Gai-Jin by James Clavell
“Yes.” He sighed. “What request had you in mind?”
“Nothing much, but Malcolm explained to me once the importance of the Jockey Club, both in Hong Kong and Shanghai, how, together with the Shanghai and Hong Kong Councils, all business power is centered there. Her influence would get you a Stewardship of one and a seat on the other. No?”
He laughed and hugged her. “You’re classic, Ma’am. For that I’d even become Catholic.”
“No need for that, Edward.”
“You’re going to love Shanghai. Now I have conditions.”
“Oh?”
He was glad to see a flash of concern behind her eyes, and hid his pleasure and made his face sterner. No need for me to make prior conditions, he thought amused: a husband has inalienable rights, like possessing all a wife’s worldly goods. Thank God for this man’s world. “First condition is that you love me with all your heart and soul.”
“Oh, I will try, and try to be the best wife ever.” Her arms tightened. “And?”
He heard the edge of underlying concern and laughed. “That’s all, except you promise to let me teach you bridge, and mahjong—then you’ll never need pin money from me or anyone.”
She stared at him a moment, then reached up. Their kiss sealed their bargain and then he eased off, too heated. “I can hardly wait, Angelique.”
“Nor I.”
“Now we must plan, there’s not much time. First, get Sir William’s signature, quick as a wink. My darling, I’m so happy you’ve accepted me.”
She felt like purring. “I’m more happy than I can say. When you get back, do we stay here or leave for Shanghai?”
“Shanghai, as soon as possible—soon as the Brocks go under.” He kissed her nose.
“Ah the Brocks. You’re sure? You’re sure about them? Our whole future, everything depends on that, doesn’t it?”
“And Tess, but yes, my evidence is enough, and her venom will cement their ruin—she must realize it too or she’d never have made even this paltry offer. Even so, we must be careful, what we’re like in private, that’s different, but for six months—it’ll take me that long to get you to Shanghai, your reputation blemishless, Rothwell-Gornt into place, your finances settled—we must act like good friends only. I adore you.”
For answer her arms tightened again. Then she said, “Is it your custom to make a marriage contract?”
“No. But if you wish it, we will.” He saw the smile that masked and promised and masked. “It’s not necessary, is it? We’re interlinked, our future’s joined, we’re one entity even now. Success depends on our joint performance, and on me for us. Never forget Tess is adroit, cunning and won’t be cheated—a deal is a deal with her. Even so, I promise you’ll get what you want.”
Yes, I will, she thought.
In shock, Sir William put the last of André’s pages onto the side table, all of them in French and in André’s handwriting. “My God,” he muttered, and shifted in his frayed, comfortable old chair. His anteroom was pleasant, a fire burning merrily, his curtains drawn against the drafts.
He got up, feeling very old, poured a drink, stared at the file of papers in disbelief, then again sat and leafed through them. The final part of Angelique’s father’s letter, carefully pasted together, clearly suggested a calculated scheme to snare Malcolm Struan, other pages set out dates and details of the ronin assassin’s rape at Kanagawa and curious death at the French Legation, the name of the mama-san who supplied the medicine, how the “lost earrings” paid for it, and how André had rowed out to sea to dispose of the evidence—some towels, the herbs, and one of the two bottles, the other left as proof, now waiting in his Legation desk drawer.
His covering letter had said,
Sir William, by the time you read this I am already dead. This evidence is to be used if I meet a violent end. I openly confess I used my knowledge to extract money from Angelique, yes, blackmail if you wish to put a word to it, but then blackmail is a diplomatic tool which you’ve used, as we all have. This information is given you as I may have been murdered, or my death made to look accidental, not necessarily by her but because of her, assisted by her—another truth is that quite a few would commit murder for her (Babcott, McFay, Gornt)—because of my unique knowledge and participation in her … “crimes” is too strong a word … her manipulations makes me a target.
