The Limehouse Text by Will Thomas

constabulary is or even the closest grog shop. Nice place, this, eh?”
    “Better than Whitechapel deserves.”
    Barker got out his traveling pipe and set it ablaze, and we spent an agreeable half hour baking our feet dry again on the fender, thinking of the constables who had changed out of their dress blacks and were back on their beats until day’s end.
    “Lad, you’re falling asleep.”
    I sniffed and rubbed my face. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t get much rest last night. Do you think our killer might simply give up now that he knows you’re after him?”
    “He won’t give up. He has killed several times and has proven how unrelenting his determination is to get his hands on the manuscript.”
    “It makes no sense. I mean, Bainbridge was right: it is just a book. Let us say the killer did lay hands on it. What would he do with it? It wouldn’t make him rich or powerful.”
    “I’ll admit, lad, I haven’t worked that out myself. He may never have told a soul. Whatever it is, I feel it is something big, something very important, at least to him. He must not have it. I shall not be content until I see it back in the monastery it came from.”
    “Even if we have to take it there ourselves?” I asked.
    “Exactly.”
    “But first, you’ll have to get it again, because you gave it to a Chinaman.”
    “I trust I can lay hands on it when the moment comes.”
    “Is it in the East End?”
    Barker knocked his pipe on the fender. “This is not a parlor game, lad. Come. We have work to do.”
    “Where to next, sir?” I asked, putting down my empty pint glass. My boots had dried out a little, and I had convinced myself that somewhere in the world at that moment a warm sun was shining down and might even come here someday. If anything, the room suddenly seemed too hot, pungent with hops and tobacco smoke. I wanted to be out again in the cold, crisp air.
    “K Division, or at least Bainbridge’s constabulary in East India Dock Road. I want to get permission to go through his files. If he had a clue or a possible suspect in the crime, he wouldn’t have told us, not right away. He came to us only because he could not legally get the book himself. I am almost surprised he did not simply thump Mr. Hurtz with his truncheon and take it. Bainbridge was known for the direct approach, and he was a steady officer for many years.”
    We took the tram into Limehouse. Sailor town does not improve in inclement weather, save that the pavement is not crowded by street sellers of dried squid and other “treats.” We had the streets to ourselves. Merchants halfheartedly called to us as we passed from the shadows of their shops. They recognized Barker now. It was Shi Shi Ji this and Shi Shi Ji that. They didn’t bother translating for my benefit. Barker stopped to talk once or twice. This was it, I told myself. He’s going to talk to all six hundred Chinamen in London, and when he’s done with them, he’ll start on the Lascars.
    East India Dock Road is a continuation of Commercial Road, but the great thoroughfare dwindles considerably when it reaches the dockyards. Bainbridge’s constabulary was a red brick building tucked in among the others in the street like a book on a shelf. Only the blue light suspended out in the street gave warning that this was the sole bastion of law and order in this sailor’s haven. Stepping inside, I was expecting the chaos I’ve seen before in the booking area of A Division at Great Scotland Yard itself. It was not so. There were no more than two or three constables on duty, but they seemed to have everything in hand. A lone fellow in a pair of wrist darbies sat talking with an officer, and two citizens waited patiently to be served. It looked as if Bainbridge had run a tight ship. One could get the impression that this was a sleepy little backwater constabulary where nothing ever happens. One would, however, be wrong. The first thing we discovered when we walked in the door was that the