Storm and Silence(260)

‘Are ye from Scotland Yard, guv?’

‘Yes,’ I said boldly. ‘This is a criminal investigation of the highest level. The fate of the British Empire, maybe even the world, is at stake!’

‘Blimey!’ The cabbie seemed very impressed. ‘Well, we’d better be going then, ain’t we?’

I was in hearty agreement. The cabbie was about to spur on his horses, when my hand shot up. ‘Stop! Don’t!’ I had just remembered something. Of course! ‘Don’t follow them. I’ve changed my mind.’

The cabbie’s face fell. ‘No chase, guv?’

I smiled. ‘Only because I already know where they are going.’

*~*~**~*~*

On the entire way to number 97, East India Dock Road, the cabbie mumbled and complained. Apparently, he had read enough about the adventures of Scotland Yard detectives to know that this was not how things were done. Detectives of Scotland Yard were supposed to chase after their prey in an exciting race, not leisurely drive to wherever it was their prey was going because they already knew the place. Such a thing was apparently simply not done.

On arrival in East India Dock Road, still some distance away from number 97, I paid him with the last money I had left over from pawning my uncle’s walking stick and got out of the cab, promising myself again to retrieve the stick with my very first earned money. Well, maybe after I had bought a really big piece of solid chocolate. A girl has to have her treats in life.

The cabbie took the money and looked around curiously. ‘This is where ye wanted to go, guv? But there ain’t nothing close to 'ere except the docks.’

I winked at him, in what I hoped was a mysterious manner. ‘Exactly. Things being brought in and out of the country… maybe not as they are supposed to be.’

‘Oh, I see,’ the cabbie said, though this obviously wasn’t the case. ‘Well, good luck to you, guv!’

Turning his coach around, he cried an encouragement to his horse and drove off towards the western, safer parts of the city. Looking after him, I suddenly wished I could follow. But I had made my choice.

With a sigh, I turned to face my destination. Not that I could see very much of it - it was mid-day, and the broad street was crowded as could be. Carts loaded with goods and large omnibuses packed full to bursting with dockworkers drove up and down this broad way of British Commerce, and people stood on all the street corners, waving their wares and yelling at the top of their voices to get the attention of potential customers. I supposed they thought yelling would give them an advantage over the large, but completely silent, billboards and posters which spread over many of the exterior walls.

I probably should have been grateful for all the noise. Nobody paid attention to me as I wandered down the crowded street. While in the West End of London, people had given my baggy trousers and loose-fitting old tailcoat strange glances, here, nobody looked twice at the strange little figure wandering down the street. A lot of people here wore clothes that didn’t fit them well, probably because they had originally not been theirs. It was quite liberating in a way, swimming in a sea of people who didn’t pay any attention to me and wanted nothing from me but that I returned the courtesy. It made me feel… free.

Of course, the aforementioned sea of people also blocked my view of number 97.

I slowly made my way down the street. As I got closer to my destination, I started to draw more curious glances from the surrounding people, as if they found me unusual to look at. I had to admit, I returned the feeling: the farther down East India Dock Road I went, the more the faces of passers-by changed in shade and form: from glances I caught of their faces, I thought noses were broader than usual, and their eyes strangely slitted. I thought I was imagining things, until one of the street-hawkers approached me, starting to address me in a strange tongue I had never heard before. At the sight of his face, I jumped back in shock.

Holy Hell! Who plucked me up from the earth and put me down in Peking?

Then it came to me. Of course! I had heard once that, in the some parts of the East End, there lived a large group of workers from China. This must be it. Chinatown.

Looking frantically from one strange face to another, I tried to remember what else I had heard about this area of my own city that was a foreign country. Only now did I see the colourful ribbons suspended over the street, the dragons painted on house walls, and the strange cuts of people’s clothing.

Think! Think! Isn’t there anything you recall about this place?

Vaguely, I seemed to remember somebody calling it the filthiest, most disreputable rat hole in all of London. Who had this information come from again?