blocked it handily and the two punches that came after it. It left her vulnerable for a punch of my own and my hand shot out involuntarily before I stopped myself. I had never struck a girl before, and I’d like to believe it was not in my character to do so. Apparently, she had no such scruples. She clouted me on the chin with her small hand rather like the knock from a wooden cane, then kicked at me. I had no choice but to retreat, which brought a small smile to the girl’s face.
I had no idea what to do. I knew six or seven good kicks myself, but I wouldn’t use them on her, she-tiger though she was, and the dozen or more hand strikes, eye gouges, claws, punches, chops, and others were all forbidden as well. This was an absurd situation. I had been taught all my life that women should be treated with kindness and respect by a gentleman, and though she was Chinese, she was still very much a girl. Kicking and striking were out, which only left one alternative and a very intimate one at that: the Japanese wrestling holds that Barker had been teaching me, which he had formerly taught at Scotland Yard.
She clipped me with another left to the chin, but it was a glancing blow, for I was already moving to my right, catching her around the waist with my left arm and coming ’round behind her. Before she had a chance to react, I snaked my other hand around and clasped it over my first as solid as if they had been locked together. I was suddenly very aware that Chinese girls do not wear corsets, if in fact they wear anything at all under those silk pajama suits. I felt a blush rising from under my collar, but it stopped suddenly as a pair of thumbs went into my eyes.
I would like to think in the past eleven months of constant practice and tutelage under Cyrus Barker that I had grown more lean and muscular. Nothing can be done, however, to train a pair of eyes to withstand a woman’s thumbs, save to pull back one’s head, duck away from her, and put one’s head down out of harm’s way. As I pulled away, she hopped on my toes and kicked my shins. Female or not, I was going to have to do something. But what? Bearing down with my forehead as hard as I could, I succeeded in reaching my arms down far enough to get my hands around her lower limbs and I scooped her up off the floor as if she were a basket of laundry. She began spitting words at me in Chinese, no doubt casting aspersions upon my ancestors, kicking her feet madly in the air and clutching for whatever projecting hair or ears I might have about my person. The worst part was, now that I had her I had no idea what to do with her. For the first time, it dawned on me that coming here had not been one of my brighter ideas.
I spied a window off to the side, the very one she had been looking out as I came up the stairs. My ear caught the call of a gull as it swooped by and my nose could not miss the smell of the Thames. It was a matter of a moment to lift her out the window and to drop her out of my arms and I hoped, out of my life for good. As it turned out, the tide was not yet fully in, and the young maid, pigtail flying, pink pajamas rippling, landed in a deep mudbank below.
Western literature makes much of the almond eyes of the Oriental, but hers were as round at that moment as the sun overhead, as she sat covered in mud from her slippers to her plaited hair. It could have been worse, I told myself. At least I hadn’t dropped her on a wooden boardwalk or a stone pier. When she finally caught her breath she began bellowing and I left her to it. I pulled in my head, crossed the hall, and opened the door. Harm surged out, tail wagging, barking his protests that he had missed all the fun.
The chamber of Miss Winter, for it could only be hers, was empty, but a window in the back was open and the curtain billowed outward. Sticking my head out, I saw steps leading down to the ground floor. The woman had decamped while her devious maid had distracted me. Taking a brief glance about the room-a frilly, girlish place with fans on the wall and low, silk-covered chairs-I tucked Harm under my arm and together we set off in pursuit of the elusive Miss Winter.
Going down the stairs I had a feeling I was being watched. Remembering the death of Inspector Bainbridge, I suddenly felt very exposed and unprotected. Looking over my shoulders, I noted that every window along the docks was filled with Chinamen and every one of them was pointing my way and shouting. It seemed that being shot might be the least of my troubles and that it would be prudent to make my way as far from Limehouse as possible.
There was an alley at the foot of the stair leading back to Three Colt Street and I shot through it, right into the first group of Chinese youths who had been rallied by the girl’s cries. They were not expecting me and I bowled them over like skittles. There was, unfortunately, another group forming behind them, and a smarter and better group they were, too. They met my rush well. I was pulled up off the ground, a man at each limb. I don’t know if Harm had decided at that moment that he’d had enough and jumped or whether he was pulled from my hands. All I knew was I heard a sharp yelp and the dog, Cyrus Barker’s dog, was gone.
Losing the Guv’s prize dog was catastrophic, but there were more pressing matters, such as the fellow pulling on my arm as if it were a drumstick from a Christmas goose. I heard a sickening pop and felt the shudder of the bone leaving the socket.
I realized that if I didn’t get out of there soon, what was left of me was going to end up fluttering from one of the balconies overhead. Luckily, Barker had been training me for just such an emergency. I kicked two of the fellows; threw a good, clean punch at another’s jaw with my good arm; and landed a blow with the side of my hand to the neck of a fourth. I was the number one student of the best fighter in London, after all.
Momentarily, there was a break in the crowd, and like a flash, I was through it, running for my life. The next thing I knew I was passing down the very middle of Limehouse Causeway pursued by a perfect wall of angry Chinamen.
4
I knew better than to look over my shoulder. I could tell they were still behind me, because I heard their footsteps and angry cries. Then suddenly, I did not. I ran on a few hundred yards before daring to risk looking back. I was alone, save for the few shopkeepers and patrons coming out into the street to see what the fuss was about. I stopped and caught my breath, a little self-conscious but ready to run should the mob appear again. However, they were gone. A young ruffian in bell-bottom trousers and copper-toed boots brushed past me in the opposite direction, giving me a curious once-over, and I saw a few others appear beside him. Apparently, the Chinese had reached the end of Triad territory.
I continued limping west, hoping to find a cab, and as I did, I took stock. I had lost my hat and stick, both lapels of my coat were ripped, and my shirt could be seen through the seams at each shoulder. My shoulder was throbbing, and, oh yes, there was the small matter of losing my employer’s dog.
Barker doted on that dog. The apple of his eye was running about the Asian quarter, being pursued by who knows what.
It occurred to me that they eat dogs in China. Surely the populace here must know an imperial dog from the more mundane variety. I began running again, this time to get Barker. I cared about the little creature myself. He could be a confounded nuisance sometimes-getting underfoot, sleeping on the bedcovers so I couldn’t move at night, wanting in and out, up and down-but we shared rooms and meals. He had accepted me as a member of Barker’s household. Now I’d lost him among the quays and back alleys of Limehouse.
An old hackney came into Commercial Street and I ran forward, securing it with a handful of coins. The cabman inspected my clothes unfavorably, but he could not fault the currency. I hopped aboard and sat back, my mind back on the mathematics again. Was the danger I was leaving greater or less than the danger I was heading into? I would have paid all the money I had saved in the Bank of England at that moment to have someone else inform Barker that his prized dog was missing.
He was in his office when I arrived, in his chair like any other day, regarding me stonily through those black lenses of his. Laid out in the chair in front of his desk were a fresh tie, collar, and jacket from a storeroom he kept for emergencies. He knew. Somehow, the Guv knew.
“Get changed, lad, and hurry,” he ordered. It was the telephone. Miss Winter had emerged from whatever place of safety she had hidden herself and had placed a telephone call from somewhere. Drat all these modern contrivances that complicate society. I tugged off the remains of my jacket, ignoring as best I could the fresh bloom of pain from my shoulder, and changed quickly. Outside, I joined my employer, who had already secured a cab.
“What happened?” he asked, once we were inside the hansom.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I told him, and it all tumbled out. I’d made a hash of things, I realized. I had invaded the
