The Judge Dee and Lao She mysteries - The Railway Conspiracy E-Book

John Shen Yen Nee

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: The Judge Dee and Lao She mysteries
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 360

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

A lightning-paced, kung fu-filled historical mystery in which two amateur Chinese sleuths take down a sinister conspiracy between Imperial Russia, Japan, and China in 1920s London. Perfect for fans of Laura Shepherd-Robinson and Laurie R. King. Judge Dee and Lao She must use all their powers of deduction—and kung fu skills—to take down a sinister conspiracy between Imperial Russia, Japan, and China in 1920s London. London, 1924. Following several months abroad, Judge Dee Ren Jie has returned to the city to intercept a transaction between a Russian diplomat and a Japanese mercenary. Aided by Lao She—the Watson to his Holmes—along with several other colorful characters, Dee stops the illicit sale of an extremely valuable "dragon-taming" mace. The mace's owner is a lovely Chinese businesswoman who thanks Dee for its retrieval by throwing a lavish dinner party. In attendance is British banking official A. G. Stephen, who argues with the group about the tenuous state of Chinese nationalism—and is then poisoned two days later. Dee knows this cannot be a coincidence, and suspects Stephen won't be the only victim. Sure enough, a young Chinese communist of Lao's acquaintance is killed not long after—and a note with a strange symbol is found by his body. What could connect all these disparate, bizarre events? It is once again up to Dee's brilliant investigative skills and Lao's well-meaning but often bumbling assistance to get to the bottom of the Railway Conspiracy before anyone else ends up on the chopping block.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

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

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Acknowledgments

About the Authors

Praise for the Judge Dee and Lao She mysteries

“A glorious mash up of fan fiction, kung fu prowess and droll social commentary.” – The New York Times Book Review

“The vivid action scenes feel as visceral as a Chow Yun-fat circular kick with double forearm strike. A sparkling and thought-provoking debut of a fresh dynamic duo whose adventures I’ll be eager to follow.” – Los Angeles Times

“Co-authors Nee and Rozan offer an appealingly unusual, action-packed Sherlock Holmes pastiche with deep roots in both Chinese crime fiction and the history of early 20th-century England.” – The Washington Post

“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

“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

“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.” – Lyndsay Faye, author of Dust and Shadow

Also by the authorsand available from Titan Books

THE MURDER OF MR MA

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The Railway Conspiracy

Print edition ISBN: 9781835414255

E-book edition ISBN: 9781835414262

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: April 2025

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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.

Copyright © 2025 John Shen Yen Nee and SJ Rozan.

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.

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John Shen Yen Nee dedicates this book to SJ Rozan.SJ Rozan dedicates it to John Shen Yen Nee.And that’s that.

PROLOGUE

Beijing, 1966

IT SEEMS EVERY tale of Dee Ren Jie begins with a fight.

Dee himself is the most patient and just of men; yet in some places and in some times, patience and justice are not the virtues most prized by some men. In those times and places, preparing oneself for the rigors of physical combat is the way of wisdom, and Dee is also wise.

In years to come, men looking back on China in our day, as I am looking back now on England in an earlier one, may conclude that was how things were with us. I cannot say.

But with certainty, I can say this: it was how things were in London in the late summer of 1924.

CHAPTER ONE

London, 1924

I’M JUST TELLING yer, Mr. Dee, and with respect, o’ course, I don’t much like this place yer’ve brought us to. A mist so thick I can almost grab ’old of it, and trees way over me ’ead, with ’oo knows what’s walking around in ’em. Monkeys and such, I’ll warrant! And the smell in the air—it ain’t natural, sir. With nary a streetlamp to be seen. Just shadows and the shadows o’ shadows. And deer! Deer, Mr. Dee! With great sharp ’orns. Could we not do our business elsewhere, is all I’m asking.”

“We could do our business anywhere, Jimmy.” Judge Dee, unseen, answered the complaint of young Jimmy Fingers from deep in the darkness under a massive oak. “The men we’ve come to intercept, however, insist on doing theirs here. Don’t worry. If all goes well, I’ll have you back on the streets of London within the hour.”

This promise was a touch superfluous, as we had not left London. To reach the streets, one would have had merely to stroll ten minutes from the Richmond Park clearing, in which we stood. Our errand had not brought us very far into that greensward, certainly not far enough to encounter the King’s deer, with or without great sharp horns. The damp and loamy scent Jimmy protested was, in fact, that of man’s original Arcadian state, in contrast to the scents Jimmy preferred and that awaited us beyond the park’s walls: the smoke of coal fires and the exhaust of buses and motorcars, the aromas of cooked meat and horse dung and whatever was floating at the moment in the Thames. As for monkeys, the nearest were twenty-five kilometers away, asleep in their cages at the Regent’s Park Zoo.

