Authors: James Clavell
“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 who knows when the cleanup will be finished. No one seems very concerned.”
“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?
“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 so upset I … I still can’t … Henri told me an hour or so ago, how André and she together … the Will of God for them, so sad and yet so wonderful.”
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.”
This rare show of emotion in him triggered something in her and before she knew it she was telling her innermost fear: “You’re wise and I have to tell someone, I feel cleansed like never before but it’s my Malcolm that worries me, it’s just that I’ve nothing left of him, no name, no daguerreotype—it never came out—no portrait, and I can’t seem to find his features. Every day it seems a little worse.
“I’m frightened,” she said, tears flooding silently, sitting there in front of him, him powerless to move. “It’s almost as though he’s never been and this whole journey and time in Yokohama is like a … a
Théâtre Macabre
. I’m married but not, accused of awful things that never happened or were never meant or never intended, innocent but not, I’m hated by Tess when I only wanted to do the best I could for my Malcolm—oh yes, I knew he was vastly eligible and my father not, and me not, I suppose not, but I didn’t do anything to hurt him—he loved me and wanted to marry me and I tried my best, I swear I did, and now that he’s dead I’m trying so hard to be sensible, I’m alone and he’s gone and I have to think of the future. I’m frightened, I was a child when I arrived, now I’m different, it’s all too fast, and the worst is I can’t remember his face, it’s slipping away and there’s nothing … Poor Malcolm.”
In the twilight, on the edge of No Man’s Land and in the lee of a half-completed village house, a shadow moved. Then another. Two men were lurking in hiding, waiting. Somewhere amid the temporary village of lean-tos and shelters and partially built huts, and subdued chattering, a child began to cry, to be quickly hushed.
Where once No Man’s Land had been a series of hills and valleys of garbage and castaway junk, most had been consumed, the rest settled deeper into the earth, and over all, a thick mat of ash and threads of smoke. Only the brick well head was prominent. The first shadow became Phillip Tyrer and he rushed for the well head, keeping low, and ducked down beside it.
Cautiously he examined the surroundings. As far as he could tell he had not been seen. Across the way. Drunk Town was just smoking rubble and twisted remains, a few isolated fires still smoldering, temporary lean-tos, tarpaulin or canvas shelters. A few men about, quarrelsome, most of them hunched against the cold on upturned kegs, drinking looted beer and spirits.
Phillip carefully leaned over the edge of the well and whistled. From below there was an answering whistle. He ducked down again, stifled a nervous yawn. In a moment a hand reached the top bricks. Hiraga’s head appeared. Phillip beckoned him. Silently Hiraga squatted beside him, then Akimoto. Both wore padded jackets and kimonos over loose pants and carried their swords camouflaged with spare clothing. Warily they ducked down as three men on the Drunk Town side began crossing near where the alley had been and went down it, picking their way over the remains of the godown. One was singing a sea chanty. Long after they had disappeared his rolling baritone came up on the wind.