The Murder of Mr Ma E-Book

SJ Rozan

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 369

Beschreibung

Sherlock-esque crime set in early 20th century London, packed with action and martial arts elements, this is the first book in a series to feature a daring, opium-addicted Chinese judge and his shy, academic sidekick, solving fiendish mysteries among the Chinese community in London's Limehouse district. For fans of Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes films, this stunning, martial-arts series opener by a powerhouse duo of authors is at once comfortingly familiar and tantalizingly new. Two unlikely allies race through the cobbled streets of 1920s London in search of a killer targeting Chinese immigrants. London, 1924. When shy academic Lao She meets larger-than-life Judge Dee Ren Jie, his life abruptly turns from books and lectures to daring chases and narrow escapes. Dee has come to London to investigate the murder of a man he'd known during World War I when serving with the Chinese Labour Corps. No sooner has Dee interviewed the grieving widow than another dead body turns up. Then another. All stabbed to death with a butterfly sword. Will Dee and Lao be able to connect the threads of the murders—or are they next in line as victims? John Shen Yen Nee and SJ Rozan's groundbreaking collaboration blends traditional gong'an crime fiction and the most iconic aspects of the Sherlock Holmes canon. Dee and Lao encounter the aristocracy and the street-child telegraph, churchmen and thieves in this clever, cinematic mystery that's as thrilling and visual as an action film, as imaginative and transporting as a timeless classic.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Copyright

Title Page

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Foreword

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Acknowledgements

About the Authors

Praise for The Murder of Mr. Ma

“The Murder of Mr. Ma is a joy, with this Chinese Sherlock Holmes and his Watson bringing a thrilling, complex, and thought-provoking new take on 1920s London.” Laurie R. King, bestselling author of The Lantern’s Dance

“Fans of Sherlock Holmes, devotees of intricate crime, and lovers of historical London will thrill over The Murder of Mr. Ma, the new gift to mystery readers bestowed by John Shen Yen Nee and SJ Rozan. With a plot as clever as Chinese veteran of WWI turned independent investigator Dee, and pacing as light-footed as the martial artists engaged in the frequent fisticuffs, this case has it all—even romance and authentic food, if you can stomach such things. I’m only miffed because I don’t know when the next in the series will land on my doorstep.” Lyndsay Faye, author of Dust and Shadow

“The Murder of Mr. Ma is a refreshingly unique mystery featuring a Chinese detective and his somewhat unwitting partner in 1920s London, combining classic elements from both British and Chinese detective stories in a thrilling romp that doesn’t shy away from the realities of life under colonial dynamics. Lao She and Dee Ren Jie are a hilarious and compelling duo to follow!” Xiran Jay Zhao, New York Times bestselling author of Iron Widow

“A high-energy, rambunctious tale . . . The authors do a wonderful job of depicting the bustling London of the ’20s, the Chinese community and the relentless racism and stereotypes it is a victim of, and absolutely fabulous displays of martial arts. There’s word that Dr. Dee may be returning to solve another case; here’s hoping he does!” First Clue Reviews

The Murder of Mr. Ma

Print edition ISBN: 9781835410431

E-book edition ISBN: 9781835410479

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: April 2024

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Originally printed in the US by Soho Press

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© John Shen Yen Nee and SJ Rozan 2024. All Rights Reserved.

John Shen Yen Nee and SJ Rozan assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

THE MURDEROF MR. MA

JOHN SHEN YEN NEE& SJ ROZAN

TITAN BOOKS

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FOREWORD

Beijing, 1966

EVERY STORY CONNECTS to all stories.

The country is in upheaval. The earth shakes beneath feet pounding this way and that. People rush to proclaim their purity before the other side can proclaim the same. So many are so sure, yet at such odds with one another.

Those of us who’ve lived long lives have seen such things before.

Over my own long life I’ve written many stories. But some remain untold, though they happened years ago. The time has come to write those, too. I’ll put down as many as I can, relating each as I saw it. Events for which I was not present I’ll recount as they were told to me. How reliable will this secondhand testimony be? As reliable as my own, I’ll wager. For better or worse.

A good friend once said that no story ever truly ends. If he was correct, that must necessarily mean no story has a true beginning, either. Very well; but the one I’ll now tell can be said, for the purposes of the telling, to begin in the city of London, in the year 1924, not far from the Marble Arch.

CHAPTER ONE

London, 1924

LEANING ON AN iron railing, I took in the sights and sounds of a Hyde Park spring afternoon. Yellow daffodils splashed the borders of the emerald lawn, on which picnickers sat on plaid blankets. Threading among them, giggling children chased yipping dogs. The late sun lent everything a generous honey glow.

