The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure

by Adam Williams

  ‘Did you?’ said Tom. ‘You saw the race? Wasn’t that fine? Manners and I are going to try a gallop on the way back, aren’t we? If there’s enough light, that is. HF, old girl, isn’t this terrific? You know, I was a bit worried before—never told you, of course—about us going off to Shishan all alone, where there’s no congenial company except your father and the old doctor. But having Manners with us is just the thing.’

  She was spared the need to respond because Sir Claude MacDonald appeared beside them. ‘Manners,’ he acknowledged.

  ‘Sir Claude. Grand picnic,’ Manners replied.

  ‘That’s what we call these little affairs. It’s all part of the diplomatic round. I’m very glad the three of you have met. So, you’re heading off to Shishan together?’

  ‘It appears so. It couldn’t be a more fortunate coincidence, could it?’

  ‘Aye. Well. These days I’m happier when there’s a big group travelling together. As you know, I don’t hold with this Boxer nonsense but there have been incidences of banditry and it’s wise to take precautions. Trust you’ll go well armed. Mind you, in Shishan you have an excellent man in Airton. Very sound, and he knows the Mandarin well. You should be safe enough there.’

  ‘I look forward to meeting him, Sir Claude.’

  ‘He’s a wise head, young Henry. Listen to him, is my advice. Listen to him.’ Sir Claude looked intently at Manners as if to press the point. Manners smiled and dropped his eyes. Sir Claude turned towards Tom and Helen Frances. ‘I’ve not met your father, Miss Delamere, but Dawson tells me he is doing well by his company in those parts. Incidentally, I understand that congratulations are in order. The two of you are engaged, are you not?’

  ‘Well, not officially yet, sir. More an understanding.’

  ‘You have still to get the father’s permission. I quite understand. Well, I’m sure he’ll agree. You’re a lucky fellow. You’re going up there to be Mr Delamere’s assistant, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Looking forward to it.’

  ‘Good. Good. Well, I won’t detain you. You have a long ride back. Thank you all for coming. Look after yourselves in Shishan. And, Manners, mind the advice I’ve given you.’

  ‘I say,’ said Tom, as they made their way towards the horses and carriages, ‘that was a bit like being put in front of the old headmaster again.’

  ‘Silly old fool,’ muttered Manners. ‘Head in the clouds. Doesn’t know what’s going on.’

  ‘What was this advice he was giving you? He seemed pretty strong about it.’

  ‘Advice? Just the old Polonius. “Neither a borrower nor a lender be.” Feels he owes it to my pater to keep me on the straight and narrow. Some nerve, actually.’

  ‘Are you intent on becoming the black sheep of your family then, Mr Manners?’ asked Helen Frances.

  ‘HF, golly, you can’t say things like that!’ Tom looked anxiously at his new friend, but Manners laughed.

  ‘I already am the black sheep of my family, Miss Delamere,’ he said, swinging into his saddle. ‘By the way, I saw you too this morning. The vision of you listening on the side quite enlivened Morrison’s dreary homily. Cabot, Sir Claude was quite right. You’re a lucky man. I’ll see you on the ride.’

  Helen Frances watched Manners manoeuvre his horse skilfully through the carriage park to join B. L. Simpson and several other riders who had already mounted. She and Tom walked among the shining collection of barouches, buggies, landaus and coaches, each attended by uniformed grooms in conical hats, looking for the Dawsons’ carriage.

  ‘Do you like Henry Manners, Tom?’ she asked quietly, putting her hand into his.

  ‘Why, yes, he’s a terrific fellow. Great sportsman. Why do you ask?’

  ‘He seems so different from you.’

  ‘More worldly, you mean?’ grinned Tom. ‘Well, he has bashed about a bit. Done lots of interesting things.’

  ‘That’s partly what I mean,’ said Helen Frances. ‘He seems to have a bit of a reputation.’

