Gai-Jin

  “Rotten luck. Yes, no doubt about it. Now, Norbert. We’ll have to have an inquest, of course.”

  “Good.” Jamie touched his face, brushing away a nagging fly that sought the dried blood. “Gornt saved my life.”

  “Yes. He’ll be commended. Jamie, when you leave Struan’s what will you do? Go home?”

  “This’s home, here or China,” Jamie said simply. “I’ll … somehow I’ll start my own firm.”

  “Good, I wouldn’t like to lose you. Bless my soul, I can’t imagine the Noble House here without you.”

  “Nor can I.”

  As the day wore on, the pall over Yokohama thickened. Shock, disbelief, anger, war fears, general fears—the Tokaidō remembered—mixed with many whispered snide remarks, but careful who you said them to because the Angel had violent champions and any raunchy remark or laugh implied disrespect. Malcolm was not so fortunate. He had enemies, many were glad to sneer and happy another disaster had fallen on Dirk Struan’s progeny. And both priests in their several ways were sternly satisfied, seeing retribution from God.

  “André,” Seratard said at the lunch table in the Legation, Vervene a third man. “Did he make a will?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “See if you can find out. Ask her, or Jamie—he would probably know more.”

  André Poncin nodded bleakly, worried sick. Struan’s death had disrupted his plan to get more money from her quickly to pay Raiko. “Yes, I’ll try.”

  “Very important we should continue to stress her French citizenship to protect her when her mother-in-law tries to break the marriage.”

  Vervene said, “What makes you so sure that will happen, that she’ll be so antagonistic?”

  “Mon Dieu, it’s obvious!” André answered for Seratard, irritably. “Her attitude will be that Angelique ‘murdered’ her son. We all know she hated her before, how much more so now? She’s bound to accuse her of God knows what deviations because of her twisted Anglo-Saxon sexual dogma, in private if not in public. And don’t forget she’s a fanatic Protestant.” He turned to Seratard. “Henri, perhaps I’d better see Angelique.” He had already intercepted her and whispered that she should go back to Struan’s and not stay here at the Legation: “For God’s sake, Angelique, your place is with your husband’s people!” It was so obvious that she must strengthen her position with Struan’s—at any cost—that he had almost shouted at her, but his sudden anger turned to pity seeing the depth of her despair. Now he said, “I’d better go.”

  “Yes, please do.”

  André closed the door. “What the devil’s the matter with him?” Vervene said with a sniff.

  Seratard thought before answering, decided it was time. “It’s probably his illness—the English disease.”

  His deputy dropped his fork in shock. “Syphilis?”

  “André told me a few weeks ago. You should know, only you amongst the staff, as these explosions may become more frequent. He’s too valuable to send home.” André had whispered he had made a brand-new, high-up intelligence connection: “The man says Lord Yoshi will be back in Yedo in two weeks. For a fairly modest sum, he and his Bakufu connections guarantee a private meeting aboard our flagship.”

  “How much?”

  “That meeting would be worth whatever it costs.”

  “I agree, but how much?” Seratard asked.

  “The equivalent of four months of my salary,” André had said bitterly, “a pittance. Speaking of that, Henri, I need an advance, or the bonus you promised months ago.”

  “Nothing was agreed, dear André. In due course you will have it, but sorry again, no advance. Very well, that amount, after the meeting.”

  “Half now and half after. He also told me, for no money, Tairō Anjo is sick and may not last the year.”

  “Has he proof?”

  “Come on, Henri, you know that’s not possible!”

  “Get your contact to make this tairō ape see Babcott for an examination and … and I’ll give you a fifty percent raise.”

  “Double salary from today, double salary, and I’ll need to give my contact a hefty down payment.”

  “Fifty percent from the day of the examination and thirty Mex in gold, five down and the rest after. And that’s all.”

  Seratard had seen André’s hope escalate. Poor André, he’s losing his touch. Of course I understand a large part of the money will stick to his fingers, but never mind, dealing with spies is dirty business, and André is particularly dirty though very clever. And unfortunate.

