CHAPTER 10 #2
“The parson volunteered to accompany us, so we drove Mister Lloyd and the lass along the quayside. But the devils had bundled her in and out in the dark of night with the shades of the carriage drawn. Aye, t’was hopeless.”
“Where is the girl now?”
“Mister Lloyd took her in. He lives with his widowed sister and two nieces, and she looks after the wee bairns.”
“I’d like to speak to him. Perhaps the girl has said something more in the time she’s been with him.”
MacNair scribbled an address and handed it to Tennant. “The London Missionary Society headquarters is on Carteret Street. You’ll find Mister Lloyd there.”
Tennant tucked it away and stood.
“The lass’s name is Jin-Bou,” MacNair said. “And to ken its meaning is to break your heart. In Cantonese, it means ‘Beautiful Treasure.’”
* * *
At the headquarters of the London Missionary Society, the Reverend Mister Owen Lloyd spread his hands. “You find me a prisoner of my desk, Inspector Tennant.”
Mr. Lloyd might have stepped out of the Elgin Marbles frieze in the British Museum.
His classically perfect features looked as if some ancient Greek had chiseled them.
He’d brushed his hair back in thick, dark waves, and his cobalt eyes were a dramatic contrast to his black brows and lashes.
As with so many Welshmen, he had music in his voice.
Lloyd spoke in a deep, sonorous baritone.
A world map covered the wall behind Lloyd with the possessions of the British Empire colored in standard pink. Two red-tipped pins marked Ceylon and Hong Kong.
“You miss your work in the East?”
“I do. Among other duties in Hong Kong, I served as chaplain in the colony’s Anglican orphanage.
When scarlet fever broke out amongst the children, it spread to the staff.
” Lloyd patted his chest. “It left me with a dicky heart, so the society shipped me home. That was two years ago, and here I am. Raising funds and giving speeches are the most strenuous tasks I’m allowed. ”
I’ll wager you’re good at it, Tennant thought.
“How can I help you, Inspector?”
“I have a few questions about a Chinese girl you shelter in your household.”
“May I ask why?”
“This morning, someone dumped the body of an Asian girl near Billingsgate Market.”
“I see. Another poor girl found on Inspector MacNair’s patch.”
Tennant nodded. “There are similarities to an earlier case under investigation, although the girl was Irish, not Asian. About the young woman who lives with you . . .”
“Jin-Bou.”
“The inspector told me some of her story. In her time with you, has she spoken about her ordeal? I’m hoping there is more you can tell me.”
“Oh, I can tell you many things, Inspector.”
Lloyd swung his chair around and looked up at the map. The wall clock ticked loudly in the quiet room. He swiveled back.
“Jin is but a tiny dot on an atlas of degradation that we abet or simply ignore. Every year, thousands of Chinese are shipped around the world as coolie laborers. Men, for the most part, but countless women are sold as domestics and prostitutes.”
“Sold, Mister Lloyd?”
“I believe the word is apt.”
“Ten years at Scotland Yard . . . I thought I’d seen everything.”
“Ten years after my ordination, I’m no longer surprised by the diabolical in human nature. Thank the Lord, I see much that is angelic as well.”
“Was she alone on the voyage?”
“No. There was another girl. She was already aboard when Jin came on the ship. They kept her in a separate cabin, and she spoke a Chinese language Jin didn’t understand.”
“Did she know the vessel’s name?”
“Jin didn’t mention a name, but she described a three-masted ship.”
“Sounds like one of the clippers that ply the China trade,” Tennant said. “Has Jin spoken about what happened after she arrived in London?”
“Yes. After a long voyage, two beautiful ladies—one a European, the other Chinese—met them at the dock. The Chinese woman spoke to her in Cantonese and told Jin that she was in the great city of London. She would be taken to a beautiful house, given much to eat, and would serve a powerful prince. They forced Jin to service ‘many princes,’ she said.”
Tennant winced. “The recruitment process never changes. Here, they entice shop assistants and servants, promising riches and comforts.”
“Jin thought her destination was the gam saan—the gold mountain. It’s a name for California that I often heard in Hong Kong. Thousands of Chinese men have gone to America to work on the railroads. Jin had been promised marriage to an honorable man when she arrived.”
“I can guess what happened next.”
“She confided the details to my sister. The following day, an older woman carrying a black bag examined her ‘between her legs.’ After that, she was bathed, dressed, and given something that made her drowsy. Then she was taken, half dreaming, to another place and fell asleep in a big bed. She awoke, crushed under a great weight with a searing pain ‘down there,’ she told my sister.”