These pages give you evidence to catch the murderer and lay the blame where it eventually will lead. I bear Angelique no ill will, I used her as I needed though never bedded her. If my death appears accidental it may not be. If it is, so be it, I’ve made my Confession (though told none of the above to Father Leo) and go before you into the great adventure—as unclean as most, much more than most, God help me.
Why have I given you this, and not Henri? Why indeed?
It was boldly signed.
“Why me indeed?” Sir William muttered. “And how is it possible that that slip of a girl could hide all this for so long, hide it from Malcolm Struan, for God’s sake? From George and Hoag, for God’s sake? Impossible, surely impossible, André must have taken leave of his senses and yet …”
Apart from her father’s letter—and even that, taken out of context, could be an exaggeration of the truth—the rest is just André’s opinion, unless she’s challenged and confesses. These stories could be fabrications of a demented mind. Of course he wanted her too, how many times have we all noticed him letching after her and there was that curious happening when Vervene found him in her room. And bloody curious he used “unclean” like that, when he really was, poor fellow.
He shuddered. Seratard had whispered André’s secret to him. Syphilis was endemic in all strata of society, in all cities, towns and villages, in St. Petersburg, London, Paris, in palaces as well as the vilest areas of the Casbah, it could lurk in any whorehouse or with any Lady of the Night, in China or in our Floating World here.
Ah, André, why give all this to me? Curious you died as you did, hand in hand with the girl you bought to destroy. How evil! Except she had a choice, so we are led to believe. Your death was an accident. Was it? Henri’s not sure.
“It’s all very curious, William,” Henri had said this morning. “The bodies, skeletons would be more accurate, lay as though they were dead before the fire arrived, no sign of trying to escape by either of them. Just side by side, hands together. I’m bewildered, for all his faults André was a survivor, and in a fire it’s instinct to try to escape, you don’t just lie there, you can’t, not possible.”
“Then what’s the answer?”
“I don’t know. It could have been a suicide pact that was concluded before the fire. Poison, nothing else would fit. It’s true he was morbid recently to the point of insanity, and needed money desperately to pay for her. Apart from that, André a suicide? Do you believe that?”
No, not André, Sir William thought, disquieted. Was he poisoned, or both of them? Now, there’s a motive for murder. Good God Almighty, is that possible? Yes, it is, but who?
Wearily, greatly troubled, he closed his eyes. The more he tried to answer that question the more distracted he became. The door opened silently. His Number One Boy padded in, began to greet him but seeing the paleness and age on his Master’s face, frowned, presumed him to be sleeping, so poured a whisky and put it quietly beside him on the table. His eyes flicked over André’s letters, which were atop the file, then, as silently, he went out.
A few minutes later there was a knock. Sir William awoke with a start as Babcott popped his head in. “Got a minute?”
“Oh, hello, George, of course.” Sir William put the letters into a folder, grimly aware of the attraction they seemed to radiate. “Take a seat. Like a drink? What’s up?”
“Nothing.” Babcott was more tired than ever before. “Won’t stay, just wanted to say I’m going to get a few hours’ sleep. The count so far is three fellows from Drunk Town, one an Australian barkeeper and two vagrants, no papers—there may be other bodies in the wreckage but
“What about the village and Yoshiwara?”
“We’ll never get a count.” Babcott yawned. “They seem to consider those sorts of statistics national secrets. Can’t blame them, we’re the outsiders. Not many casualties, I’d imagine. Same on our Yoshiwara, thank God—you heard that each Inn had an emergency cellar?”
“Damn clever. We’d better institute the same idea.”
“Pity about André …” Babcott said, and at once another twinge went through Sir William. “We were terribly lucky more of our people didn’t get caught—how Phillip got out with his life I just don’t know. William, he’s badly shaken up by the loss of his girl, why not give him a couple of weeks leave, let him go to Hong Kong or Shanghai?”
“Work’s his best therapy, and I need him here.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Another yawn. “God, I’m tired. You know Hoag’s on the packet tonight?”
“He told me earlier, least he said he’d asked you and you didn’t need him. I suppose Tess ordered him to report as soon as he knew—if she wasn’t bearing.”
