“I have to, you see,” she answered. “Da Mo owns me.”
“Da Mo?” I asked. “Who is Da Mo?”
“The dog. His Chinese name is Da Mo.”
“What do you mean, he owns you?”
“I mean I belong to him. I was given to Sir by the Dowager Empress to look after him. I am the dog’s slave.”
“His slave?” I could not believe my ears.
“Of course. He is an imperial dog raised by the Dowager Empress herself and is entitled to a slave. If I had performed my duties unworthily or displeased him in any way, or should he sicken and die, I would have been beheaded in the Forbidden City.”
“That’s monstrous!” I couldn’t help saying. “It is barbaric!”
“It is the way,” she said as if that excused it. “Sir was obliged to accept me and to see to my needs, but when we left China soon afterward, he gave me a writ of freedom. Slaves are not acceptable in modern England, he says, but he was not obligated to take such good care of me and to make me his ward. He is a noble man.”
Dummolard reached between us and set a cup of tea in front of her. “Here you are, mademoiselle.”
“Thank you, Monsieur Dummolard. It is good to see a familiar face on this cold, inhospitable day.”
The Frenchman nodded gruffly and left me to look after the girl with a look that said, Be careful or you’ll answer to me.
“May I ask how you and Quong met?” I asked.
She smoothed her skirt carefully and took a sip of her tea. “He used to work in his father’s shop and when he heard Sir was the famous Shi Shi Ji, he made bold enough to ask if he could become his student. I was living in the house then, looking after Da Mo and the Pen-jing trees. We began to greet each other when he arrived. Sir must have noticed. He rarely misses anything, for he likes the nuances of life. He considered for a while in his private way, then invited Dr. Quong to tea in the small pavilion at the back of the garden. I remember that day well. They had pots of tea and wheat rolls and discussed our future together.”
“You mean that it was an arranged marriage?”
“You make that sound like an evil thing,” she said. “We trusted them implicitly, and it was obvious to them that we cared for each other. We benefited from their wisdom and experience.
“At that time, Sir considered hiring an assistant, saying that in his work two were often safer than one. He proposed to Dr. Quong that his son first go to live in Three Colt Street, and after he became Sir’s assistant, he came to live here while I stayed in Limehouse among my own people, with the doctor and Uncle Ho visiting me occasionally to see after my welfare. Naturally, I would have been happy to marry right away, but he was a virtuous young man. He did not want to rely on the largess of his father or my guardian but to make his own way in the world.
“Sir opened new opportunities for him, but I do not believe my fiance intended to stay an enquiry agent forever. He ranged all over Limehouse looking for possible business opportunities. He read widely and interested himself in the affairs of our people in London.”
“You make him sound very serious,” I said.
“He was serious,” she admitted, “but he clothed his manner in humor. When we stepped into a shop he spoke to the owner, making jokes with him and passing the time of day, but when he left he could tell me what new stock had come in and what was selling well. He knew the name of every merchant in a street. Often someone wished to hire him, but Shao Zu felt an obligation to stay with Sir until he had acquired enough money for us to be married.”
“You must have been distraught to lose him.”
“I cannot describe the misery to you of that terrible waiting and then the news that he was found dead. I thought my life was over. Many times since I have considered taking up the knife and doing away with myself. I thought I had nothing to live for. And now my guardian stands upon the brink of death. I do not know how I can stand it.”
I looked at Dummolard, who had been listening to the tale with such rapt interest his cigarette had become one long ash. Like myself, he felt for the girl. The cook tossed the end of his cigarette onto the slate floor and left the room, shaking his head, leaving me with the bereaved girl.
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “He will get well. Dr. Quong will make sure of it.”
She nodded and wiped her eyes with my handkerchief, which must have been sodden by then. I couldn’t bear the thought of this girl giving way under her burden and killing herself.
Just then the door to the kitchen flew open and Madame Dummolard came in.
“Ah, ma petite! I just heard you were here. Don’t you worry. M’sieur Barker will be well again before you know it.” She held the crying girl to her. Bok Fu Ying looked like a doll in her arms.
Harm scratched on the back door. I got up to open it and followed him out into the garden to allow the women some privacy.
It was cold and starting to snow outside, but it felt good after the stuffy heat of the kitchen. Everything was dormant save for the plants in the greenhouse. There was a thin ring of ice around the perimeter of Barker’s artificial pond, but spotted goldfish were coming up for the morsels the gardener had tossed in.
I wandered among the grass-ringed stepping-stones and reached the small bridge. There were stone newel posts on both sides, with a small figure atop each one. My hands ran over the cold surface of the carved stone and the fierce faces of the creatures. Lions. They were stone lions. I looked back over my shoulder. The dormer windows above looked like a pair of eyes staring down at me, the glass as black as the Guv’s spectacles.
“Wake up,” I murmured. “Please, sir, wake up.”
18
A few hours later, the maid came up the stairs, interrupting my reverie. I had been sitting and staring into the fire in Barker’s hearth for who knows how long, worrying.
“Monsieur Llewelyn, there is a visitor.”
“Send him away,” I said. “There have been too many people up here already.”
“But he is not here to see M’sieur Barker. He wishes to see you.”
“Show him to the library, then. I shall be along in a few minutes.”
Who wished to speak with me? To tell the truth, I didn’t much care. I would go downstairs and tell whoever it was to go away. I wasn’t expecting a friend.
Israel Zangwill rose from the fireside chair in the library as I entered. His hat was on his knee, mottled with melting snow. It was early afternoon and yet Israel was here, instead of at his position at the Jews’ Free School.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I started a new position, Thomas. I have given up teaching,” he said, a smile on his Pucklike face. “I have become a reporter for the Jewish Chronicle. ”
“That’s marvelous, Israel. Congratulations.” I shook his hand. “No more first period gymnastics for you now, eh?”
“Exactly. Who is the new maid in the hall and what has become of Mac?”
I explained the immediate situation and Israel took it all in.
“So he was attacked in Limehouse, you say. Does this have anything to do with a fellow named Mr. K’ing?”
“How on earth do you know about K’ing?” I asked. “His name is hardly spoken above a whisper.”
“I’ve been investigating him for an article after a few of our crowd lost a painful amount at fan-tan. I suppose telling the Chronicle was a way to get even.”
“You haven’t by chance been given a tour of Limehouse by an individual named Jimmy Woo?”
“‘Individual’ is a good word for him. Yes, that was me. He showed me all over the district until I mentioned Mr. K’ing. Then he shut up so tight I might as well have stuck a cork in his mouth.”
“K’ing has that effect on people. Woo says he doesn’t even exist.”
“He exists, all right. He owns an opium den in Pekin Street.”
“How did you come by that information?”
“I’m a reporter. I bought it. I thought your employer might be interested, though I didn’t know he was working on a similar case.”