At Speakers’ Corner the Union Jack billowed in the breeze, lofted by Conservatives fixed on squelching Socialists by means of shouted slogans: “Traitors will destroy England!” and suchlike. The Socialists, stationed beside them, waved red banners and roared, “Down with Capitalism!” Young women in severe suits—and more than one in trousers—held placards demanding the full franchise, not the limited version currently on offer. Others who saw salvation in trade unions, the crushing of trade unions, Indian independence, opposition to Indian independence, the Catholic Church, atheism, the Liberal Party, or an end to the consumption of alcohol pressed their causes, while uniformed men and women banged drums and sang hymns in an enthusiastic effort toward the salvation of souls.

Ah, the British. Often wrong, but never without opinions and the zeal to express them. Possibly, I thought, as I turned to walk to my lodgings, we Chinese could take a lesson from them; though, if so, I could not for the life of me discern what it might be.

As I approached the little house near the British Museum, my heart began to beat with the usual mixture of anticipation and trepidation. These two emotions shared a common source: the possibility of encountering Miss Mary Wendell.

Miss Wendell, the daughter of my landlady, was quite the most attractive creature I had ever laid eyes on. A gleaming golden bob framed her lively, rose-cheeked face; her blue eyes glowed with merriment and her movements were quick and graceful. From the moment we met she sparked such ardor in my soul as I had never anticipated finding in England.

The fervor of that moment, however, had not been mutual. When I first came to lodge with the Wendells, Mary shared her mother’s disdain for the Chinese and would barely speak to me. I could hardly blame the ladies, for their heads were filled with the slant-eyed, long-nailed images of yellow-skinned horror perpetuated by pulp magazines, cheap stage shows, and moving pictures. It was only through the exhortations of the Reverend Robert Evans, a man of the church known to both myself and the Wendells, that the widow Wendell agreed to let me the attic rooms in the name of Christian charity.

In the months that I had been living there, I believed my comportment had caused the Wendell ladies’ idea of the Chinese to reverse. Mrs. Wendell and I had become good friends, and Mary now smiled and winked as she rushed off to her work at a millinery shop or her worship at St. George’s, Bloomsbury. I had not yet spoken to Mary about my true feelings for her, thinking the time not quite right. But I had hopes, as I stepped into the entry hall that afternoon, of her glowing smile and perhaps a brief but warm conversation.

However, such was not to be.

“Lao She!” came the voice of Mrs. Wendell. The barking of Napoleon, her little dog, joined in. I hung my bowler hat above the mirror and entered the drawing room, where I found my landlady in conversation with a red-headed young man in chauffeur’s livery. The young man jumped up when I walked in.

“Lao She,” said Mrs. Wendell, frowning, “this young man has come to fetch you. He says it’s urgent. I trust you’re not in trouble?”

“As far as I know, I am not,” I replied. “How can I help you, young man?”

“I went to your office at the university, sir, but I was told you’d gone.” Here was a working-class Britisher calling a Chinese “sir”. I blinked.

“Yes,” I said, “the spring holidays have begun.” For which I could not deny I was thankful. Attempting to teach the Chinese language to people whose need to learn it far outstripped their interest in doing so was wearying. I was looking forward to some quiet weeks of work on a novel, for which an idea had yet to come to me; but I had hope.

“I telephoned my employer,” the young chauffeur continued, “and was instructed to wait for you here. With the lady’s permission, of course.” He nodded at Mrs. Wendell. “He asks that you come at once.”

“Who might your employer be, who is so anxious to see me?”

“The Honorable Bertrand Russell, sir.”

“Bertrand Russell?” Hearing my voice hit a few notes above its usual tenor, I swallowed and said, “The Honorable Bertrand Russell has sent for me?”

“If you’ll please come at once, sir.”

“Mrs. Wendell,” I said, befuddled but delighted, “I’m going out again.”

As I walked once more into the entry hall to fetch my hat, Mrs. Wendell’s face reinstated its accustomed satisfied aspect. She patted Napoleon’s head and smiled, probably as pleased as I was, though for different reasons, that her lodger had been summoned to the presence of the Honorable Bertrand Russell: mathematician, philosopher, liberal thinker, great friend of China, and—to Mrs. Wendell’s mind possibly most important—the second son of an earl.

Stepping out of one’s door in Peking, one was swept into a whirlpool of people, hurrying this way and that, on foot, in rickshaws or sedan chairs, or, for the moneyed, in carriages pulled by horses. The occasional motorcar inspired awe and a frisson of fear, for these machines were solely in the possession of diplomats, aristocrats, the powerful, and wealthy.

