I suddenly felt forty pairs of eyes on me. I had only done what Barker had told me to do. What were we supposed to do, sit around and wait for Scotland Yard to deduce that one of their inspectors had been killed?
“Very well,” Vandeleur replied. “We shall take your comments into consideration, Inspector. You may step down.”
Since the court had no more witnesses, the jury convened into another room, one I had not noticed before, while Barker and I sat and waited. It was no more than twenty minutes before the jurymen filed back into the room and took their seats again.
“Have you reached a verdict?” the coroner asked. The head juryman handed over a slip of paper which the bailiff passed to the coroner. Vandeleur nodded decisively.
“The jury finds Inspector Bainbridge’s death to be willful murder by person or persons unknown.”
Dr. Vandeleur brought the gavel down a final time and we were dismissed. It was not like a court trial in which there are winners and losers, and so there was not much reason to stand about and discuss the case. The coroner was the first out the door, on the way to another postmortem, most likely. Henderson stood in a corner and talked with Poole, while the rest of the spectators and the jurymen left the building, ready to put the inquest and Limehouse behind them as soon as possible.
In the kitchen, Ho popped the button on his celluloid collar and it sprang open. He pulled out the thick plait of hair he had been hiding. He made some remark to Barker in Chinese, and they both gave a grim laugh.
“He said since none of the waiters or cooks showed up for work this afternoon, he doesn’t intend to pay them for today,” Barker explained.
Inspector Poole suddenly stepped around me and ignored Barker as if he weren’t there.
“Mr. Ho,” he said, “you are under arrest.”
“On what charge?” Barker demanded.
Poole pointed at a slip of paper on one of the walls. “Expired license to serve victuals, to begin with. Commissioner Henderson wants to know what sort of place this is and what sort of patron it caters to.”
“How long?” Ho asked. “One day? Three day?”
“I don’t know yet, but the more you cooperate the faster you’ll get out again. I am going to have to put these darbies on your wrists.”
There was a tense moment and I wondered if Ho would fight. His knives and cleavers were within easy reach. Instead, he shrugged a shoulder and put out his hands. Poole, surprised it had been so easy, clapped steel on them.
“Lock up,” Ho said to Barker.
“I shall,” came the response. The Guv could not let the matter pass. “I suppose these are Henderson’s orders.”
“Of course they are,” Poole said bitterly. “He wants this man in for questioning. Be glad it isn’t you. I have no freedom in this case. Everyone is telling me what to do. If they would just leave me alone, I could get on with it. I didn’t buy my way to becoming an inspector, you know.”
Barker looked away and nodded.
“This one looks like a trained fighter,” Poole warned his constables. “Keep your distance and be ready should he try to escape. Let us go.”
Then we were alone. A half hour before, the room had been full of people, but now it had an empty, forlorn aspect.
Barker heaved a sigh. “This is not good,” he said. “If I engage my solicitor for Ho, it shall only confirm his guilt in the eyes of Henderson. He shall have to spend a few days in custody. But then, it won’t be the first time Ho has been in jail.”
We turned off the gas and made our way to the stairs. The Guv lit one of the naphtha lamps. It was not a time to be taking chances.
7
By the time we got back to our offices, it was five thirty, by the tolling of Big Ben around the corner.
“Are we done, sir?” I asked. A great deal had happened since my less-than-brilliant decision to follow Miss Winter’s cab this morning. I had been in several public conveyances and would like nothing better than a good, stationary easy chair.
“One more place, I think. What would you say to a visit to the Cafe Royal?”
“The Cafe Royal? Are you serious?” Barker was not the type of person who frequented fashionable restaurants and evening establishments.
“I am always serious, lad. You know that.” He raised a hand and a moment later, a cab glided to a halt in front of us.
Ten minutes later, we pulled up in Regent Street and alighted. I had always wanted to stop at the Cafe Royal but had never had the money and the time together. The Royal catered to the arts crowd. The arbiters of next year’s tastes in literature, art, fashion, and thought were here, and one could rub shoulders, sometimes quite literally, with famous men. Mr. Whistler came here, as did Oscar Wilde. I had to wonder what would bring Barker to such a place.
I looked about the room at the gilt fittings, the pantheon of immortals painted on the ceiling, and the mirrored walls, which gave the room added depth. Almost every table was full. I saw one shaggy-looking fellow arguing volubly with another man. Barker stood in the doorway, inevitably drawing attention to himself, then slowly, he reached up and touched the side of his nose. Recognizing it as a signal, I glanced about, to see if it was returned. It was, but in the most unlikely of places. A group of wags were seated upon the crimson velvet benches staring at the figure that is Cyrus Barker. While his comrades laughed, one reached up and touched the side of his nose. He rose and went toward the back to consult with one of the waiters, who wore long white aprons over black waistcoats and trousers. Then he continued out of the room.
Barker raised his chin and I immediately followed the dandy, the Guv after me. We went into the next room, past the entrance of a Masonic temple, of all things, then down a spiral staircase to an anteroom, occupied by one other person, a large burly man who was leaning back with his head against the wall, sleeping. His lips formed an O under his mustache and he was, in general, an uncouth-looking creature.
“I hope you do not mind,” the dandy said. “There is nothing as unaesthetic as an enquiry agent, and I have a reputation for taking my frivolity seriously. I had to tell my friends you were bailiffs, like our friend here.”
“As hard as you try,” Barker rumbled, “I doubt you could create a debt your father could not repay. Forbes, this is my assistant, Thomas Llewelyn. Thomas, the Honorable Pollock Forbes. Speaking of paying, Pollock, how do we stand on credit? Do I owe you or do you owe me?”
Forbes ran a finger along his chin as he reflected. He had the longest, thinnest fingers I have ever seen. He was a casual looking fellow, in the latest style from Savile Row, a lounge suit. Despite the name, it looked expensive. “I believe I’m in your debt, old man, and it’s not the kind the pater can pay off. What are you working on?”
“I have a case involving a book stolen from a Chinese monastery. The Chinese government and the Foreign Office are hunting for it. The latter is represented by Mr. Trelawney Campbell-Ffinch.”
“Campbell-Ffinch. I haven’t heard that name in ages,” he said, fluttering a hand at a waiter in the hall. “Lonnie was in my house at Cambridge, a few years ahead of me. He’s always been a bully and a frightful bore. Chumley, bring us a bottle of the Veuve Clicquot, there’s a good chap.”
The waiter, who had appeared silently at my elbow, glided off as quietly as he came. Something about Forbes’s inflection made me pause, and then it came to me. Like Barker, he was a Scot. Detective work was one of those occupations like engineering that seemed suited to the Scottish temperament.
“You’ll like it, I think,” he said, referring to the wine. “The Royal has one of the best cellars in the world. To tell the truth, I didn’t know Lonnie was in London again. He’s like a bad sailor, always being posted farther and farther east. Something big must have occurred to have them dare bring him back. Is any of this in my line?”