“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.
23
Cyrus Barker was packing when I got back. His suitcase was open and he was taking shirts and other items from a large and ancient wardrobe in the corner of his room.
“What is going on?” I asked. “Has something happened?”
“Nothing involving the case. I am moving to our chambers for a few days.”
“Whatever for?”
Barker pointed to the stair. “That woman is insufferable. She puts sugar and lemon in my green tea. She moves things about to suit herself, puts vases of flowers on every table, and constantly pesters me with questions. She’ll never say one word when twenty will do. If I do not get out of here, I shall run mad.”
“Madame is only trying to be nice,” I pointed out. “When shall you return?”
“When Madame and her army are gone. Things are working out to your satisfaction, I am sure. All you need do is snap your fingers and there is a young lady at hand to romance. And speaking of young ladies, how was your evening with Miss Petulengro?” he asked irritably, brushing by me to get some ties and suspenders.
“It went well, but nothing stands out as being important over all. I’ll remind you that I went out with her at your request, sir.”
“I’m certain it must have been a trial for you. We’ll discuss it at the office tomorrow, then.” He locked the case and secured the straps around it.
“Why not simply tell Madame she and her maids are sacked?”
“That would not be fair to Mac. He is not yet ready to return to his duties. In any case, I like having Etienne here at night, since both you and Mac are indisposed.”
“Are you certain you will be all right?”
“Of course. We have a camp bed in the office and a fireplace. Public houses are ready to hand for sustenance, and perhaps I shall confound our killer by moving. At the very least, I shall get a moment’s peace.”
Madame was waiting in the hall. The door was open, and a cab was at the door. She stood silent and glacial, and I wondered if the two had exchanged words. Etienne came in, frowned as Barker passed with his suitcases, and watched along with the rest of us as our employer left. After he’d rattled off in the hansom and the maid had closed the door, Etienne began a fresh argument with his wife. Mac rolled his eyes and limped back into his sanctum, while I scurried upstairs and undressed for bed.
I had no sooner got under the covers when there came a sound out in the darkness that chilled my blood. It was the long, plaintive cry of a policeman’s whistle. Worse still, at the end of it, it broke off and began again, fitfully, as if the officer blowing the tune was being hindered somehow. Something was occurring again outside the house. The only good thing that could be said was that it wasn’t happening at two or three in the morning this time.