In the streets of London, however, the automobile, already on the increase before the war, now reigned supreme. Pedestrians were relegated to pavements on the edges, while horses shied and barrow-men cowered as lorries, buses, taxicabs, and indeed, the motorcars of private citizens surged past with a great grumbling of engines and bleating of horns.

In the time I had been in London I had not managed to develop an expertise in motorcars, except to be able to differentiate those of quality from the second-rate. The automobile into which the chauffeur urged me was a Morris Oxford, as befitted a gentleman of Mr. Bertrand Russell’s station—an excellent machine and not at all ostentatious. It hummed with quiet confidence as we made our rapid circuit of the London streets. I tried to appear to anyone gazing in the window as though I quite belonged.

We stopped in front of a dignified West End home of yellow brick and white limestone. The young chauffeur hurried to open my door, and then led me to the threshold of the house. As he pressed the bell my heart pounded almost as it had when I’d arrived at my lodgings. The Honorable Bertrand Russell, wishing to speak to me! I’d hoped to encounter Mr. Russell at some point during my London sojourn, for I felt we had much to discuss. His writings had made clear that in his opinion China’s troubles were not of China’s making, but caused by those countries besetting us, each to further its own ends. England was not innocent in this regard, and I was eager to exchange views with Mr. Russell on a multitude of related subjects.

Once again, however, what I was hoping for was not to be.

The chauffeur’s ring was answered by a butler, bald as a billiard ball. I presented my visiting card. The butler placed it on a silver tray while the chauffeur retired to his automobile. I was shown into a carpeted sitting room. By the room’s stone fireplace a tall silver-haired man was pacing. “Sir,” intoned the butler. “Mr. Lao She.”

The tall man rushed across the room to shake my hand. “Lao She!” said he. “Bertrand Russell. I’m glad to make your acquaintance. Many times since I learned you’d arrived at the university I’ve thought to have you here, but one thing or another always interfered.”

“I understand, of course, sir. I’m thrilled to meet you. I’ve read your books and I look forward to discussing China with you, and so much more.”

“Yes, well, I look forward to those discussions also, but I’m afraid they’ll have to wait for another day. Right now there isn’t time. The plain fact is, I asked you here not so much to speak with you, Lao She, as to have you arrested.”

CHAPTER TWO

MY HEART STOPPED its eager pounding. In fact, it stopped altogether. Bertrand Russell wanted me arrested? What had I done?

“Oh, my dear man!” Mr. Russell started chuckling.

This was too much. I was to be arrested and he found it funny?

“You’ve gone quite pale. Perhaps I should have expressed myself differently. I need your help, you see. Your arrest wouldn’t last long and would have no consequence for you aside from an hour or two in a jail cell. It would be of the greatest assistance to a friend of mine, however. Here, sit and I’ll explain.”

I was feeling weak-kneed, and still had no idea what he was talking about, so I welcomed the invitation and lowered myself into a chair.

“Word’s come to me that my friend, Dee Ren Jie, has found himself mistakenly swept up in the arrest of a group of Chinese agitators in Limehouse. I—”

“Dee Ren Jie? The celebrated Judge Dee?” I was astounded to hear myself interrupting Bertrand Russell.

Mr. Russell, on the other hand, seemed delighted. “Yes! Do you know him?”

“By reputation only, of course. Judge Dee is in London?”

“He is, and as I say, he has got himself clapped behind bars. This would be nothing more than an inconvenience, to be sorted by your country’s legation, if it weren’t for the facts of his war service. Dee was at China’s mission in Geneva when he was seconded to the Chinese Labour Corps in France, to resolve disputes between the laborers and the British at the front. As I understand the situation he was almost always in the right, but as I’m sure you’re aware, my countrymen often put less weight on ‘right’ than on ‘British’. The long and the short of it is, Dee made enemies. One of them, a certain Captain William Bard, is now an inspector with the Metropolitan Police in the very district where Dee sits in jail. Bard hasn’t yet discovered he has Dee in a cell and I’d like to get Dee out of there before he does. Will you help?”

I hardly knew what to say. “I’m sorry, sir. Judge Dee has been arrested and in order for him to be released it will help if I’m arrested? I’m not sure I follow.”

“I’m not sure I blame you. Let me propose this—we ride to the jail while I explain. If when we arrive you decline to participate, we will go our separate ways with no hard feelings. Does that seem satisfactory?”

I could only nod mutely. Apparently that was enough. Mr. Russell rang for the car and I soon found myself racing through the London streets again, this time with Bertrand Russell by my side.