“Yes. Part’s personal, William, he’s suddenly frantic to go back to India, thinks his happiness lies there. Hope he does, he’s a grand doctor but talks too much.” A frown and a stifled yawn. “Did he tell you what was in Tess’s letter?”
“To Angelique? No. He said she didn’t show it to him. Difficult to call that one, in more ways than you can shake a stick at,” Sir William said, watching him closely. “Heavenly was here earlier, he said nothing about it either, only that she wanted me to witness her signature to a letter she was sending Tess.”
Some of Babcott’s tiredness went away. “I’d certainly like to know what’s in it.”
“I’ll only be party to witnessing it. Rightly I don’t need to know the contents.”
Babcott sighed, yawned again. “I feel so terribly sorry for her, wish I could help, I’d do anything … such a nice girl and so unfair. For her and Malcolm. Well, I’m off. Glad she’s not leaving us yet, she’ll make someone a spectacular wife. See you in a few hours.”
“Have a good sleep, and thanks for all the good work. By the way,” Sir William said, not wanting him to leave, but afraid if he stayed he would be tempted to share André’s evidence, to ask his advice. “When do you see Anjo again?”
“In a week or two, when the laudanum’s used up—without that he’ll be a most unhappy man.”
“No hope for him?”
“No. He won’t last but a few months, the tests are fairly accurate—his insides are in a mess. Yoshi’s our man.” Another aching yawn. “Do you think Anjo, or Yoshi, or both, ordered the arson?”
“Either or neither or both, we’ll never know.” He watched Babcott limp for the door. “George, medically, if a woman was sedated, could a fellow take her and she’d not know about it?”
Babcott blinked and turned back, fatigue fled. “What on earth made you ask that?”
“Just a sudden thought, you mentioned laudanum. A couple of days ago Zergeyev had some wild theories about drugs, the good and the bad of them. Could that happen?”
After a pause, Babcott nodded, not believing that excuse. He knew how subtle Willie’s mind was, and wondered the why of the question but was too smart to ask again. “If the dose was strong and the man not savage, yes, no problem.” He waited but Sir William only nodded thoughtfully, so he waved a hand and left.
Once more Sir William opened the file.
His fingers trembled as he reread André’s covering letter. It’s clear enough. The drug in Kanagawa started the chain of events, George’s drug. If she’d awakened, the man would have killed her, no doubt about that. So she was saved but destroyed. But why didn’t the man kill her anyway, why leave her alive? Doesn’t make sense, any of it. And what happened in the French Legation that other night when he returned? If it hadn’t been for George …
And what about George? If he could give her such a drug to help her sleep, to guard her sanity, surely he could easily do the same to André to remove a blackmailer from the woman he clearly loves. An overdose of the same drug …
George Babcott? Good God, I must be losing my wits. Impossible for him to do that!
Is it?
And Angelique, impossible for her to have done all that!
Is it?
What the hell do I do?
CHAPTER SIXTY
“Excuse me, sir,” Bertram said. “Miss Angelique’s here.”
“Show them in. Then you can leave. Dinner’s at nine. Make sure the Belle doesn’t leave without my dispatches.”
“Yes, sir. It’s just her, Mr. Skye’s not with her.”
Sir William eased out of his old chair, tired and feeling bad, André’s file facedown on his desk.
She came in, physically as magnetic as always, but different, her face set, and with an undercurrent he could not read. Topcoat, bonnet and gloves. Black suits her, he thought, sets off her fair skin, so pretty and young, younger than Vertinskya. Curious, has she been crying? “Good evening, how are you, Angelique?”
“Oh, all right, thank you,” she said, her voice flat and unlike her usual, poised self. “Mr. Skye told you I needed you to verify my signature tonight?”
“Yes.” He went to his desk, his concentration damaged by the pictures André had painted so vividly. “I … please sit down.” She obeyed and as he looked at her another shadow went past her lovely eyes. “What’s the matter?” he asked kindly.