  ‘Jolly well deserved, I would think. He’s been a soldier, an engineer. Lived in India, the East Indies, Japan. Probably got some good stories to tell us round the campfire on the way to Shishan. You don’t mind him coming with us, do you? I’m sure he won’t get in the way.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind, Tom, if it makes you happy.’ She gave him a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. ‘You’re a very kind man, you know that, Tom?’

  ‘Steady on, girl, someone might see,’ said Tom, but his eyes were gleaming with happiness and pride as, giggling, she kissed him again. She rested her head on his breast, and the two stood modestly embraced together, between a brougham and a landau, under the uninterested gaze of a Chinese groom. When they heard voices behind them, they quickly broke apart and turned with innocent smiles to greet Mr and Mrs Dawson, who had come to take Helen Frances into their carriage for the journey back to Peking.

  * * *

  ‘Who’s the filly?’ asked Simpson, as Manners rode up beside him.

  ‘Helen Frances Delamere,’ drawled Manners. ‘It seems she’s to be my travelling companion to Shishan.’

  ‘Well, there’s a piece of luck for you. Nothing like a bouncy redhead to calm the troubled brow.’

  ‘She might be a bit of a challenge. Apparently she’s engaged.’

  ‘What, to Cricketing Tom over there? Shouldn’t be any trouble to you, old man.’

  ‘Certainly makes the prospect of Shishan more interesting. Now, what’s the wager?’

  ‘Twenty guineas I reach the city walls before you do. Or, tell you what, double the stake and I get an hour with that new Mongolian bint you’ve been pleasuring at Mother Zhou’s.’

  ‘She wouldn’t even look at you. But all right, you’re on. Make it fifty guineas. You’ll owe me before sundown.’

  ‘Ride hard, my boy, ride hard.’ Simpson laughed harshly.

  ‘I always ride hard,’ said Manners, and whipped his horse to a cantering start.

  * * *

  Sir Claude stood at his favourite spot overlooking the plain, a cheroot between his lips, his hands clasped behind his back. In the distance he could make out puffs of dust where his guests were straggling back to the city. He could just identify the towers and the walls in the haze on the horizon. The sun was sinking behind the trees. It had been a tiring but a satisfying day. He had spent half an hour talking to the Russian minister and, as he had expected, the initial bluster had given way to smooth platitudes about harmony between their two empires and a common purpose to civilise Asia. He was confident that a cable would be despatched from the Russian Legation this evening, and that he would soon be hearing something confirmatory from Kashgar. He had also had a useful conversation with the Japanese minister and was pleased that he seemed to share the same view of the Chinese situation. One never knew with the Japanese, but he was glad on this occasion to have an ally in what promised to be another confrontation with Monsieur Pichon during the Ministers’ Council on Tuesday. What was Pichon thinking about? Arming the Legations? How provocative could one get!

  Behind him the servants were clearing the tables, the gardeners were sweeping up cigar ends from the lawn. His wife had drawn a bath and was resting after the party. He looked forward to a quiet evening reading a volume of Trollope, with a glass or two of good malt.

  He heard a cough and was surprised to see Pritchett standing uncomfortably behind him.

  ‘Pritchett, man, what are you doing here? Everyone’s long gone home.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I rode off together with them, but then I decided that this couldn’t wait until Monday, so I—I came back again.’

  Sir Claude had a sincere admiration for Pritchett’s professional qualities. He fulfilled his ostensible function as interpreter to perfection. He was a fine Orientalist. He was also more than competent in his other role as intelligence gatherer for the Legation. But the man was maddeningly diffident. ‘You could have taken me aside at the picnic.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

/>   ‘Well, go on, what is it?’

  ‘We’ve received another letter, sir.’

  ‘Boxers again?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Oh, Pritchett. Pritchett. You and your Boxers. What is it this time?’

  ‘It’s from our agent in Fuxin, sir. That’s in Manchuria, west of Mukden. It’s on the edges of Chinese cultivation, close by the Mongolian regions. There’s a tomb there.’