He had become acquainted with Judge Dee, Mr. Russell told me, in Peking, where Dee had aided him in the writing of his famous book, The Problem of China. “Why Dee’s in London now I don’t know,” Mr. Russell said, “but once he’s released I expect we’ll find out. Now, your part in this, my good fellow, would be simply to switch places with him. We’ll go into the jail with you as my translator. My Chinese is passable, and Dee’s English is perfect, of course, but he’s clever enough not to have used it within the hearing of the constabulary. We’ll meet with him, you’ll stay in, he’ll walk out, and then I’ll call the Chinese legation and inform them that a distinguished lecturer from the University of London is, through an egregious police error, being held in jail. They’ll act swiftly on your behalf. I’ll make sure of it.”

“But why can you not use the same strategy to get Judge Dee released? Any Chinese diplomat will know full well Dee is not a Limehouse agitator.”

“That’s certainly true. If it were a simple matter of contacting the legation and letting the wheels of justice go round I’d do it. The complication is this. If Captain Bard wakes to the fact that he has Dee in his clutches he might be moved to settle old scores.”

“Ah,” I said. “You fear for Judge Dee’s safety.”

“Yes, but perhaps not in the way you imagine. Dee, as you may have heard, is a skilled fighter. Any physical confrontation Bard cares to initiate would be met competently by Dee. In close quarters, with no chance of escape, I fear Dee might find it necessary to cause serious harm to any man who sets upon him. This could result in a legal liability from which it would be difficult to extricate him. No, he must get out before his identity is discovered. So, Mr. Lao, what do you say? You’ll likely be out in time to join Dee and myself for dinner. Does that suit you?”

To dine with Bertrand Russell and Judge Dee! What could suit me better? Yet the plan still appeared flawed. “Forgive me, sir,” I said, “but can this deception succeed? Do Dee and I resemble one another to that great an extent?”

“Why, of course not! But this is England. To a certain type of Englishman, all Chinese look alike. I assure you the men of the Metropolitan Police are of this type. Also, Dee’s disguised himself. An eye patch or some such.” Again, Mr. Russell chuckled. “You’ll put it on, and switch clothing, and I promise the constabulary will be none the wiser.”

The car stopped at the gates of the Metropolitan Police district station in Limehouse. Against every grain of good sense I had, I agreed to participate in Bertrand Russell’s plan. We left the car and, for the third time that afternoon, I approached a door with heart hammering, though now without the compensating anticipatory thrill.

The constables within were not thrilled, either, when we made our demand. “This is the Honorable Bertrand Russell,” I said in my most officious manner to the portly sergeant behind the high oak desk. “We are here to speak with one of your prisoners.”

The sergeant peered down at us. “Are you now?”

“My good man,” drawled Mr. Russell, presenting his visiting card, “indeed we are, and my time is limited so I’d be obliged if we could get on with it.”

The sergeant eyed Mr. Russell’s card as if something might jump out from it. “You looking for one of them Chinamen, they’re all down in the cells. You’d have to speak to Captain Bard about it, though.”

“Then fetch him at once!” I commanded. I quickly felt my cheeks flush; I did not often order Englishmen around.

The other constables laughed and the sergeant’s face reddened as mine had. “What did you say to me? I don’t hold with no Chinaman telling me what to do!”

The others began jeers of “That’s it, Tom!” and “Give him what for!”

Mr. Russell rapped on the desk and said, “My good man—” as the sergeant jumped from his high stool and came out to meet us. The catcalls from the others grew. It was all I could do to keep from edging toward the door, but I couldn’t countenance the idea of leaving Bertrand Russell on his own among these ruffians.

“Here! What’s all this?” A new voice issued a sharp demand and all laughter stopped. “You fellows have nothing to do? I’m sure I could find something for you. Sergeant, you’ve left the desk. You’ll be docked a day’s wages. And now, you, sir. You seem to be at the center of this. What have you done to stir these men up so?”

That last was addressed to Mr. Russell. While the sergeant set his jaw and remounted his stool and the rest slunk away, Mr. Russell presented his visiting card to the new man. “Bertrand Russell,” he said. “And you are—?”

“William Bard. Inspector and captain in the Metropolitan Police.” So this was the famous Captain Bard. A large, fit-looking man in tweeds, with thinning hair and a thick mustache, he glowered at the card, and then at Mr. Russell, and finally at me.

“Just the fellow,” said Mr. Russell, unperturbed. “You have a Chinese prisoner in your cells with whom I need a word. I’ve brought my translator with me. If we could trouble you?”

Bard narrowed his eyes, then shrugged. “Don’t see why not. Bleedin’ agitators. The upper ranks of Scotland Yard in their wisdom saw fit to assign me to this station because I speak the bloody language. Wish to hell I didn’t. Why a gentleman such as yourself would want to spend time in a cell with a bunch of Chinks I couldn’t say, but I suppose that’s your business.”

