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Authors: Will Thomas
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speaker is?” Vandeleur asked.
“Yes,” said a sturdily built man in his late fifties with a thick mustache. “I am Commissioner Henderson of the Criminal Investigation Department. I wish to know what has become of the book.”
“I gave it to a Chinaman, sir,” Barker replied, turning his head slightly in Ho’s direction. “It was a Chinese text, after all, and of no use to me.”
“My eye!” the commissioner grumbled, loudly enough for everyone to hear. There was a laugh, which Vandeleur quelled with the tap of his gavel.
The head of the jury, a bucolic man who looked more like he should have been planting wheat than participating in an inquest, spoke up. “How long have you been an enquiry agent, Mr. Barker?”
“Six years, sir.”
“And do you often work with Scotland Yard?”
My employer gave a stony smile. “The Yard has little need for my services. They have within their ranks some of the best investigators in all Europe. Occasionally, I will be offered a case first, because the victim wishes to keep the matter private. Other times, I am given a case that Scotland Yard has in its wisdom decided to turn down.”
“Which one was this, Mr. Barker?” This elicited more laughter from the court.
“Neither, sir. This I believe to be a continuation of an earlier case, in which my assistant was killed. Both men were murdered in the same manner.”
“Do you suspect anyone in particular of being guilty in the inspector’s death?” Vandeleur asked.
“No, sir. It remains an open case.”
“Very well, Mr. Barker. You may step down.”
There was widespread conversation among us all after Barker’s interview. Behind me, a reporter from the Weekly Dispatch asked me if Barker would be willing to be interviewed by a reporter. Before I could answer we were all hushed again by Vandeleur’s gavel. Ho was called to the chair next. His appearance was quite interesting. He was wearing an English suit, including a claw hammer jacket and wing collared shirt. One couldn’t get beyond the fact that the top of his forehead was shaved, and his earlobes hung to his shoulders, but his queue was discreetly tucked inside his clothes, and he was surprisingly presentable. The most savage part of him—the thick, tattooed arms—were covered by his jacket and boiled shirt.
Vandeleur began the questions. “Is Ho your surname or given name, sir?”
“It is the only name I have,” Ho answered stoutly, causing a ripple of laughter in the court.
The coroner turned to his bailiff. “Is this witness sufficiently able to communicate in English?” After receiving a nod, he continued. “Very well. Mr. Ho, what kind of establishment do you run?”
“It is a restaurant and tearoom.”
“And yet there is no sign outside, nothing which shows that you are open for business?”
“We do local business. I do not encourage Westerners, but some find their way into my establishment all the same.”
“How long have you known Mr. Barker?”
“I have known him for twenty year, in China and in England.”
“According to the police, your restaurant is frequently used for clandestine purposes. Is this true?”
“Who says this?” Ho said, looking around fiercely. “It is a lie. I run a respectable business.”
“And yet there have been some disturbances here in the past year. Isn’t it true that in this very establishment Inspector Bainbridge apprehended an anarchist who was wanted by Her Majesty’s government?”
“Yes,” Ho admitted, “but only after I throw him out. I do not ask of politics. He was drunk and disturbing other customers.”
“What time did Mr. Barker, Mr. Llewelyn, and the inspector arrive?”
“About eleven o’clock, right after we open.”
“Did you at any time accompany them into the tunnel?”
“No. I stay in my office.”
Vandeleur leaned back and considered for a moment. “Tell me about this book. Did Mr. Barker show it to you?”
“I saw the book.”
“In your opinion, is such
“Yes,” said a sturdily built man in his late fifties with a thick mustache. “I am Commissioner Henderson of the Criminal Investigation Department. I wish to know what has become of the book.”
“I gave it to a Chinaman, sir,” Barker replied, turning his head slightly in Ho’s direction. “It was a Chinese text, after all, and of no use to me.”
“My eye!” the commissioner grumbled, loudly enough for everyone to hear. There was a laugh, which Vandeleur quelled with the tap of his gavel.
The head of the jury, a bucolic man who looked more like he should have been planting wheat than participating in an inquest, spoke up. “How long have you been an enquiry agent, Mr. Barker?”
“Six years, sir.”
“And do you often work with Scotland Yard?”
My employer gave a stony smile. “The Yard has little need for my services. They have within their ranks some of the best investigators in all Europe. Occasionally, I will be offered a case first, because the victim wishes to keep the matter private. Other times, I am given a case that Scotland Yard has in its wisdom decided to turn down.”
“Which one was this, Mr. Barker?” This elicited more laughter from the court.
“Neither, sir. This I believe to be a continuation of an earlier case, in which my assistant was killed. Both men were murdered in the same manner.”
“Do you suspect anyone in particular of being guilty in the inspector’s death?” Vandeleur asked.
“No, sir. It remains an open case.”
“Very well, Mr. Barker. You may step down.”
There was widespread conversation among us all after Barker’s interview. Behind me, a reporter from the Weekly Dispatch asked me if Barker would be willing to be interviewed by a reporter. Before I could answer we were all hushed again by Vandeleur’s gavel. Ho was called to the chair next. His appearance was quite interesting. He was wearing an English suit, including a claw hammer jacket and wing collared shirt. One couldn’t get beyond the fact that the top of his forehead was shaved, and his earlobes hung to his shoulders, but his queue was discreetly tucked inside his clothes, and he was surprisingly presentable. The most savage part of him—the thick, tattooed arms—were covered by his jacket and boiled shirt.
Vandeleur began the questions. “Is Ho your surname or given name, sir?”
“It is the only name I have,” Ho answered stoutly, causing a ripple of laughter in the court.
The coroner turned to his bailiff. “Is this witness sufficiently able to communicate in English?” After receiving a nod, he continued. “Very well. Mr. Ho, what kind of establishment do you run?”
“It is a restaurant and tearoom.”
“And yet there is no sign outside, nothing which shows that you are open for business?”
“We do local business. I do not encourage Westerners, but some find their way into my establishment all the same.”
“How long have you known Mr. Barker?”
“I have known him for twenty year, in China and in England.”
“According to the police, your restaurant is frequently used for clandestine purposes. Is this true?”
“Who says this?” Ho said, looking around fiercely. “It is a lie. I run a respectable business.”
“And yet there have been some disturbances here in the past year. Isn’t it true that in this very establishment Inspector Bainbridge apprehended an anarchist who was wanted by Her Majesty’s government?”
“Yes,” Ho admitted, “but only after I throw him out. I do not ask of politics. He was drunk and disturbing other customers.”
“What time did Mr. Barker, Mr. Llewelyn, and the inspector arrive?”
“About eleven o’clock, right after we open.”
“Did you at any time accompany them into the tunnel?”
“No. I stay in my office.”
Vandeleur leaned back and considered for a moment. “Tell me about this book. Did Mr. Barker show it to you?”
“I saw the book.”
“In your opinion, is such
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