weapon should be given to the army or the Foreign Office, for that matter. Some knowledge is best forgotten.”

“Perhaps,” Campbell-Ffinch conceded. “Perhaps not. I am not certain anymore. It doesn’t really matter anyway. I’m being sent to Mongolia.”

“Mongolia? When?” Barker asked.

“Almost immediately. As far as the Foreign Office is concerned, I’ve been doing nothing this entire year and getting paid for it. My superiors are not pleased.”

“Yes, but confess it. You were making even more money on clandestine matches in the middle of the night.”

Our visitor actually chuckled. “I did, at that, I suppose, but that is all at an end. The Hammersmith Hammer is done for, I’m afraid.”

“Not necessarily,” Barker said, holding up a finger. “The Mongolians appreciate a good fight and a good wager, and they are certain to have some talented lads.”

“Will they, by Jove? I hadn’t realized,” Campbell-Ffinch said, eyeing his cigar speculatively. “I shall work my way back to London yet. I have done it before and I’ll do it again. When I do, I challenge you to a match.”

Barker ran a finger along his jaw, which was still slightly swollen. “Rules?”

“Five rounds, no holds barred. Anything goes, but no tricks before the fight. I don’t want to end up like Woo.”

“I thought you didn’t care for Mr. Woo.”

“I hated the little blighter. He got what he deserved. But I am an Englishman. I expect better treatment than that.”

“Very well,” Barker stated. “I accept your challenge. Until we meet again.”

They stood and shook hands.

After a morning of such arguments, we ate a lunch of sausages and mash at the Rising Sun. The meal and the memory were not worth mentioning save for one thing. Soho Vic, a boy Barker and other enquiry agents in the area employ, appeared and the Guv scribbled a message. He folded it and passed it into Vic’s filthy hands, along with enough money for the boy to take a cab. Somehow during the brief conversation, the urchin managed to nick my last sausage. I added it to a growing list of grievances I have against him. Someday, he would turn eighteen and I would sock him in the eye.