Mr. Russell smiled blandly and replied, “Yes, rather.”

With that Captain Bard blew out a breath and called a man over to lead us to the cells.

CHAPTER THREE

ARANK SMELL INFORMED me we had entered the cell area proper. Cries of “Hoy!” and other less polite expressions came from behind the steel doors as men leered from the small barred openings. The constable led us to one door whose distance from the others suggested a larger cell behind it. Jangling a set of keys, he worked the lock. The door creaked open to a big room holding perhaps a dozen Chinese men in varying states of injury. Clearly being an agitator was a dangerous profession.

“Rap on the door when you’re ready to leave,” the constable instructed as he ushered us into the cell. “Or if any of ’em gives you trouble.” He glared around at all the men. When he left, the door clanged shut behind him.

One of the prisoners stood. He wore an eye patch and a silk scholar’s robe. Another, with white hair and beard, also wore Chinese dress, though in his case it was the cotton tunic and loose trousers of a merchant. The remainder were clothed in the same rough garb as the average British laborer.

The scholar was taller than I, broad of shoulder, and, despite the eye patch, handsome of face, with a square chin and a sparkle in his visible eye. He approached us with a small smile. Quietly, he said in English to Mr. Russell, “I see you got my note. Thank you for coming.”

“Indeed I did,” Mr. Russell replied, also whispering, as the man he’d come to see couldn’t be seen to speak English, hence my necessary presence. “This is Mr. Lao She. He’s a lecturer at the University, a novelist, and an important Chinese intellectual here in London. He’s come to take your place, after which I shall demand his release.”

I tried mightily to hide my pride, as well as my surprise, at being thus referred to by Bertrand Russell.

Once Mr. Russell had finished outlining the scheme, the scholar spoke. “I see. Xiexie, Mr. Lao.” He folded his left hand over his right fist and bowed.

“You are Judge Dee?” I asked in Chinese.

He straightened again, his lips pursed and his nose crinkled as though encountering an unpleasant aroma. He lifted his chin and I must say he looked a touch arrogant.

“I am that man,” he replied, his voice a note higher and his words a bit slower than they had been at first. He shifted his stance to hold his left hip slightly forward of his right and he bent his right arm at the elbow, his hand moving up and down in the manner of an uncomfortable fellow jiggling his hat.

He did not have a hat.

However, I did.

I realized what was happening. Dee was aping me.

I couldn’t say I was flattered by his portrayal, but neither could I deny its truth. He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it back as mine was combed, and then, with a grin, removed the eye patch and handed it to me. I put it on. He undid the silk buttons of his robe. I glanced at Mr. Russell, who smiled encouragingly, so I removed my jacket and loosened my tie. Mr. Russell put out a hand offering to hold whatever items required a temporary stop. Thus, using the Honorable Bertrand Russell as a clothes tree, Judge Dee and I exchanged trousers for trousers, and shirt, waistcoat, tie, and jacket for robe. My hat I handed Dee in payment, I supposed, for the eye patch. The other men in the cell found this process highly amusing and had to be quieted by Dee, who whispered he’d have them all out if only they didn’t give the game away.

Dee, a Northerner from Shandong, had three inches the advantage of me in height and a more muscular physique than I might have expected in a member of the judiciary. His robe hung oddly on me and I had to hitch up his silk trousers. My trousers, equally, were short on him, my jacket he could not button, and my shoes must have pinched his toes as my feet swam in his slippers, but Mr. Russell assured us that, in the brief time it would take himself and Dee to exit the station, no one would take notice of Dee’s odd attire, or mine. I attempted to pull my shoulders back and set my features in a non-committal attitude—that is, to become Dee as Dee had become Lao. Mr. Russell looked us over, gave a satisfied nod, and rapped on the cell door.

“Here! Constable!” he called.

A moment later came the rattle of keys and the complaint of unoiled hinges as the door was pulled open. Mr. Russell exited the cell, followed by Dee. “This man,” Mr. Russell said to the constable, pointing at me, “is no agitator. He’s a distinguished scholar. You cannot keep him here.”

The constable shrugged. “None of my lookout, sir.”

“Well then, I shall contact the proper authorities. Don’t you worry, old fellow,” he said to me. “I’ll have you out soon enough.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” I said before Dee-as-Lao-the-translator could speak—and then by the widened eyes of Mr. Russell, Dee, and the officer, I realized my mistake.

“What’s this? I thought none of you Chinks spoke English!” The officer looked from me to Dee, down at Dee’s ankles protruding from my trousers, and up again. He scowled.