“Inspector MacNair said Jin couldn’t pinpoint the location of the place. Has she remembered anything else?”
“She heard church bells from her room.” Lloyd shrugged. “But where in London wouldn’t one?” He narrowed his eyes. “I remember she called the European woman the kong que—the peacock lady for the feathers she wore in her hat. Again, not very helpful. One sees them on ladies’ heads all over London.”
“Could she describe this woman in more detail?”
“I can ask her.”
“It’s possible that Jin’s traveling companion is the dead girl we found this morning. I’m afraid she will have to identify the body.”
“Is that necessary, Inspector? Jin didn’t know her.”
“I must insist. Jin is a living witness, a link to this girl and those who held her captive. Perhaps you or your sister might accompany her?”
Lloyd considered. “I’ll speak to them this evening.”
“Tomorrow afternoon, then. At the police station on Tower Street.”
* * *
The following morning, Chief Inspector Clark waylaid Tennant in the Yard’s vestibule and ordered the inspector to follow him upstairs. After an unsatisfactory interview, Tennant arrived late at his office.
O’Malley met him outside his door. “The chief is hunting for you. Looking like thunder, he was.”
“An apt description. He found me.”
“Doctor Lewis and Mister Lloyd are waiting in your office.”
Julia and the clergyman sat in the chairs by Tennant’s desk. “The clinic is off Whitechapel Road on Fieldgate Street,” she said. “Past the bell foundry. It’s number twenty-three.”
Lloyd scribbled the address in his agenda and stood when Tennant entered. “Ah, Inspector.” He slipped a note from his coat pocket. “Jin provided this description if it’s any help to you.” He handed it to Tennant.
“And the identification of the body?”
“My sister will accompany her to Tower Street this afternoon at two o’clock.”
“Thank you, sir. That’s most helpful.”
Lloyd turned to Julia. His face, weathered from years in the sun, wrinkled into an attractive smile. “Alas, I’m late, but I look forward to hearing more about your work in Whitechapel.”
“And I about yours in Hong Kong, Mister Lloyd.”
He offered his hand. “Is tomorrow a good day to visit your clinic?”
“Of course.”
Lloyd nodded to O’Malley, who closed the door behind him. ‘So, what does the handsome parson have for us?”
The inspector held up the note. “A possible witness—a Chinese girl named Jin-Bou who lives with Mister Lloyd and his sister.”
“She knew the victim?” Julia asked.
“Perhaps. Jin escaped. Unlike the poor girl you examined yesterday.”
Tennant read through the note. “Well, well. The girl says the ‘tall sailorman with yellow hair’ who brought her food gave her to . . .” He passed the letter to Julia. “Who does this sound like to you?”
She read, “The beautiful peacock lady had hair the color of pomegranate seeds and dressed in green silk.” Julia looked up. “Margot Miller.” She handed the note to the sergeant.
“Miller to the life,” O’Malley said.
Julia nodded. “I saw her outside Annie’s flat in an emerald frock. So, Margot was enmeshed in this terrible business, too.”
“Likely,” Tennant said. “Do you have the medical results for us?”
Julia dug into her doctor’s bag. “Nothing much beyond the summary I gave you yesterday. I also have that invitation from my grandfather.” She handed over his note. “Tomorrow, if you are free.”
“Delighted.”
“He scribbled seven thirty, but his handwriting is execrable, like most doctors.” She snapped her case and stood. “Margot Miller, a procuress . . . another card in the mysterious deck. I’ll leave you gentlemen to sort out the complicated hand.”
After the door closed, O’Malley grunted. “Complicated. That’s one way of putting it. What was the chief wanting with you? Only to give us a tongue-lashing?”
“That, of course. Also, Sir Francis Grant wants a meeting at the beginning of next week.”
“And who is he when he’s at home?”
“Sir Francis is President of the Royal Academy of Art. The Annual Exhibition opens on the sixth of April, just over two weeks from now. He wants to discuss police protection for the event, given the recent events at art galleries.”
“Manpower being no problem when the likes of Sir Francis come calling. The budget be damned, then.”
“It’s the way of the world, Paddy. And the Yard, I’m afraid.”
O’Malley waved Mr. Lloyd’s note. “This puts the peacock lady and a ‘yellow-haired’ seaman together. Miller and Arnie Stackpole. I’d be betting money on it.”
“He’s the likely candidate. Annie described him as fair-haired. What was the name of his ship?”
“The Flying something or other.” O’Malley pulled out his notebook and flipped through his interviews. “The Flying Spur.”