“Jimmy,” I said, speaking in English as Dee had, for admire Dee as he did, the lad had yet to learn a word of Chinese, “does an evening in the greenery not suit you?”

“That it don’t, Mr. Lao. The dark is too . . . dark! And things is rustling—” He jumped as a thing rustled. “I ’aven’t spent a great deal o’ time in such places, see. Parks and trees and all don’t ’ave much to offer a man engaged in my line o’ work.”

Although Jimmy had for a time been, and was now again, in the employ of Dee, Dee had lately been absent from London for some months. In April, he’d sailed for China, and none of us—myself, Jimmy, or Sergeant Hoong, who completed our foursome here in the clearing—had been sure he would return, and if he were to do so, when. Hoong had reverted to his shopkeeping, with which he claimed to be content. I could not say as much for my sentiments toward my own life lecturing in the basics of the Chinese language at the University of London. Classes, when I took them up again, I found no more stimulating than when I first began them upon my arrival in London the year previous. For his part, Jimmy Fingers asserted, whenever we three met for a bowl of noodles—to his credit, the young man had developed quite an appreciation for the cuisine of my homeland during his first stint in Dee’s service—that he was tiptoeing the straight and narrow, that I am, sirs. However, according to Hoong’s intelligence, Jimmy had happily resumed his career as a pickpocket. Pickpocketing, of course, requires pockets to pick, which are hard to come by amid tall trees and things that rustle.

“Lao,” said Sergeant Hoong now, interrupting my reverie, “you are lollygagging. Do you intend to take advantage of our time here to learn this skill, or have you so quickly lost interest in improving your fighting technique?”

Jimmy laughed. “Lollygagging! Mr. ’Oong, sir, that’s a fine bit o’ English yer’ve picked up there!”

I was less amused. “I am not ‘lollygagging,’ nor anything like it. I’ve practiced your one-inch punch until my knuckles bleed, and all I have to show for it is a sore shoulder.”

“And bleedin’ knuckles, o’ course,” Jimmy put in helpfully.

“In fact,” I said, “I’m beginning to question the value of this vaunted skill. How much force can actually be exerted by a blow of such a short distance?”

Jimmy tilted his head thoughtfully. “A fair question, that.”

Hoong, with a disdainful glance at us both, walked through the mist to a small statue of Cupid that stood at the center of the clearing. It was a silly, frilly thing, all curly locks and flower garlands. Pulling his fist back an inch from the sculpture’s round belly, Hoong marshalled the energy of his body from the bottoms of his feet up through his torso, focusing it all into his forearm—or so he instructed me every time I attempted this technique. With a low cry (we were, after all, waiting in this place to create an ambush) of “Chuen ging, inch power!” Hoong thrust his fist an inch forward and made contact with the stone.

Cupid toppled to the ground.

“Oh,” I said, rather weakly.

“Oh!” marveled Jimmy Fingers, with more strength.

“Oh,” snapped Dee. “Hoong, really.” He stepped forward from the oak’s inky shadow.

Any man unprepared would have been terrified into paralysis by seeing Dee, in this form, appear between ancient trees at midnight. The black of his tapered trousers and tunic was echoed in his leather gloves and tall boots and in the silk cape, scalloped like bat’s wings, that billowed behind him. Short, sharp horns protruded from his head, and his face, with features somewhere between a devil’s and a dream-fiend’s, wore a fierce and evil leer.

However, we three had seen Judge Dee costumed as Spring-heel Jack, the Terror of London, on previous occasions, and thus—with the exception perhaps of a tiny step back taken by Jimmy—we were not alarmed.

Dee, from behind the monstrous mask, gazed at the prone statue. “I hope you’ve only dislodged the thing and not damaged it,” he said. “What would your father say?” Sergeant Hoong’s father had been tutor to Dee and his younger brothers back home in Yantai. “I recognize,” Dee went on, “how exasperating it can be to deal with Lao. Still, you must control yourself better.”

“Exasperating?” I said. “I must protest! I was in no way the cause of this insult to Eros.”

“I’ve been given to understand,” Dee said, walking over the soft grass toward the statue, “that you and the young Lord of Love have parted ways.”

I sighed. “We are perhaps more distant than we once were,” I conceded. “Women, I fear, continue to bewilder me.”