“No, sir, I—” I broke into a sweat; I was making it worse.

The constable ripped off my eye patch. “Why—”

Dee and Mr. Russell exchanged a look. “Ah, well,” said Dee. “Nothing for it.” He wheeled a kick into the button of the constable’s jaw. The constable staggered back, grabbing for his whistle. As he sounded it, Dee threw open the cell door. In Chinese he shouted, “All right, agitators. Go agitate!”

The corridor filled with Chinese and, soon after, with constables. “Russell, don’t get caught up in this.” Dee raised his voice over the din. “Go. We’ll meet you later.”

I felt that to be a sanguine assurance given the circumstances, but Mr. Russell nodded and slipped along the wall. He moved quickly up the same stairs the constables were streaming down.

“Can you fight?” Dee asked me.

“Indeed I can,” I replied. “I’m Manchu, born under the Plain Red Banner. There were plenty of knocks to be had in the Peking of my youth.”

“Well, then, Bannerman, let’s get to it.”

In the scrum of constables and agitators I punched and kicked. I acquitted myself reasonably well, I thought; but in the moments I took to catch my breath I could see Dee moving like a human whirlwind. I was a pugilistic craftsman, I realized, while he, in the true sense, was a martial artist.

Dee’s strategy, I soon discerned, was to leave the constables and agitators contending with one another and to edge toward the stairs. Very well; I targeted my battling to my left and made progress in that direction. I attained the second stair and looked back for Dee in time to see him sidestep two constables rushing at him. They crashed into each other and both went down. A third, however, grabbed Dee from behind. He threw an arm about Dee’s neck and, choking him, began to pull him away from the action. Near me was a constable at the bottom of the stairs, his back to me, his truncheon raised high. Before he could bring it down on the head of the agitator he was aiming for, I yanked it from his hand, took aim, and sent it spiraling through the air. It hit the head of the man with his arm around Dee’s neck—not perhaps as squarely as I’d hoped, but with enough heft that the man’s grip was loosened. The elderly Chinese merchant pulled the man away and, with a kick of economy and grace, knocked him to the floor. Dee rushed toward me. “Up we go!” he shouted, and up we went.

CHAPTER FOUR

AS WE BURST into the antechamber of the district police station, Dee yelled, “Trouble below! See to it at once!” The authority of his voice caused the eyes of the charge officer to swing to the staircase door. Out of it, in our wake, erupted a torrent of agitators and constables. Dee and I sped to the entryway and made our escape.

By the time we’d hurtled halfway down the block, the agitators had surged from the station and melted into the Limehouse streets. I fancied we would do the same, leaving the constables to scratch their heads and wonder which of the many Chinese wandering this way and that they had lately had inside their cell. I was eager to put distance between myself and my first—and, I hoped, my last—visit to a jail. However, Dee pulled me into the first alley we found. “Well fought,” said he, smiling. “But Lao, if we don’t exchange footwear immediately I fear I will lose my toes.”

I saw the wisdom in this, for I was tripping in his large slippers. As we effected the transaction a shadow fell in the entrance to the alley. I whipped my head around, but Dee glanced up and then straightened without haste. I saw the reason why: the newcomer was the man from the cells wearing Chinese merchant’s garb.

This man was a good twenty years Dee’s elder, and so thirty-five years or so older than myself. The snowiness of his hair and beard, and the wrinkles mapping his face might have led me to expect a certain frailty of carriage, but that expectation would have been dashed. He stood erect, with the serenity of a man without fear.

“Ni hao,” he said, stepping forward. “Are you Dee Ren Jie? Now Judge Dee?”

“I am, yes,” Dee replied. “Do I know you?”

The man bowed. Rising up, he said, “You knew me once. I’m Hoong Liang, the third son of Hoong Pei Tie.”

Now Dee’s eyes flew wide. “Big Brother Hoong? Can it be?”

The man smiled. “It is. I wondered if it was you in the cell, but the eye patch and the Guangdong pronunciation you affected caused me to suspect that, if so, you preferred to remain unknown. I confirmed it was you most definitely when I saw your fighting style. The circular kick with double forearm strike—most fighters use a closed fist in that skill, but my father taught it with the open hand.”

Dee now smiled also, gloriously. “He did,” he said, “and my brothers and I paid dearly until we learned it. Lao, this man’s father was tutor to my family. Big Brother Hoong, this is Lao She, a man brave enough to enter a London jail to rescue someone he had never met.”

I bowed to Hoong Liang to cover my pride at this remark.

“But Big Brother Hoong,” Dee said, “you left Yantai when I was a boy. To find you now in London—how is this?”

