“I have a suggestion,” Barker stated.
“I’m sure that you do. I’m not sure I want to hear it.”
“An investigation would certainly tarnish Bainbridge’s reputation-”
“Tarnish? This is murder we’re talking about. It would blacken it forever.”
“And there is no surety that enough evidence would be able to be collected in order to convict him-”
“That’s true. It might just be Miss Petulengro’s word for it. But it would still call into question his character, which is almost all his widow has to live on, poor dear.”
“So, let it lie.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, Cyrus. You know I’m a foursquare man.”
“Not permanently, Terry. Allow me to investigate a little further. I am not prejudiced against him. I have formed no opinion. If no one feels he or she has been wronged, including the only relative of the late Mr. Petulengro, then why open up a painful and fruitless investigation that shall cost the people of London and tie up constables best used patrolling their beats.”
“There is something to that, but I cannot make that decision.”
“Let us investigate a little further then, both of us.”
Poole had sucked half his cigarette down to ash. He reached toward the ashtray but in doing so, the column of ask broke off and landed on the rug. Poole stomped at it roughly.
“Perhaps.”
“I want to thank you, by the way. Your men did a fine job of apprehending Mr. Han.”
“P.C. s Horton and Finney are good men,” Poole said grudgingly. “With all the action occurring around your place these days, I thought you might need two of our best.”
“What shall you do about Miss Petulengro? She might be more cooperative about questioning if you let her go tonight.”
“Possibly,” Poole said. “But the Chinaman stays until I have everything he knows, including his mother’s maiden name, providing Chinese mothers have maiden names.”
“Agreed.”
“You know, regardless of who killed whom a year ago, Han or that dollymop could have shot Nevil in that tunnel.”
“Yes. I had thought of that possibility myself.”
“This case beggars all. I wish I had never got out of bed the day this fell in my lap. It should have gone to Abberline or Swanson. They know the East End better than I. You know what will happen if I bungle this case, don’t you? They might take me out of the C.I.D. and put me in charge of Bainbridge’s station. A total dead end for my career. I hate Limehouse!”
“How did Inspector Bainbridge get assigned there in the first place?” Barker queried.
“He asked for it, as I recall.”
“Did that seem strange to you at the time?”
“It did, but then Bainbridge was not what you call ambitious. It is the sort of posting the younger chaps go for, hoping to get some big case that’ll get them promoted to chief inspector. He asked for it, though, and since he had a good record and seniority, they gave it to him.”
“If an officer were to fall in love with a girl in Limehouse…”
“Stow that,” Poole said, putting a hand up. “I didn’t hear it. I shall spring her in half an hour, but if she cuts up too fine, I shall toss her right back in again.”
“That is your privilege. I am staying at my chambers for a few days. Come by for a chat when you are done here.”
We had a hansom waiting when Hettie came out, looking overwrought and tired.
“They’re keeping him,” she said when she saw us. “They didn’t say how long.”
“Inspector Poole is a fair man,” the Guv said. “If Mr. Han is innocent, he shall be released soon.”
“You have a higher opinion of Scotland Yard than I do, Mr. Barker.”
“I work with them a good deal, miss. Most inspectors do not take advantage of their position.”
“Do you think you can get Charlie out? I know he resisted arrest, but he ain’t a bad man. This all sounds awfully complicated.”
“Cases often do about this time,” he responded.
“You will try to clear Charlie’s name, won’t you? He’s had a devil of a time in England since he arrived. As for you, Thomas, we shall talk later, shan’t we?”
I gave her a weak nod. We put her into the cab and she rattled off. Another one came into Whitehall and I secured it, leaving Barker to return to our offices.
I’m normally curious but just then I was too tired to care what might be said when Poole met with Barker. At home I checked that all the doors were locked and turned down the gas in the hall. Upstairs, I changed into my nightclothes again, crawled into bed, and drifted off to sleep, or tried to, anyway. With my cast biting into my shoulder, it was a wonder I got any sleep at all.
25
The next morning Barker seemed remarkably nonchalant about the events of the night before. The Guv did not mention his conversation with Poole. He was more concerned with the morning post.
A pair of letters had arrived, their envelopes highly visible, for they were a deep crimson color and of an unusual rough texture. One arrived for Barker and the other for me. We each took one from Jenkins’s salver and slit them open, he with his Italian dagger and I with a more prosaic letter opener. The inside of the envelope was lined with gilt paper and the enclosed letter backed with a piece of paper that matched the envelope. The letter was beautifully executed, but I had no idea what it said, for it was all in Chinese. I looked at Barker, who was reading his.
“It is an invitation to a New Year’s banquet tonight given by Ho,” he explained. “You have been invited, too, I see. It is quite an honor. I had not anticipated you would receive one.”
“It is addressed to me?” I asked, looking at the letter. “What does he call me?”
“Little brother.”
“Are you seriously telling me that Ho considers me his little brother?”
“Not his, lad. Mine.”
“How do we accept the offer?”
“I must respond in kind. Fetch some water, would you?”
Retrieving a ewer from a lacquered tray, I took it out into the yard behind the office and filled it from the pump. The wind snatched the frigid breath from my lips, and the silver ewer grew icy in my hand as I eased the handle up and down. I hurried back inside to find Barker occupied.
There was a small black tray on his desk, a brush, and several sheets of paper. Barker pulled a minuscule bowl no larger than his thumb from a bottom drawer, a tiny spoon, and finally, a box containing a stick of what looked like coal. He was composing a response to the invitation.
Barker picked up the stick and began to grind it against the surface of the tray, which was made of slate.
“Is that ink?” I asked.
“Yes. It is made of soot and resin. Pour the water into that bowl there.”
He whisked the ink around with one of the brushes, mixing the water and soot and then pulled a paper in front of him. He placed the brush near the right-hand corner and began to paint.
“What are you writing?”
Barker raised a finger and went back to finish his note. I’ve noticed his power of concentration was sometimes complete. Chinese calligraphy is something of an art, I understand, and my question was not unlike interrupting an artist at his easel. He finally finished and leaned back to examine the completed letter.
“I have graciously accepted the invitation and thanked Ho for the honor. He is a stickler for protocol.” While the letter dried, Barker put the writing materials back. He sealed the letter, affixed Her Majesty’s penny effigy in the corner, and gave it to Jenkins to post. Then we forgot the matter for the rest of the afternoon.
As we made our way to Ho’s that evening, I attempted to turn the Guv’s attention back to the banquet in my usual manner, by hitting him with a barrage of questions.
“How many invitations were sent out, do you think?” I asked.
“Not over fifty. Ho would want it to be exclusive.”