  He reached over and took the last slice of the one Brie cheese that had arrived, on ice, at fantastic cost, with the last mail ship. “Be patient with the poor fellow, Vervene, eh?” Every day he was expecting to see signs of the disease, but nothing, and every day André seemed a little younger, losing his previous harassed expression. Only his temper had deteriorated.

  Mon Dieu! A private Yoshi meeting! And if Babcott could examine this cretin Anjo, perhaps even cure him, at my instigation—never mind that Babcott’s English, I’ll barter this coup with Sir William for some other advantage—we will have made a tremendous step forward.

  He raised his glass. “Vervene, mon brave, the pox on the English and Vive la France!”

  Angelique was lying listlessly in the four-poster bed, propped against piled-up pillows, never more wan or more ethereal. Hoag was in a chair by the bed, dozing, on and off. The late afternoon sun broke through the clouds for a moment to brighten a dull, windy day. In the roads ships tugged at their moorings. Half an hour ago—to her a minute or hour the same—the signal gun had announced the imminent arrival of the mail ship, waking her, not that she had really been asleep, wafting instead from consciousness to unconsciousness, no border between. Her eyes drifted past Hoag. Beyond him she saw the door to Malcolm’s rooms—not his rooms, nor their rooms, just rooms now for another man, another tai-pan …

  The tears returned in full flood.

  “Don’t cry, Angelique,” Hoag said softly, tenderly, every fiber concentrated, watching for telltale signs of looming disaster. “All’s well, life will go on and you’re fine now, truly fine.”

  He was holding her hand. With a handkerchief she brushed away the tears. “I would like some tea.”

  “At once,” Hoag said, his ugly face filled with relief. This was the first she had spoken since this morning, properly, coherently, and first moments back were vital indicators. Almost cheering, he opened the door, for though her voice was a thread, there was no hysteria in it or under it or behind it, the light in her eyes was good, face no longer puffy from tears, and her pulse he had counted while holding her hand was firm and strong at ninety-eight counts per minute, no longer jumping around nauseatingly.

  “Ah Soh,” he said in Cantonese, “bring your Mistress fresh tea but not a sound, say nothing and then leave.” He sat near the bed again. “Do you know where you are, my dear?”

  She just looked at him.

  “May I ask a few questions? If you’re tired, tell me and don’t be afraid. Sorry, but it’s important for you, not me.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “Do you know where you are?”

  “In my rooms.”

  Her voice was flat, eyes blank. His concern increased. “You know what happened?”

  “Malcolm’s dead.”

  “Do you know why he died?”

  “He died on our marriage night in our marriage bed and I’m responsible.”

  Warning bells sounded in the back of his mind. “You’re wrong, Angelique, Malcolm was killed on the Tokaidō, months ago,” he said, his voice calm and unshakable. “Sorry, but that’s the truth and he’d been living on borrowed time ever since, not your fault, never your fault, it was the will of God, but I can tell you this with all my heart, we, Babcott and I, we have never seen a man more peaceful, more at peace in death, never, never, never.”

  “I’m responsible.”

  “The only part you’re responsible for was the joy in the last mon
ths of his life. He did love you, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, but he died and—” She almost added, and so did that other man, I don’t even know his name but he died too, he loved me too and he died too and now Malcolm’s dead an—

  “Stop it!”

  The snarled harshness jerked her from the brink. Hoag began breathing again, but he knew this had to be done and done quickly or she was lost, like others he had seen. He had to rid her of the devil lurking somewhere in her mind that was waiting to break out, waiting to pounce, to turn her into a gibbering lunatic, at least to harm her radically. “Sorry. You’ve got to get this correct. You are only re—” In panic he just caught himself before using that word, changing it to “answerable for his joy. Repeat it for me. You are only ans—”

  “I am responsible.”

  “Say it after me: I am only answerable for his joy,” he said carefully, more of an order, noticing with alarm her abnormal pupils. She was brinking again.

  “I am resp—”

  “Answerable, God dammit,” he said with pretended anger. “Say after me, I am only answerable for his joy! Answerable for his joy! Say it!”