“Ah, Lao, but that in itself may be the difficulty. Women are no different from men except in the obvious respects. If you assume that a woman will behave in an unpredictable manner for abstruse reasons, you may count yourself bewildered not by her but by your own expectations.”

“You yourself are so abstruse in your commentary, Dee, that I might almost believe you are mocking me.”

I could not see Dee’s face behind the mask, but I was sure it wore an entirely false air of wounded innocence.

“I must protest also,” Hoong said as he bent to the fallen Cupid. “A rebuke from you, Dee, is almost more than I can bear.”

“Yes, I’m quite sure of that,” Dee said drily, joining Hoong on Cupid’s other side. “Yi! Er! San!” On Dee’s count of three, the two men, working seamlessly together, righted the stone image of that most fickle of deities.

“Well!” said Jimmy Fingers. “I just seen something I never seen before—two men ’oisting a statue with neither rope nor chain. Mr. ’Oong, Mr. Dee, you gents are full o’ surprises. You too, Mr. Lao,” he added generously, if disingenuously. “But look ’ere now. If we find ourselves at the point o’ knocking over angel statues, it’s certain we’ve been in this place too long. Mr. Dee, your Russian and his pal ’ave likely changed their minds. ’Ow about we scarper and get ourselves a pint?” In the moonlight, Jimmy’s face held a hopeful cast.

“I think not, Jimmy,” said Dee. “I hear them now.” He held up a hand.

Jimmy cupped his palm behind his ear. “I don’t—”

Dee lifted a warning finger to him.

I listened intently, though I could hear no more than Jimmy.

Hoong stood perfectly still, then turned to Dee and nodded.

Dee motioned us forward, and as one, we crept to the line of trees separating this clearing from the next. My heart pounded, thoughts of the matter to come banishing the banter of a moment before.

Three days earlier, after Hoong, Jimmy, and I had welcomed Dee back to London with surprise and joy, Hoong, at Dee’s request, had begun discreet inquiries among certain people of his acquaintance, requesting information about an impending transaction in which Dee had taken an interest. Reports had come back that the business was arranged to take place tonight, in Richmond Park, in the small clearing just beyond the larger one where Cupid dwelt.

It was this transaction we had come here to stop.

CHAPTER TWO

DEE AND HOONG had both indicated that the men we sought were nearby. However, to my eye, peer though I did into the clearing, nothing appeared but crisscrossing shadows of trees, thrown by the moon onto the grass.

Jimmy must have seen the same as I; his skepticism could be read in his squint and the twist of his lips. Hoong and Dee, however, remained tightly focused on a pale stand of birch edging the far side of the clearing. Seeing their interest, I tapped Jimmy’s hand and nodded in that direction. We leaned forward to peer through the oak and alder, and I saw a deeper shadow shift beyond the white trunks. As we watched, an enormous shape began lumbering through the tree border and onto the turf. Jimmy stiffened. “Mr. Lao!” he choked. “It’s a gorilla! Run!”

I clasped his wrist as he turned to flee. “Don’t be absurd!” I whispered fiercely. “Dee has given you a task. You cannot complete it if you’re halfway across London.”

Dee hissed a whispered, “Silence!” The shape stopped, cocking its head as if listening. We all four froze. Apparently, it found things acceptable, for it started shambling forward once more. Jimmy clearly remained unconvinced, and to myself I admitted I saw his argument. Not a gorilla, this, but perhaps a bear? It also, I was forced to recognize, evoked the yeren, a semihuman creature said to dwell in Hubei province and which, until that night, I had never deemed anything other than mythical. I was at the point of wondering whether it was worth considering the possibility it was real when my attention, and the attention of my companions, was drawn by a new shadow darting along the edge of the clearing.

If the large shape evoked a bear, this smaller one, although advancing on two legs rather than four, put me in mind of a fox. Sinuous and graceful, it made no unnecessary movements. It circled the clearing soundlessly, remaining in the shadows of the trees. Pressed, I would have said this form was waiting for the larger to achieve the clearing’s center.

A moment later, I was pleased to see my assessment of the situation proven correct. Let Hoong say what he might, I was not entirely lacking in martial skill, which begins, as Dee had often instructed—repeating the words of Sun Tzu—with knowing one’s enemy and oneself.

The larger shape, arriving in the center of the clearing, turned about, plainly searching for something. When its back was to the fox-shadow, that form danced silently forward, tapped the other on the arm, and leapt nimbly back. The large shape—now, it was clear to see, neither gorilla nor bear, and certainly no yeren, but a man—whirled, roaring.

The two stood facing each other. The fox-shadow, now that it had stopped moving, similarly resolved itself into a man: a small, thin one with a sardonic grin on his sharp, Asian features.

