“What do you think, young man?” Pinches asked.
Archie’s eyes were still riveted on the statue. “Strewth, she’s a bonnie pa-” He stopped and, in a hushed tone, said very slowly and cautiously, “God’s truf... truth, she is a beautiful girl.”
Pinches gave me a puzzled look but continued. “She was not on display for three decades,” Pinches said. “Too erotic, some thought. But her purpose is solely religious. Then again, she was likely hidden from the general population in Sri Lanka as well. Only chosen priests and monks were able to admire her. Ironic, isn’t it? Well, now, let’s see if Mr. Feng Zhèng is about. He is Mr. Franks’ assistant. He speaks very little English, but he reads quite well, and he has been invaluable in helping us catalogue various acquisitions. Just down this hall now.”
Feng Zhèng, I thought. He has to be Chinese. This really could be the man that Archibald saw.
I took a deep breath, slipped my arm through Archibald’s, and we followed Mr. Pinches down the dark hallway.
39
Feng Zhèng was definitely of Chinese descent. His skin had a yellow cast, his hair was jet black, and his eyes were angled somewhat downwards. His nose was rather flat and roundish. He had a round face but a strong jawline. When he stood, I called upon my powers of observation and heard Sherlock’s voice in my head. How often did he say that people see but do not observe? I knew few Asian people, but Aunt Susan employed a Chinese washerwoman, and sometimes her husband accompanied her when she dropped off clothing. Neither was more than five feet tall. I believed most Chinese people were small in stature, so Zhèng was far taller, more broad-shouldered, and more athletically built than I would have expected. And, though his face was cordial, there was a flicker behind his eyes, like he was retrieving information from his memory bank. The expression was somehow familiar to me. I’d seen it with Sherlock when his mind was busy working out a problem.
Zhèng wiped his brow with his sleeve and cleared his throat. “Ah, Mister Pinches, what can I do for you?” he asked haltingly.
Mr. Pinches introduced me and asked, “What do you say, Zhèng?”
“Ah, shi, shi. Ni hao. Hello, hello. Please to meet you.” The ‘please’ came out as ‘pwease.’
“I am pleased to meet you, too, Mr. Zhèng. This is my brother Archibald.”
Archibald muttered hello but immediately removed his hat. He turned to me. “I think I will g-g-go over to the d-d-d-d display case,” feigning the stutter.
I knew that this signal meant Mr. Zhèng was the man Archibald had seen in the alleyway, but I proceeded, I hoped, as if the gesture meant nothing. “All right. I’ll be right over.”
It took a while for Mr. Pinches to explain to Mr. Zhèng what I wanted, for it appeared that Zhèng spoke only broken English and Pinches spoke little Chinese. He walked us over to the statue of the Buddha and pointed to it. In a very slow and deliberate manner, he explained to Zhèng that I wanted a small statue like the one in the case. He stopped to explain to me what he was trying to tell him. He said he was telling Zhèng to make (chu pin) a little (xiao) fake (jia) Buddha for me. He pointed to the statue and said, “Like this one in the display case, Zhèng. Only smaller,” he added, touching his forefinger almost to his thumb. “Xiao xing. Small size.”
Zhèng thought a moment, the nodded his head in understanding. “Ah, shi, shi.”
“Can you ask him, sir, if he can actually make one, what will it cost?”
Pinches thought a moment, then asked, “Zhe duo-shaov qián?”
“I can do, quick-quick. No dollar. No dollar. I do all time for Mr. Brown at hospital.”
Pinches’ interest piqued. “Mr. Brown?”
“Mr. Brown at St. Bart’s?” I asked.
“He... uh... he make medicines,” Zeng said. He became very animated. “Shi, shi, Mister Brown at St. Bart’s.”
“I believe he is the apothecary,” I told Pinches. “My brother... my other brother... works at St. Bart’s.”
Zeng motioned to us to follow him back to his little office. He pointed to a shelf. “See? One almost done, I give you.”
“No, no. I couldn’t take one that’s meant for Mr. Brown.”
“Ah,” he said, a shadow crossing his face. “Shi, shi. I make you another. You come back ming tian.”
“Ming tian?”
“Tomorrow,” Pinches explained.
“Shi, shi,” Zhèng agreed, nodding his head furiously. “Tomorrow.”
Sherlock and I had agreed to have him deliver the replica to my uncle’s home. I took a piece of paper from the desk, retrieved a pen from my bag and wrote down my address. “Mr. Pinches, can you explain to him I’d prefer to have him deliver it to this address, tomorrow afternoon? Before Archie’s birthday is over.”
“Oh, shi! Birthday boy?” he asked pointing.
“Yes, for his birthday. Tomorrow. Ming tian.”
Then he yelled, “Happy Birthday!”
Pinches gave him a scowl, put a finger to his lips, and said, “Sssh.”
Nodding again, Zhèng parroted the ‘Sssh.’ “Shi, shi, quiet.”
Pinches turned to me and said, “I will negotiate a price for you, Miss Holmes. But I think I need to get an interpreter in here. These dreadful events... I understand that a replica of the Buddha was left at the scene of each crime. Mr. Zhèng may know something.”
“Indeed. And it should be reported to the authorities. I have a... a cousin at the Yard. I shall advise him forthwith that he should speak with Mr. Zhèng.” I took him aside and asked, “Sir, I take it you do not think Mr. Zhèng had anything to do with the murders?”
“Feng? Good heavens, no. He has a great reverence for life. He won’t even kill a bug. Just the other day, he tried to help a bird with a broken wing. No, I must say this Mr. Brown certainly should be a suspect, given his access to chemicals and his expertise in mixing them.”
“Of course.” Then, in a louder voice, I said,