  He saw the sweat break out on her forehead and again she said the same and again he cut in, repeated the correct word, “answerable, answerable for his joy!” and again she said the other and again and during this Ah Soh brought the tea but neither saw her and she fled in terror as again and again Hoag ordered Angelique and she refused until suddenly she shrieked in French, “All right, I’m only answerable for his joy but he’s still dead dead dead … my Malcolm’s deadddddddd!”

  He wanted to hold her and tell her that all was well and that she could sleep but he didn’t, judging it was too soon. His voice was hard but not threatening and he said in his good French, “Thank you, Angelique, but now we will speak English. Yes, I’m terribly sorry too, we all are that your lovely husband is dead, but it’s not your fault. Say it!”

  “Leave me alone. Get out!”

  “When you say it: not your fault.”

  “Not … not … Leave me alone!”

  “When you say it. Not your fault!”

  She stared at him, loathing the tormentor he was, then again shrieked at him: “Not my fault, it’s not my fault, it’s not my fault, not my fault. Now are you satisfied? Get out, getout!”

  “When you tell me you understand your Malcolm is dead but you are in no way responsible!”

  “Getout!”

  “Say it! God dammit, say it!”

  Suddenly her voice became like the howl of a wild beast. “Yur Malcolm’s dead yur Malcolm’s dead he’s dead, he’s dead he’s dead but yu’re not not resp not responsible in no way any God-cursed way not resp in any way any way not responsible … not respon … not …” As abruptly as she had begun her voice changed to a whimper, “Not responsible, I’m not, I’m truly not, oh my darling, I’m so sorry, so sorry, I don’t want you dead, oh Blessed Mother, help me, he’s dead and I feel so terrible, so terrible, oh Malcolm, why did you die I loved you so much, so very much … oh Malcolm …”

  This time he held her quiet, tightly, absorbing the tremors and weeping and the racking sobs. In time her voice trailed away, the sobbing lessened, and she sank into fitful sleep. Still he held her, gently but firmly, his clothes stuck to him with sweat and did not move until the sleep was deep. Then he eased away. His back was sparking with pain and he stood carefully, tortured, his muscles in spasm. When he had managed to ease his shoulders and neck he sat to regain his strength.

  That was a near one, he thought, the pleasure that he had won this time eliminating part of his pain, seeing her as she was, young and beautiful and safe.

  His memory rushed him to Kanagawa to that other girl, the Japanese sister of the man he had operated on, as young and beautiful but Japanese. What was her name? Uki something. I saved her brother to wreak more havoc on this poor child. But I’m glad she escaped. Did she? Such a beautiful woman. Like my own darling wife that was. How terrible and thoughtless of me, how insane to take her from India to an early London death.

  Dharma? Fate? Like this child and poor Malcolm. Poor them, poor me. No, not poor me, I’ve just saved a life. You may be squat and ugly, old boy, he thought, taking her pulse, but Christ Almighty, you’re a bloody good doctor, and bloody good liar—no, not good, just lucky. This time.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  THURSDAY, 11TH DECEMBER:

  “’Afternoon, Jamie,” Phillip Tyrer said sadly. “Sir William’s compliments, here are three copies of the death certificate, one for you, one for Angelique, and one for Strongbow to go with the body. The original he thought should go by diplomatic pouch to the Governor’s office for the Chief Coroner Hong Kong, who’ll register it, then pass it on to Mrs. Struan. Ghastly, isn’t it, but there you are.”

  “Yes.” Jamie’s desk was piled with incoming mail, and documents concerning affairs to be arranged. His eyes were red from tiredness.

  “How’s Angelique?”

  “I haven’t seen her yet but Hoag was here first thing. He said to leave her alone until she made the first move, that she was better than expected. She slept for fifteen-odd hours. He thought she should be well enough to travel tomorrow and recommended the sooner the better. He’ll go, of course.”

  “When’s Prancing Cloud rescheduled for?”

  “Tomorrow. Evening tide. Strongbow will be here any moment for sailing orders. You’ll have mails to go with her?”

  “Definitely. And a pouch. I’ll tell Sir William. Still cannot believe Malcolm’s dead. Dreadful. Oh, by the way, the Norbert inquest’s been fixed for five. Would you like a bite of supper afterwards?”

