“Surely you’re not suggesting we are not of the same class-”
“Oh, stop that, lad. You know I feel the class system is artificial. But the two of you are so different. It is the very same reason that I would not find you a proper suitor for Bok Fu Ying.”
I began to feel positively wretched. First I discover Hettie is having a relationship with another man and then I am warned off Bok Fu Ying. My mind conjured up her China doll face and earnest eyes, the smell of jasmine in her hair. “What is to happen to Miss Winter then?”
I saw Barker frown a little. He was her guardian, after all, and these were weighty matters. “I shall find a worthy suitor for her eventually, or she shall find one for herself without my help. Really, lad, I’ve never seen a fellow so eager to get himself betrothed. You’re but a pup, but you’re as bad as Robbie Burns, falling in love at the drop of a hat. Ours is not a profession for taking wives, and especially not at your age.”
“What of Pollock Forbes?” I asked, in order to change the subject.
“Pollock? What makes you think we should include him as a suspect?”
“He knows a great deal about what was going on, and he was in K’ing’s opium den. Also, he has a ring, sir, with an insignia on it. I believe he belongs to a secret society of some sort.”
Barker gave me one of his wintry smiles. “He smokes opium because of his tuberculosis. As to secret societies, if we arrest a fellow for being a member of one, I would be the first on the list. Don’t forget, lad, that we called him into the investigation.”
I got up and nodded good night. I was on the stairs when I suddenly turned. “The text, sir. The Limehouse text. Is it really on its way to China?”
“No, lad, it is still here. In such a case as this it has been necessary to keep all my cards to myself. You understand now how vital it was that the book be kept safe, and so I gave it to the man I most trusted in London.”
“Old Quong?”
“Dr. Quong was indeed the Chinaman I gave it to, but he immediately passed it on. It was you, lad. He gave it to you.”
“Me?” I demanded, confused.
“Yes. The text is plastered against your left shoulder blade at the moment.”
All power of speech left me. I’d had it the entire time, while the killer was searching half of London for it? I was Barker’s most trusted man?
“But my injury, sir…” I began.
“Oh, there was nothing really wrong with your shoulder, lad. Once Quong set it back in place, it was right as rain. The tendons there are quite elastic. I hope you’ll forgive the minor inconvenience.”
I thought of the many sleepless nights I had with that hard cast biting into my shoulder, the discomfort as I drove the cab, the taking notes with one hand, the preparation of Barker’s dinner. It all began boiling up.
“I believe I’ll just take a walk, sir. I need some fresh air.”
Barker reached into a drawer of his desk and removed a pair of stout scissors with short curved blades. “Certainly, but I shall need the book. Take off your jacket.”
He proceeded to cut me out of the cast. Plaster rained onto the floor as he wrenched the small package from my back. It had been wrapped in cloth and looked the same as always, a dull yellow, perhaps a trifle wrinkled.
“None the worse for wear, the both of you.”
It was easy for him to say. My limp, pale arm looked ready for one of Vandeleur’s postmortems. I tried to move it, but it hung there at my side uselessly.
“Raise it up over your head and down behind you in a circle, lad. That’s the best thing for it.”
I tried, but halfway up, the atrophied muscles seized up and cramped. I cried out, then used a few choice words I’d learned in prison.
“Really, lad,” Barker said dryly. “You must learn to control your temper.”
“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.”
32
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.”