“I’ll relate that tale, though it’s uninteresting,” said Hoong. “But may I suggest we first make our way to my shop, where you fellows can complete the exchange you’ve begun? It’s not far from here, and while you, sir”—indicating me—“merely look ill-dressed, you, Judge Dee, look absurd.”

Dee glanced down at himself in my clothing and laughed, and we all slipped from the alley onto the Limehouse streets.

The shop to which Hoong led us was, in fact, close by. I’d passed it occasionally in my months in London and each time felt immediately homesick, for Hoong’s shop sold vegetables, grains, and spices such as were common enough in China but not easy to come by here. He also sold apothecary herbs and fungi; dishes, bowls, chopsticks, and fans; needles and thread; washing powder; ink and brushes; and similar goods. None of the valuable—or at least, exotic—antiquities Londoners thirsted for, as in some of the other Limehouse shops. Just everyday items of use to a Chinese clientele.

Once in the shop, Hoong Liang locked the door again, and made sure the sign reading “closed” in both English and Chinese was in place. Dee and I clothed ourselves in our rightful raiment while Hoong narrated his tale: he’d left home to see, as he said, what there was to see. He joined the army, attaining the rank of sergeant.

“Then I must from now call you Sergeant Hoong,” said Dee, buttoning his robe.

“As you wish,” Hoong replied with a smile.

When he’d had enough of military service, he told us, he signed on as a sailor on a merchant vessel. He traveled on many ships to many countries, finally stepping ashore permanently a dozen years ago to help a cousin with a shop in Limehouse. The cousin returned to China, satisfied that Hoong had a good living at the shop.

“Of you, Judge Dee, I’ve heard many times over the years. I confess to feeling as proud of you as if I’d taught you myself.”

“If I’ve done any small good in the world,” Dee said, “it’s due to the teachings of my father and yours.”

The smiles the two gave one another, if stored in a bottle, could have lit up the Limehouse streets come nightfall.

“But Sergeant Hoong,” Dee said, “how did you come to be in the jail? Were you agitating?”

“Not precisely. I’d tried to pull some of the agitators into my shop when I heard the constables’ whistles. I favor the men’s cause but their methods endanger them. They were having none of it, however, being determined to skirmish with the constables. The constables descended in overwhelming numbers, with truncheons, so I . . . found my role changing.”

“I saw you in the jail,” I said. “Your kicks and blows were admirable.”

“Thank you. For an untrained fighter you acquitted yourself impressively, also.” I thanked him for the compliment, though I did not enjoy his pointing out the homegrown nature of my fighting skills. “Will you gentlemen have tea with me?” Hoong asked. “We have much to talk about.”

“I’d like nothing better, Sergeant Hoong,” said Dee. “But we’ll have to delay that to a future time. Lao and I are expected in Chelsea.” He looked around. “Though your shop has given me an idea. Have you a telephone?”

“I do not. As you may imagine, Limehouse is not high on the post office’s list of areas that urgently need the service. I feel fortunate the National Grid has seen fit to provide me with electricity for my lamps.”

“Is that so? Well, there are other ways of communicating.”

At Dee’s request, Hoong gave him pen and paper. Dee wrote, then opened the shop door and gestured to one of the street urchins watching a game of flick-cards. “Here’s a shilling,” he said to the boy. “Take this note to Thirty-one Sydney Street and there’s another waiting for you there.”

The boy grinned, snatched the note and coin from Dee’s hand, and disappeared.

“That’s quite a distance, Dee,” I said. “It will take him hours.”

“Certainly not,” Dee answered. “In any city you choose to name, there are none so resourceful as street children. I have employed many in my career. None has ever failed to complete his assigned task. He’ll be there within the time it takes us to gather what we need.”

I was not aware we needed anything, and if we did, didn’t know what it might be, but Dee wandered Hoong’s shop, consulting with the older man over vegetables, spices, and rice. Eventually I was dispatched to the fishmonger’s to purchase a large carp, and to the butcher’s for a pound of ground pork. When I returned Dee stood between two stacks of paper parcels each lashed with string.

“Ah, Lao!” he said. “Come, we must be off.”

Dee thanked Sergeant Hoong for his help, promised to return, lifted the parcels by their string handles, and we left.

A taxicab ride later, I was once again on the doorstep of the Honorable Bertrand Russell. Mr. Russell met us at the door himself, with a twinkle in his eye. “Mrs. Hennessey is cross with you, Dee. She’s only agreed to your proposal because she remembers meals you cooked in Peking. As payment for upsetting her plans, she demands to be taught to use a cleaver as you do.”

