The Limehouse Text by Will Thomas

what I was to do with it. Barker moved into the library and took out a brace of dueling pistols, loading them with powder and ball as if he had done it a thousand times.
    “It is possible,” he said, “that the killer has not left the grounds. There are many places where a man can secrete himself in the garden. Let us reconnoiter.”
    Somehow, reconnoitering had been left out of my education. I followed him out into the garden, hoping I cut a more formidable figure than I felt. It was freezing and I was clad only in my nightshirt. I hadn’t even had time to put on my slippers. As for Harm, he took the opportunity to show off, barking at shadows, at the goldfish in the pond, at any sound that carried on the wind.
    Barker lit an Oriental lantern with a vesta and we began to look around the garden counterclockwise from the back door, taking in the kitchen garden, the Pen-jing area, and the rockery. We crossed the stone bridge, icy cold under my bare feet, skirting the training area, where I had been tossed down more times than I cared to remember. We bypassed the staggered stone path and invaded the potting shed. The Guv was very thorough, even studying the roof.
    We stepped out of the gate, where a cold wind fresh from Spitsbergen was blasting down the alleyway. There was no one about, nor any evidence of anyone, yet I knew the killer had been down here within the hour. Where, I wondered, does a murderer disappear to in residential Newington?
    Back inside his half-acre garden, my employer closed the moon gate with a finality and gave it a shake, just to make sure it held. We passed the suspended gong and climbed the two steps to the open pagoda. Barker made a very close inspection of the bathhouse, the largest structure in the garden, looking anywhere a man might hide. We crossed the bridge again and then walked the boardwalk that circled the enclosed pond. The Guv even shone the lantern across the water.
    “Surely you don’t think he’s hiding in the pond. It’s nearly freezing,” I said.
    “There are some men I have known who trained in frigid water,” he answered, “and some who use the sheath of a sword as a breathing straw, remaining underwater for several minutes.”
    “Surely he’s gone, sir,” I said, “and having a cup of hot tea somewhere. Perhaps we should do the same.”
    For once I’d talked sense. Cyrus Barker nodded and we went inside.
    “Look in the kitchen, lad, and do not neglect the pantry. Harm and I will have a look in the cellar.”
    “But he went out the back door,” I protested.
    “We have the evidence only of the open back door. No one saw him leave. If he is still here, he might have moved during our search of the garden. I fear we must search the entire house.”
    I nodded wearily and walked into the kitchen. The room was deserted, of course, the moonlight bathing Dummolard’s copper pots in a blue glow. I wanted to go to bed, but now it appeared we would be spending the rest of the night on a wild-goose chase. I opened the pantry door, and the next thing I knew, Mac’s gun was kicked out of my hand, sliding across the counter and over it, out of reach. I blocked a blow to my face with my good arm instinctively, since all I could see was a black shape in the darkness.
    “Sir—” I began, but a kick caught me in the chest, knocking the air out of me. I don’t know if he then kicked my feet out from under me or whether I just fell to the floor. I was preoccupied with trying to breathe. I rolled over, despite the cast, which I now loathed more than anything in the world, and watched the intruder run out the back door. I wanted to yell, to warn Barker, but I couldn’t draw enough breath into my lungs to get anything out.
    A half minute later, Barker’s head came ’round the corner. I waved vaguely toward the door and he was gone. I lay back and closed my eyes, willing myself to calm down. Slowly, the pain in my chest subsided and I was able to breathe again.
    Barker returned a