“You lucky I don’t kill you, Isaki!” the bear-man growled, dropping his arms from the boxing stance he had assumed. His face was European and his rumbling English was heavily decorated with the accents of Mother Russia. “You try to scare me for joke?”

“Try?” the other repeated. “Voronoff-san, you don’t even make it difficult.” This voice was higher than the bear-man’s. The faint accent in his otherwise excellent English and his mocking use of the Japanese honorific pinpointed his origins to the Land of the Rising Sun.

“Someday, I squash you,” Voronoff, the Russian, grumbled. “Here, now you take this, go away.” From his overcoat, he withdrew a parcel, perhaps a foot long, wrapped in butcher’s paper, and tied with string. He handed it to the fox-man, Isaki, who took it and offered in return a scornful bow.

As soon as the exchange had been made, Springheel Jack sprang, as it were, into action.

Into his pocket Jack reached, grasping a handful of something and hurling it at the pair. As the small round objects hit their targets, smoke burst out of them with pops and hisses. These were gunpowder-packed ball bearings Dee had prepared earlier in the day. Voronoff swatted as if at bees, while Isaki crouched and whipped his head back and forth, searching for the source. Before he could locate it, Jack leapt between the men and attacked them both, using a right and a left double palm, striking the center of each man’s chest. Isaki was sent flying across the lawn and Voronoff reeling backward.

“’Oong!” Jack cried. “Ye might take an interest in that big bear-like villain on me left!”

Hoong, not small in stature himself, advanced on Voronoff. Voronoff, recovering his balance, reared back and tried to pounce on Hoong. I watched Hoong shift his body from left to right, executing a triple combination of uppercuts to the body and jaw of this giant. Voronoff staggered but did not go down.

While Hoong was occupied with Voronoff, Isaki leapt up from the turf. Grinning and reaching beneath his own cloak, he drew a katana, the long single-edged sword of the samurai.

“Oi!” said Jack. “Yer a ronin, then! A killer for any man’s ’ire. Selling yer services—that ain’t no ’onorable way to act!” This taunting served to anger Isaki, which I could only imagine was the object, as Dee had often said that angry men could be counted upon to make mistakes. Pointing the finger at Isaki for being a ronin was redundant and, I thought, a touch unsporting. The samurai class having been abolished by edict in Japan more than a half-century earlier, all those who continued to follow the Bushido were, by definition, ronin, masterless. Those who chose to live by the sword had no choice now but to sell its services.

Isaki, in a fury, raised his katana to sweep at Jack. Jack spun around and, from another deep pocket, launched a group of larger, solid iron pellets at a high velocity. They flew through the smoke and mist. Isaki, with the skills of a trained warrior, easily deflected the first three. The fourth, however, cracked him squarely in the forehead. He leaned on his sword, muttering, “Ush, very good,” to acknowledge Jack’s skill, and then shook his head and jumped back into a ready stance. He and Jack circled one another, attacking and parrying, searching for an opening.

While watching Hoong and Jack skirmishing with Voronoff and Isaki respectively, I endeavored to fulfill my own charge: to summon the Metropolitan Police. I’d been given a bobby’s whistle by Dee for the purpose, and now filled my lungs with air and emptied them into it as forcefully as I could.

The shriek of the whistle was earsplitting and unmistakable. I blew again, confident that any bobby within a quarter mile would hear me.

However, Isaki also heard me. The anticipation of a visit from the force apparently not being to his liking, he snatched up one of Jack’s deflected pellets from the clearing and sent it sailing toward me. I saw it coming and ducked. In retrospect, this was not the proper response, for had I remained upright, the pellet would have bounced ineffectually off my waistcoat. Instead, it came crashing into my cheek. The impact caused an intake of breath, and with the breath came the bobby’s whistle, which lodged in my throat, and then I could breathe no more.

CHAPTER THREE

IEMITTED A SERIES of soft and admittedly unattractive choking chirps, sounding like nothing so much as the parakeets that Chinese gentlemen held in cages as they walked around town. My hands went uselessly to my throat, where the whistle was wedged tight. I could do nothing for myself, and as I felt my lungs demand I supply them with air immediately or suffer the consequences, I was sure that my companions, occupied as they were, could not be depended upon to do anything for me either. I began to fear my last sight would be the waving tree shadows of a small clearing in Richmond Park, London.

But Jack, with Dee’s preternatural awareness of his surroundings in all circumstances, glanced in my direction. Abandoning the fight with Isaki, he somersaulted toward me and, upon landing, delivered to my midsection the very one-inch punch with which Hoong had toppled Cupid. The whistle flew from my throat. Through my suddenly clear airway, I pulled in as much sweet Arcadian air as my lungs could hold.