“Go down to the docks and dig up the name of the company that owns her and find out how long she’s been trading between London and China. Ask if they take passengers.”
“You’re wanting me to go to the Billingsgate for the Chinese girl’s identification?”
“No. I’ll see to it. And there’s something else . . . another possibility.”
“What are you thinking?”
“When Stackpole threatened Annie O’Neill, he said Margot Miller owed him money ‘for them.’ We thought he was trading in goods.”
“’Tis women he’s buying and selling, you’re thinking?”
“Might he have another pair of girls like Jin and the girl who sailed with her? According to Annie, Stackpole was waiting for payment before he ‘delivered the goods.’”
“Where is he keeping them now that he’s in the nick?”
Tennant looked at the calendar and consulted his watch. “Stackpole is two weeks into his thirty-day stretch. Time to pay him a visit. I’ll let him think we know more than we do—it may loosen his tongue.”
* * *
Tennant’s cab left Westminster and crossed the river into Southwark by London Bridge.
It stopped in front of a brick-and-stone prison that was a place of incarceration and public execution with space for a gallows on its roof.
A convict either walked out when he’d finished his sentence or swung for the entertainment of a gaping, hooting audience, leaving in a box.
Tennant raised the entry’s clapper and dropped it with an iron bang. A slotted window scraped across metal, and the gatekeeper’s face appeared in the void.
“Detective Inspector Tennant to see the warden.”
Keys jangled, the door swung open, and the keeper directed Tennant to his chief’s office. Twenty minutes later, a jailer escorted the gangly, shackled Arnie Stackpole into the waiting room. The yellow-haired sailorman needed a wash, but fair-haired fit the bill.
Stackpole’s leg chains dragged along the stone floor, the sound rising to the rafters of the vaulted ceiling and echoing down again.
His clanging journey ended at an oak bench, where the guard shoved him down by his shoulder.
The jailor retreated a few yards and waited, tapping his truncheon against his palm.
Tennant took Will Quain’s sketch of Margot Miller from its folder and held it up. “I assume you know she’s dead,” Tennant said.
Stackpole dug around the back of his ruined mouth with a grubby finger, dislodged a bit of breakfast from his broken teeth, and spat it on the floor. “Heard that rumor.”
“Word on the docks says she owed you money, and you were looking for her.”
“Wasn’t me what killed her.”
“Convince me.”
He balled a fist and raised it. “I’d stop her mouth for her, but I have an iron rule. Never kill a slag who owes you money. Bad for business.”
“What business are we talking about?”
Stackpole tapped his nose and winked. “Little of this. Little of that. Nothing to interest the Yard.”
“You’ve got two weeks left in prison. Cooperate, and I can do something about that.”
“Two weeks? Crikey. I can do that standing on me head.”
“A bright fellow like you knows it pays to cooperate with the police.”
“Nah. You got nothing to barter, and I got nothing to sell. Still, it was nice talking to you. A pleasant stretch of me legs.” He rattled his leg irons. “More or less.”
Tennant rolled the dice. “Now that Margot is dead, what will you do with the girls?”
Stackpole’s smirk vanished. “Don’t know what you’re on about, mate.”
“One of the girls escaped a few months ago, did you know? She has quite a tale to tell.”
The seaman licked his lips.
“We’re closing in, Stackpole. Don’t leave yourself twisting in the wind. If you change your mind, a word to the warden will bring me back.”
Tennant nodded to the guard. By the time Stackpole reached the door, he’d regained his equilibrium.
“Nice chatting with you, guvnor. But I’m thinking you got nothing.”
The inspector hailed a cab and headed to Billingsgate to meet Jin and Mr. Lloyd’s sister. At least Tennant had Stackpole under lock and key. After his release, he’d follow the man and see where he would lead.
* * *
Tennant returned late to the Yard but caught O’Malley on the landing.
“Any joy at the docks, Paddy?”
“Found the owners of Stackpole’s ship, J. Robertson and Company. The Flying Spur plies the China trade, hauling tea from Canton and Hong Kong.”
“Do they carry passengers?”
“At the shipmaster’s discretion, so they’re saying. I couldn’t interview the captain because the Flying Spur sailed for China a week ago.”
“Damnation.”
“What about Arnie Stackpole?” O’Malley said. “Did you find him in a talkative mood?”
“I found an insolent sod who guessed I was bluffing.”
“Any luck with the identification of the Chinese lass?”
Tennant shook his head. “Not the girl who traveled with Jin.”
“That means she’s still out there, and likely others. Did you show the girl Quain’s sketch?”
“Yes. No surprise there. Margot Miller was the peacock lady.”