  “Thanks, but not tonight. Let’s do it tomorrow, all being well. We’ll confirm after breakfast.” Jamie wondered if he should tell Tyrer about the machinations of his samurai friend, Nakama, and the meeting with the local moneylender—that Nakama wanted private from Tyrer and Sir William. Nakama’s suggestion had intrigued him and he welcomed the opportunity of talking direct to a local businessman, however minor.

  Yesterday’s meeting had of course been cancelled. He had considered putting it off until next week, but had decided to meet the man tonight—it might divert him for a moment or two from the tragedy.

  It’s none of Phillip’s business—and don’t forget Phillip and Wee Willie have been hiding all sorts of information when the arrangement was for everything to be shared. “See you later, Phillip. And thanks for these.”

  “See you later, Jamie.”

  The death certificates were signed by Babcott and Hoag. The autopsy confirmed what had already been said about death being caused by internal bleeding of a damaged artery that had ceased to function correctly, its weakened condition being directly attributable to wounds sustained during the unprovoked Tokaidō incident.

  Jamie nodded to himself. The doctors had skirted the matter of what had caused the rupture. No reason to be more specific, unless someone required a specific answer. Like Tess Struan, he thought, a twinge in his stomach. She’s bound to ask and then what will Hoag say? The same he told me this morning: “In Malcolm’s condition, Jamie, such a rupture could be caused by any one of a dozen sudden motions, like sleeping awkwardly, then turning suddenly because of a bad dream, even the strain of a constipated bowel.”

  “Or particularly during intercourse?”

  “Yes, that’s only one of many possibilities. Why?”

  “You know Tess Struan, for God’s sake.”

  “I’m not going to damn Angelique, if that’s what you’re asking. It takes two to bed—we both know he went out of his way to marry her and was madly in love.”

  “I’m not asking anything, Doc. Tess will damn her whatever the certificate says.”

  “I agree, Jamie, but she will get no help from me. Nor from George. That a violent climax caused the hemorrhage, and their subsequent euphoric sleep masked the fault for both of them is logical, but not provable, and even if it did, she is in no way to blame, no way, dammi
t …”

  Poor Angelique, she’ll be blamed, like I’ll be blamed. Doesn’t matter in my case. “Yes? Come in? Oh, hello, Edward!”

  “Do you have a second?” Gornt asked.

  “Come in, of course.” Since yesterday his relationship with Gornt was different. He had insisted being on a first-name basis. My God, he thought, how wrong I was about him. “Sit down. Listen, I’ve said it a dozen times but thanks again—you certainly saved my life.”

  “Nothing, I was only doing my duty.”

  “Thank God you did. What can I do for you?”

  “The rumor is that you’ll be sending Malcolm’s remains back to Hong Kong for burial, and I wondered if I could have passage on your ship?”

  “Of course.” Jamie hesitated. “To report to Tyler Brock and Morgan?”

  Gornt smiled. “We can’t avoid the truth, Jamie. I’ll take the result of the inquest with me but it’s up to me to tell them direct, man to man.”

  “Yes, you’re right.” Jamie’s sadness swooped down again. “I’m sorry Malcolm’s not alive to know what you did for me, sorry that he won’t be around to be friends with you, I know he admired you greatly, sorry too that you work for them.”

  “After I see them I probably won’t, I was only loaned by Rothwell’s, so it’s of no consequence. I’ll go back to Shanghai after Hong Kong.”

  “You know, if I can help in any way, I will.”

  “You owe me nothing, I was just doing my duty but a man always needs a real friend. Thanks, if I get lost I’ll ask. A cabin’s all right then on Prancing Cloud ?”

  “She’ll leave tomorrow evening.”

  “I suppose Mrs. Struan will accompany him? Difficult to think of him as dead, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Dr. Hoag says she’ll be fit to travel then.”

  “Rotten luck. Terrible. Thanks. See you later.”

  Jamie watched him leave, curiously unsettled. Nothing he could articulate. Guess I’m just so disoriented that anything and everything seems odd. My God, even Hoag acted peculiar, again nothing in particular.