I was doing the same a second time when Voronoff, taking advantage of Jack’s brief distraction, shoved Hoong to one side and, with a roar, threw himself upon Jack. The Russian knocked Jack to the ground, grasped his throat with one massive hand, and attempted to choke him into oblivion.

It was time, then, for me to return the favor of a rescue. I gathered the energy of my body from my feet to my forearm and thrust a one-inch punch into the Russian’s side.

It had no effect.

No, that statement is inaccurate. It had the effect of turning Voronoff’s attention to me. Releasing Jack, he whirled on me, and before I could stagger out of his reach, he growled and clutched my beleaguered throat in that same giant hand. He tightened his grip, lifting me off the ground. Once again, breath began to desert me. Among tiny pinpricks of light bursting in my vision, I fancied I saw two lithe shadows circling the clearing, speeding past. A forest creature foot race? I tried to turn my head to watch, but my head being attached to my neck, it was not under my control.

Once again, I worried for the length of my future. But beside us, Jack picked himself up off the ground. Stamping down into a low horse stance to drive his gravity downward, he reached over, grasped the Russian—and, by necessity, me—and applied a hip and shoulder throw. Voronoff crashed down to the sound of Jack’s thunderous roar.

Unfortunately, I was beneath him.

I could find no way to rid myself of what seemed to be fifty stone of Russian, push and twist as I might, until, with a loud “Ow!” Voronoff grasped at his groin and rolled off me to curl up on his side like an overcooked shrimp.

I struggled to my knees from the indentation my body had made in the damp turf. The Russian also attempted to climb to his feet, but Jack was having none of it. He sent a palm-heel strike into Voronoff’s nose. The bear-man fell sideways and ceased all movement.

*   *   *

As usual when Dee is at the center of events, that night in Richmond Park found much other activity revolving around him. Also as usual, when I have taken upon myself the responsibility of recounting these proceedings—for Dee has little interest in recording his endeavors, whilst I, contrariwise, feel it is of some importance that posterity have these episodes available—I am forced by circumstance to narrate events in which I had no part, events that were described to me after their completion. Fortunately, others involved have less reticence than Dee and are often only too glad to enlarge upon their own roles.

The narrative that follows is the first, in this tale, of these accounts.

*   *   *

At the moment when, Jack having dislodged the bobby’s whistle from my throat, Voronoff encircled Jack in his mighty grip, Isaki bolted. The Japanese man had got his butcher-paper-wrapped prize and clearly decided he had no reason to remain to watch a battle being fought among a giant Russian, a small and ineffectual Chinese—myself—and some kind of British forest fiend. It was a measure of his affection for Voronoff that he dashed across the small clearing and headed toward the woods.

In doing so, he bumped into young Jimmy Fingers, in the shadows at the edge of the trees. Jimmy had seen Isaki speeding toward the woods but failed to get out of the way in time to avoid a collision.

“I beg yer pardon, that I do,” Jimmy said, helping Isaki to his feet. “Yer not ’urt, I ’ope, sir?”

Isaki snarled, pushed Jimmy aside, and ran off.

Jimmy, looking around, determined that his services in the clearing were no longer required. Hands in his pockets, he turned in the direction of the streets of London of which he was so fond.

He had barely taken a dozen steps when the Japanese man came racing back through the woods.

As opposed to his earlier approach, this time, Isaki was making no attempt at silence. In fact, he was howling. Jimmy spun about when he heard the sound. “’Ell’s bells!” he exclaimed, shifting aside just in time to avoid the leaping Isaki, who, having missed—or been avoided by—his target, grasped a branch to slow his fall and swung lightly to the ground.

Seeing the look on Isaki’s face, Jimmy Fingers took off running. His path out of the Richmond Park woods being blocked by his would-be attacker, he charged back into the clearing.

*   *   *

Thus it was that, in the grip of Voronoff’s great hand, I saw what appeared to be a forest creature footrace, but was, in fact, Jimmy Fingers racing by with Isaki in fierce pursuit. The former was shouting, “Mr. Jack! Mr. ’Oong! ’Elp me, sirs, ’elp me!”

The latter was gaining.

Jimmy, a light-fingered thief by trade, was fast, but Isaki was faster. Jimmy dodged, zigzagged, and reversed direction. Isaki could not be slipped. Closing the distance between them, Isaki reached a hand for young Jimmy’s corduroy jacket.

