She shrugged.
“Have you ever heard of a Mr. K’ing?”
The girl suddenly went cold. She gathered her shawl about her. “Here now, there’s no need to be bringing him into this.”
“So you know of him.”
“This is Limehouse, mister. He owns half the district.”
“Did you know Inspector Bainbridge?”
“Oh, everyone knew old Bainy. He ran Limehouse like a machine. Bit rough if you rubbed him on the warp instead of the woof. He investigated my uncle’s death.”
“Do you get ruffians in here?” I spoke up, remembering the toughs I had seen in Bethnal Green.
“Not this side of Limehouse Causeway. This is triad territory, but I’m sure you know that.”
“Did Inspector Bainbridge ever come back and question you about the case or mention any leads?” Barker asked.
“He’d check on me from time to time. Even made him a cuppa tea once, but I don’t appreciate having policemen underfoot. Never did find my uncle’s killer.”
“You live over the shop, then.”
“I own this whole building,” she said with some pride.
“Your uncle gave it all to you in his will?”
“He did. Fair and square. Not that it’s been a great and glorious thing, being a shopkeeper, I might add. Sometimes I wish I was carefree and working in the factory again. I’m just scrapin’ by here, except for when private detectives come in and want questions answered.”
“Agents,” Barker corrected. “We are private enquiry agents. Now tell me, did you have a close relationship with your uncle?”
“Not especially close, no. I came to live with him about five years ago, after my parents died.”
“What sort of fellow was he?” Barker asked.
“Oh, you know the type. All oily and smiling this side of the curtain and a regular tyrant behind it. Smack! ‘Get me my dinner, girl.’ Smack! ‘These taters is cold!’”
“Where were you the night your uncle was killed?”
“Do you think I did it, then? Are you saying it was me?”
“Of course not,” Barker assured the girl. “I meant to ask why were you not in the shop.”
“It was New Year’s Day. I was out with my friends. As I said, I used to have a life. I wasn’t going to work no holiday just to add to his coffers.”
“Did your uncle mention an appointment?”
“Sure he did. Eight o’clock appointment to get robbed and killed. I thought you might be a cut above the regular police. Your clothes are better, but these questions are weak stuff.”
“Very well, Miss Petulengro. Are we square?” Barker reached up and grasped the brim of his hat, inclining a few degrees from the vertical. It was his interpretation of a sweeping bow. He is not as a rule demonstrative. “I thank you, miss, for your time. Come, Thomas.”
We quitted the shop. I stole a final glance at the girl as we left. She smiled at me with satisfaction, but then she was several pounds richer. I’m sure there were many weeks she didn’t make that much profit.
Outside, Barker huddled in an alleyway out of the wind and lit his pipe. It took a few matches to get it going and when he finally had it lit, he held up the matchbox. It read Bryant and May.
“They are the toughest girls in London, lad, the matchstick girls. They work hard and they entertain themselves boldly after hours. They are known for their impromptu fights away from the factory. Hair pulling, eye gouging, scratching. Miss Petulengro had a scar on her chin I’ll wager she received in just such a fight.”
“She’s certainly bold,” I said.
“She is that. I believe she is hiding something. She’s intriguing under that red hair of hers.”
“Intriguing, yes,” I replied, still thinking of her.
“Not that kind of intriguing, Thomas. You are as quick to fall into love as Robby Burns. I was considering having you take Miss Petulengro to dinner and questioning her further, but now I am beginning to have doubts.”
“I’ll keep my wits about me, sir, I promise. But why didn’t you question her more just now?”
“Because I would have to buy the entire shop to receive answers to the questions I have. It will be less expensive to feed her.”
I had to admit, there was good sense in that.
11
Sometimes things fall through the cracks for all our efforts. After the funeral, the visit to K Division, Coffin’s penny hang, and the more than fascinating half hour in the company of Miss Hestia Petulengro, we had forgotten something important. Back in our residence near the Elephant and Castle, our butler would have awakened from his drug-induced sleep to find himself alone.
I have to say this for Jacob Maccabee. He has backbone. Did he send word to the office and say the patient was being neglected? No. He shaved and washed his face and combed his hair. He changed out of his sleeping suit, and when it became obvious that he could not get a pair of trousers over his bandaged leg, he slit a perfectly good pair and pinned them together after he got them on. Then, despite an aching limb, a pounding head, and Dr. Applegate’s admonitions, he attempted to go about his daily duties. When Barker and I arrived about six o’clock, there was the faithful servant, resplendent, preparing dinner, and pretty much all in.
“What in blazes!” Barker thundered. “Get back in bed!”
“Sorry, sir,” Mac said, toppling forward in a faint. We carried him to bed again.
Applegate arrived about an hour later. I was sure we were going to get a hiding with Mac dressed for work as he was, but he just shook his head at our unconscious manservant.
“Butlers make the worst patients,” he informed us. “Sometimes we have to tie them to the bed. You’d think they would relax and enjoy a needful rest, but no. Someone might be pilfering the sherry.”
Mac got a helping of laudanum for supper which left me to finish dinner, since Barker had a constitutional enmity to his own kitchen.
In my year of service, I had cooked a few meals for Barker. The previous year, in a cottage near Liverpool, I’d made rabbit stew with only a few bits of fur remaining in the dish. He hadn’t complained, but then, he wouldn’t. Now I was in a respectable kitchen and I wanted to prepare something edible, possibly even delicious. After all, Mac had just rather shown me up in the duty department, and I was already in disgrace after nearly losing Harm.
I learned something that night: it is not easy to prepare a meal one-handed. A one-armed man has difficulty cutting a loaf of bread or setting a table. Luckily, Etienne Dummolard was a genius at creating meals that could be served without much preparation. As Barker’s chef, he had been coming here for years, commanding the kitchen in the mornings and leaving meals for us the rest of the day while he worked at his restaurant, Le Toison d’Or. At six thirty, when I called the Guv down for dinner, the table was full of silver, steaming dishes, and a good cobwebby bottle of vin rouge I found in the cellar. Barker chewed his way through the meal without comment. He ate the bread I’d cut, he drank the wine I’d opened and poured, and he ate the meal I’d slaved over as placidly as a Guernsey cow would chew his evening cud. After that, he left the room without a word. I was beginning to think Mac’s position a little more difficult than I had been led to believe. The other thing I hadn’t counted on was that I would be cleaning up afterward, with only one good arm.
When I was finally done, I locked up for the night and turned down the gas. I went upstairs and changed into my night attire, then I lay back on my pillow and stared at the ceiling with its rows of alternating beams and plaster. I was done in and it wasn’t even eight thirty. I picked up my Mencius, which was such a sleep-inducing agent it might have been used on Mac instead of the laudanum. The next I knew, there was another commotion downstairs.
I jumped from the bed again. An hour and a half had elapsed, according to my clock. I looked about for some