“I suspected she might not be pleased,” Dee replied. “Let me see what I can do to remedy the situation.”

Instead of entering the hall, Dee took the gate that led below stairs. Thus it came about that I finally sat over whiskey with Bertrand Russell, discussing The Problem of China.

CHAPTER FIVE

“SO, WHAT BRINGS you to London, Dee?”

The question came from Bertrand Russell. Dee, Russell, Russell’s wife, Dora, and I were at the table. We were eating, with silver chopsticks brought back from the Russells’ time in Peking, a Shandong feast of Dee’s creation. The Russells were both adept with their chopsticks, and seemed to be enjoying the cuisine as much as Dee and I.

It was Dee’s determination to cook this meal (“To repay Russell for his efforts, Lao, and also because as many good meals as I’ve had abroad, there’s nothing like the food of home”) that had brought on the ire of the cook, Mrs. Hennessey, whose planned menu had been shunted aside for it. Her wrath had been turned away by Dee’s cleaver lesson and his promise to leave with her all the herbs and spices that remained after he’d prepared the dishes. Those dishes—stuffed tofu, four joy meatballs, and now a whole ginger-steamed carp, all accompanied by a tureen of jasmine rice—simultaneously filled me with delight and deepened my homesickness. Since I’d first let rooms from Mrs. and Miss Wendell I’d generally taken breakfast and dinner with them. This arrangement offered the dual advantages of providing nourishment and affording me an opportunity to spend time with Mary. As to the latter, I hoped little by little to win Mary’s affection; but in terms of the former, though I was unable to fault Mrs. Wendell’s skills in what was called “plain cooking”, I could not be said to be enthusiastic about the cuisine. The East End held a number of Chinese eateries and noodle bars, and I occasionally made my way to one for a midday meal. Nothing I’d eaten since my arrival in London, however, held a candle to the rough, salty meatballs or the silken sauce on the fish, the golden-brown color of the tofu squares or the rich aromas of all the dishes mingled together in the feast we were sharing tonight.

“The answer to your question, Russell, goes back to the war,” Dee said. “As you know, but, Lao, perhaps you don’t, I was seconded from Geneva to the trenches of France to adjudicate disputes between the British military and the men of the Chinese Labour Corps. It was there that I met Captain Bard.” Dee paused to sip his wine.

“Bard was a British Army officer in charge of a large battalion of Chinese laborers,” Russell informed Dora and myself. “His disciplinary measures were apparently . . . harsh.”

“We did not”—Dee smiled slightly—“see eye to eye. Within the battalion were smaller labor bands. One of these groups, four men, made their way to London at the end of the war.”

“But Dee, that’s extraordinary,” Dora Russell said. She was a woman of even features and bobbed brown hair. “Quite pretty” might have been one’s mild assessment until the lively beam of her dark eyes and the compassionate smile playing on her lips worked their compelling magic. “To our disgrace, Britain has been adamant about refusing to admit any men of the Chinese Labour Corps. Yet you say some are here?”

“As far as I know, just these four. Their admission here was engineered by Captain Bard.”

“My,” said Russell. “Do we detect remorse? An attempt with a good deed to atone for ill behavior?”

The smile Dee offered now was, I thought, a touch bitter. “If that was his intention, it will take more than a single good deed. It’s possible you’re right, though, Russell, because I understand he’s been calling on these men periodically, to see how they’re doing. Unfortunately, not all are doing well. One was murdered last week.”

Dora Russell gasped. Even Russell turned pale. “Murdered, Dee? Surely not!”

“Murder?” I said, leaning forward. “Who was the poor fellow? What were the circumstances, do you know?”

Dee smiled. “Asked like a true novelist, Lao. But yes, murder.” The smile faded. “His name was Ma Ze Ren. He’d set himself up as a merchant, a Limehouse dealer in Chinese antiquities. I imagine we weren’t far from his shop earlier today, at the police station and again at Sergeant Hoong’s.”

Sergeant Hoong had already been identified to the Russells as the font of the bounty before us.

“When these men learned they’d be permitted to come to London at the end of their Labour Corps contracts, they were excited,” continued Dee. “It gave them the prospect of continuing to earn a good wage before returning home. But one thing still worried them.

“One of the four—in fact, this very man, Ma Ze Ren—had been wounded in a German barrage attack. Of course the contracts of the Chinese laborers with the British government guaranteed they’d be far behind the battle lines, but that provision was regularly violated. These men were all young and strong, and I’d wager, until Ma’s injury, they had never considered the idea that any of them might die. Now, with a chance to spend some years in England, they sent for me in the camp. They asked, if any of them should die there, that I would undertake the arrangements to return his body to China. I agreed.