His fingers, instead, found the durable cotton cloth of the merchant tunic of Sergeant Hoong.

Hoong had stepped in front of Isaki, giving Jimmy the chance to dash across the clearing to the place where Jack was standing, fists on hips, cape billowing, between my awakening woozy self and the unconscious Russian.

“Mr. Dee, or as ’tis, Mr. Jack!” Jimmy panted. “Mr. ’Oong needs yer ’elp, sir!”

“Oh, Oi don’t think so, Jimmy,” replied Jack. “’E’d account it a great nuisance if Oi was to interfere.”

I shared Jimmy’s opinion that Hoong could use assistance, but as I had no breath to say so, I remained on my knees, watching with Jack and Jimmy as Hoong took on the masterless samurai.

Hoong stood where he was, waiting for his opponent to make the first move. Isaki, attempting to put distance between them, burst out with a palm strike to shove Hoong away. This elicited no reaction from Hoong but a smile that glowed in the mist and fog, recalling to my mind the Cheshire Cat.

Having failed to gain his distance by dislodging the larger, stronger Hoong, Isaki spun into a flying back kick. At first, he achieved his aim: Hoong took a step backward. But Hoong’s size belied his speed. With Isaki in the air, it was an easy thing for Hoong to swat Isaki’s leg aside and send him reeling to the ground.

Isaki rolled into the crouching posture of an iaijutsu stance. In one swift action, he drew his katana from its scabbard and swept a one-stroke killing slash. Hoong sidestepped the flashing sword; no sooner had he than Isaki, almost faster than I could follow, swung the blade a second time. Hoong bent back almost double to avoid this cut.

“Dee!” I said. “Shouldn’t you—”

But I stopped my own words as I saw Hoong shift his legs, say, “Tong gi bai fut, young boy worships the Buddha,” and catch the katana in mid-third-strike, flat between his massive palms. He twisted his body and his arms and, with a grunt, snapped the blade in two.

Isaki stood in shock and disbelief as the broken sword fell from his hand.

Hoong moved in with a short, fast step and executed a one-inch punch. The energy of this attack penetrated into Isaki like a dagger, collapsing his abdomen, effectively stealing his breath. Hoong picked him up and threw him to the ground, where he remained in a crumpled heap.

Hoong stood over his Japanese opponent, watching for signs of feigned unconsciouness. Isaki showed none as he remained stretched out on the grass. Softly, he began to snore, as though enjoying a night’s sleep in Richmond Park under the misty moon was the very reason he’d come to London.

“Well done, brother ’Oong!” said Jack.

“Well,” said Hoong, looking over at the place where Jack, Jimmy, and even I, now able to bear my weight on my own legs, stood by the prone Russian. “I thank you gentlemen for not intervening. It’s been some time since I’ve found myself in combat with a highly skilled practitioner of iaido. It was extremely interesting, and I used the encounter to experiment with various combinations of techniques and skills.” He looked directly at me. “In the end, I hope you noted, Lao, I brought him down with a one-inch punch.”

“I . . . but . . .” I indicated the unconscious Russian, meaning to explain the dire consequences of my own attempt to employ that skill. My bruised throat, however, suggested I be grateful it was willing to let air pass through it at all, and declared my vocal cords off duty.

All heads turned—the exceptions being the two insensible gentlemen on the grass—as the clomp of heavy shoes running along the path could be heard, along with the shriek of a bobby’s whistle. Jimmy Fingers extracted the butcher-paper parcel from his jacket and handed it to Dee. It had been his remit in our proceedings to keep his eye fixed upon the package and intercept it if an attempt was made to bear it away. His relieving Isaki of this item during their collision at the edge of the clearing had caused Isaki to rethink his retreat and return in a rage.

“I’ll be off, then, gents. Bobbies ain’t among me close mates. Ye’ll know where to find me.” Jimmy dashed into the trees again.

Hoong, with a nod, disappeared also, through the shadow under the massive oak and into the night.

It was thus that Dee, costumed as Springheel Jack, and I, disheveled and barely able to croak out a word, found ourselves alone in the clearing when a bobby dashed in.

CHAPTER FOUR

HERE! WOT’S ALL this then?” the arriving officer demanded in the traditional bobby greeting. He stopped in the misty clearing, taking note of the two men unconscious—one an Asian, one a European—and the two men standing—one an Asian, one a costumed nightmare fiend—and he hesitated. The calculus in his brain was almost visible: the two Asians canceled each other out, leaving a European versus a fiend. The winner of that contest was not in doubt. With narrowed eyes and raised nightstick, the bobby advanced on Jack and myself. I expected to be challenged as to our right to be conscious when the men on the ground were not, but the constable stopped, cocked his head, and lowered his nightstick.