“Nothing. I … this afternoon I heard about André, that he’d—he’d been killed. I would have come earlier but I …” With a visible effort she brushed that aside, took the envelope from her purse and laid the paper on the table. “How should I sign it, please?”
He steepled his fingers, unsettled that again, so soon, André’s spectre had invaded the room—not at his whim. “I’m not really sure. I understand from Skye you have agreed with Mrs. Tess Struan, amongst other conditions, to renounce your ‘Mrs.’ title?”
“Please, you may read the letter if you wish,” she said dully.
“Thank you, but that’s not necessary,” he said, resisting his overwhelming impulse to read the short document. “What you agree with her is not my business, unless you need my advice?”
Numb, she shook her head.
“Well, then … Skye has a legal theory—I’m not certain if he’s correct but I see no reason against it. You are renouncing the ‘Mrs.’ title for all time. But as he so rightly pointed out, only after you’ve signed so you’d best sign it, Mrs. Angelique Struan, née Angelique Richaud, and that should cover all possibilities.”
He watched her concentrate, his mind filled with the appalling story André had related from a fiery grave—not possible for her to hide so much from us, not bloody possible.
“There,” she said. “Now it’s done.”
“I feel obliged to ask: you’re sure you’re doing the right thing—no one’s forcing you in any way to sign this document, whatever it contains?”
“I sign freely. She—she offered a settlement, Sir William. The truth is … the truth is, it is fair. Some of the clauses are badly put, and could be improved, perhaps will be, but Malcolm was her son, she has a right to be distraught.” She got up, put the letter into the envelope and into her bag, wanting to leave quickly, wanting to stay. “Thank you.”
“Don’t go for a moment. Would you, perhaps you’d care to dine tomorrow, just a few of the fellows? I was thinking of asking Jamie and Miss Maureen.”
“Well, yes, thank you, I think so, but I…They’re nice, and she’s sweet. Will they get married, do you think?”
“If he doesn’t, more the fool him—she’ll be snapped up if he doesn’t.” Before he could stop himself he said, “Sad about André, wasn’t it? Did Henri tell you how they found him?” Abruptly he saw her eyes fill and her control disappear. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t, I’m already
She sat down, brushing at her tears, remembering how she had almost fainted and after Henri had gone she had rushed to the church and knelt before the statue of the Blessed Virgin—the church oddly changed, lofty without its roof, but the candles alight as always, the Peace there as always. And she had given thanks, desperate thanks for releasing her from servitude—and with a sudden, heartfelt understanding, for releasing him from torment too, André as much as her. “I understand that now. Oh, Blessed Mother, thank you for blessing us, for blessing me and blessing him, he’s with her and at peace when he knew no peace on earth but now they’re safe in Thine arms, Thy Will be done …”
Her eyes could hardly make out Sir William through her sorrow and gratitude. “Henri told me about André’s disease. Poor man, how terrible, and terrible to be so much in love, he was, you know, utterly. André was kind to me and … and to be truthful,” she said, needing to say the truth aloud, “he was awful too but a friend. He was just madly in love with his Hinodeh, nothing else in the world mattered, so he should be excused. Did you ever see her?”
“No, no, never did, didn’t even know her name.” In spite of a resolve to leave well enough alone he said, “Why was he awful?”
She used a handkerchief to dry her tears, her voice sad and without anger. “André knew about my father and my uncle and … and used it and other things to … to put me in his debt and kept asking me for money which I didn’t have, making wild promises and, to be honest, threats.” Searchingly she looked at him, no guile in her now, open and so thankful to God and the Blessed Virgin for releasing her and him, the past consumed with him, and all the filth. “It was the Will of God,” she said fervently. “I’m glad and sorry. Why can’t we forget the bad and only remember the good—there’s enough bad in this world to make up for our forgetting, don’t you think?”
“Yes, there is,” he said with untoward compassion, his eyes straying to Vertinskya’s miniature. “Oh, yes.”