“Why, it’s Mr. Lao. And Springheel Jack, or whoever you fancy yourself.” The young man chuckled. “You gents don’t know me? I’m McCorkle, Timmy McCorkle. We met this April past. You’d requested the presence of Inspector Fox to a certain alleyway. He brought me along as his constable. Those were some doings, those were.”

“Ah!” said Springheel Jack. “Doings indeed! Jack remembers yer, Constable.”

I peered at the pale freckled face, and after a moment, I matched it to the one in my memory from that night.

“Of course,” I rasped. “A pleasure to see you again, Constable.” By the final word, I couldn’t even hear myself.

“Are you all right, sir?” McCorkle asked.

“Fine,” I whispered. “Just a touch of the ague.” I indicated my throat.

“So, young Timmy,” Jack said. “Been keeping yerself well? And the missus? Jack’s ’eard a ’appy event is on the way.”

The constable’s smile lit up the clearing. “Yes, sir, we’re expecting our first come Michaelmas.”

“Why, that’s grand,” said Jack, and I nodded to echo the sentiment.

Dee had been in London for a mere three days, most of which was spent renewing old acquaintances, making new ones, and investigating the disappearance of the item we’d recently retrieved; yet somehow, he had come by the knowledge that this young constable, a peripheral player in the events of last spring, had a wife in the family way. It was indicative of how well I’d gotten to know Dee during our previous association that I was only faintly surprised.

“Thank you, sirs. But here now, that big fellow’s stirring. Would one of you care to describe to me what’s happened here?”

“Oi’d be glad to! For such a thing might be beyond poor Mr. Lao at the moment. With ’is ague an’ that. That big fellow,” Jack said, pointing, “is a Russian as calls ’imself Vladimir Voronoff. The little gent snoring over there is a Japanese called Isaki, though Jack don’t know ’is given name. This thing ’ere”—he produced from his cloak the package given him by Jimmy Fingers—“this fellow, Voronoff, stole it for the purpose of selling it to that fellow, Isaki, though it ain’t ’is to sell. Now”—indicating me—“Jack’s good friend ’ere, that’d be Mr. Lao She. ’E don’t ’old with that kind of thing any more than old Jack do. So we took ourselves ’ere to stop this business.”

“I see,” said Constable McCorkle. “And what is that thing there, and who was it had it stolen from him?”

“Ah, ye may well ask.” Carefully, Jack unwrapped the parcel. Laying the butcher paper aside, he displayed the item across the palms of his black leather gloves.

At its top, the foot-long rod wore an onyx sphere crowned by a finely figured gold dragon head, its ruby eyes glowing. A four-sided gold sleeve sat below the sphere, ending in a short crosspiece of purest basalt. On the remainder of its length, the square rosewood shaft was horizontally scored twelve times, with Chinese characters incised on each face between the grooves. The tip again was figured gold. Even in the haze of the moonlight, its beauty was unmistakable.

“Oh,” I breathed. “D—Jack, what is it?”

Springheel Jack cackled, swinging the item above his head as though to bring it down on mine. McCorkle’s eyes went wide and he gallantly lifted his nightstick, but Jack stopped midair and lowered the rod again. “Why, Lao,” he said, “yer don’t know this thing? ’Twas made more than a thousand years since, in China, at the start o’ yer Tang dynasty. This is a dragon-taming mace, so it is.”

Constable McCorkle snorted. “The hell you say. I don’t hold with that mystical bosh. That thing don’t look magic to me. It do look valuable, though. Would that be real gold?”

“Aye, that it would, me copper. And while Jack don’t disagree with yer opinion o’ mystical bosh, still, it’s a fact that in all its years, this beauty ain’t never been stolen without something terrible ’appening to whosoever stole it.”

Jack flipped the mace high overhead. We all watched, mesmerized, as it spun end over end, its gold glinting in the moonlight. It reached its zenith, paused in the middle of the misty air, and slowly descended, arriving in Jack’s outstretched hand. Jack laughed, pointing the dragon head first at the groggy but awakening Voronoff, and then at Isaki, still snoring. “These gents being the proof o’ me pudding.”

McCorkle looked at Jack with the lift of an eyebrow. “You’re never telling me the thing is cursed?”

“Oh, Jack couldn’t say as to curses, me copper. But ’tis a truth that couldn’t be truer that ’e ’oo steals it, things don’t go well for ’im, while ’e ’oo restores it to its proper owner can expect to be rewarded.”

“Can he now? And who is this proper owner?”

“A Chinese merchant, Wu Ze Tian by name. It was Wu as asked Jack to find this missing treasure and bring it ’ome. Bad broken up over the loss o’ the thing, Wu is. And,” Jack added, “most grateful Wu will be, Jack’s sure, for its return.”

“And Jack just happened to know it could be found here in Richmond Park on this midnight? To return it?”

“Oh, me constable, but o’ course not. Jack ’ad to search far and wide for information leading to the finding o’ it.”

“Yes, of course. Far and wide. You wouldn’t care to share your sources of information, I suppose?”

“Jack can’t ’ardly say no more, except ’e can see yer’ve got the makings o’ a fine inspector one day, with all these questions that come to yer.”

The constable’s freckled cheeks bunched up in a smile.

“But poor Jack, ’e’s out o’ answers and must be off,” Jack said. “The constabulary’ll return this item to its proper owner, Jack ’as no doubt.” Snatching up the butcher paper, Jack had the mace rewrapped in a flash. He placed it in the hands of the astonished Constable McCorkle. With a laugh, Springheel Jack ran across the clearing, used his momentum to carry him three steps up the trunk of a tree, and somersaulted onto a branch.

“Wait!” said the constable. “Where would this gentleman, this Wu Ze Tian, be found?”

“Wu Ze Tian may be found in Mayfair, at a fine brick ’ouse in Bruton Street. But Wu ain’t no gentleman, me McCorkle! Wu’s a woman of business from far Cathay. She’s made ’er ’ome in London these past months while she carries on with some o’ this and some o’ that.”

“Bringing such a valuable object with her?”

“Constable,” said Jack, from high among the branches, “if ye was the owner o’ a dragon-taming mace, would yer leave it behind?”

*   *   *

The events that followed were simplicity itself. McCorkle blew his whistle to summon more of his fellows. Two arrived and put Voronoff and the awakening Isaki in restraints. Although Voronoff, when questioned, repeatedly insisted Wu Ze Tian had given him the package with instructions to convey it to Isaki, he was believed by none. Timmy McCorkle doffed his constable’s helmet to me, wished me a good evening, and he and the other bobbies took the men off to the Roehampton Street Police Station, whence they had come.

Once alone in the clearing, I whispered, “Dee? Are you there?”

No answer was forthcoming. I asked again and waited but only saw the shadows of branches dancing on the turf. I became increasingly aware that, as Jimmy Fingers had pointed out, things rustled. My throat put up a sudden clamor for brandy, and I could not help but agree. I headed for home.

CHAPTER FIVE

AT THAT STAGE of my time in London, “home” was a small flat in George Court in the neighborhood of Covent Garden. Issuing from Richmond Park onto Grove Road, I was overjoyed to find a taxicab, not a given at that hour. I sank onto its leather seat with relief, which lessened as the driver began a jovial commentary on everything and nothing. This review continued without pause, even after such phrases as, “What d’you think of that?” where one might have expected the conversational burden to fall, however temporarily, on me. Upon reflection, I realized that though unhoped for, this situation had a bright side. The drive was not a short one, and the cabbie’s chatter served to keep me awake as we went on—also, at that hour and after such a night, not a given.

Nevertheless, I was grateful when we arrived at the building that housed my flat. I paid the garrulous cabbie and climbed the stairs to the first floor, where I extracted my key. When I walked in, I was not surprised to be greeted by Dee, occupying my upholstered chair.

Dee wore his nightshirt and robe. About his neck, on a gold chain, hung a jade bi given him at birth by his parents. Longevity bats decorated one side, and the reverse carried Dee’s name and the words “first-born son.” He never removed it, not even when he wore the Springheel Jack costume, which was right now draped across the back of a wooden kitchen chair.

Most importantly, however, I saw that on the table waited two glasses of brandy.

“My,” I said. “How clever of you.” I lowered myself into a kitchen chair, took up one of the glasses, and inquired, “How did you arrive here so fast? In that costume, you could not have managed a taxi.”

“Jack ’as ’is ways, so ’e does.” Dee smiled as he sipped. “Ye can go far, and fast, too, clinging to the back o’ an omnibus late at night.”

“And your clothing?”

“Hoong will have taken it with him,” he answered, reverting to the Chinese we spoke between us. “As arranged.”

“Ah! I’m glad to see that Dee has returned, and the Terror of London has gone back to his lair for the night.”

“Oh, me professor, but yer never can tell when Springheel Jack’ll strike! But yes,” Dee said, changing languages and voices again, “I believe I won’t have much employment for Jack in the immediate future.”