  ‘I know where Fuxin is. Go on.’

  ‘Well, sir, our agent writes that there was a Boxer disturbance there, apparently after the arrival of a mendicant priest. It’s not the first time we’ve heard of this priest, sir—’

  ‘Or others like him. There are thousands of mountebanks in China, all rabble-rousing in one way or another.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Whether or not it’s the same priest may not be important. What distinguishes this incident was that there was a death, a murder, sir.’

  ‘A murder? Of a missionary? Of a white man?’

  ‘No, sir. There were missionaries there, Dr and Mrs Henderson, of the Scottish Missionary Society. They were terrorised, surrounded in their house by a mob, but not hurt in any way. They were very frightened, of course. They’ve left Fuxin, I gather, and are on their way back to Peking now.’

  ‘That could start a panic. We’d better get to them before they start talking to the papers. But you said somebody was murdered?’

  ‘Yes, sir. A Chinese Christian. A well-known merchant who had trading dealings with several of our companies. He was … hacked to death, sir.’

  ‘By the Boxers?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You have that on good account? He was murdered by the Boxers because he was a Christian and consorted with foreigners?’

  ‘It doesn’t say, sir.’

  ‘But you presume it? Your agent presumes it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What’s the situation there now? In Fuxin?’

  ‘The local authorities sent in soldiers, and dispersed the riot. Several ringleaders were arrested, including the murderers of the merchant. The mendicant priest disappeared. Things seem to be back to normal now. There’s going to be a trial at the local yamen and probably some executions.’

  ‘Well, in that case it seems to be an internal Chinese affair.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

  ‘A law-and-order issue, man. Townsfolk riot, whatever the reason, and the authorities reassert control. How do you know this merchant was not a corrupt, unpopular person in his town and a natural object of mob violence, maybe the cause of it?’

  ‘He was a Christian.’

  ‘That’s no guarantee of anything. I’ve known some pretty corrupt Christians in my time. This merchant might have been storing grain. Anything. No, there’s nothing to be read into this. It’s a common riot. Happens all the time.’

  ‘My agent talks of Boxers. And there was a killing. The first, sir.’

  ‘Everybody talks of Boxers nowadays. No, Pritchett, it seems to me that we would be irresponsible if we overreacted to this. Forget it, man. Have your weekend. What’s left of it. We’ll talk about this again on Monday.’

  ‘Sir, could we not investigate this incident further? It may be important.’

  ‘Oh, Pritchett, you have Boxers on the brain. What are you suggesting?’

  ‘Well, sir, Manners is passing in that direction on his way to Shishan. It’s not too far out of the way, sir. Perhaps we could ask him for an independent report.’

  ‘I don’t share your trust in young Manners. He’s much too much in bed with the Japanese for my liking, and anything else with two legs for that matter. He’s disreputable, Pritchett. I’ve helped him because his father asked me to, and you seemed to think it was a good idea, but I really have my reservations. I don’t approve either of this extraordinary gunrunning scheme that you and London have concocted behind my back. It’ll explode in your faces, you mark my words.’

  ‘But to counter Russian influence in Manchuria…?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’ve read your report. I still don’t like it, and when I think that you will be relying on young Manners of all people…’

  ‘We thought his Japanese connections might be particularly useful, sir.’

  ‘Have it your own way, Pritchett, have it your own way. As for this incident in Fuxin, get him to send a report. But confidentially. The official line remains that this was a minor riot.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘And make sure I see the Hendersons as soon as they arrive in Peking.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And no more scaremongering about Boxers.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘All right, Pritchett, off you go. You have a long ride back. And, Pritchett, thank you. You’re a good man.’

  Sir Claude sighed. Although there were still pools of pale sunlight on the plain, dusk was settling in the hills. The first lamps had been lit in the house, and the yellow glow behind the latticed windows was warm and inviting. His cheroot had gone out. He fumbled in his pocket for matches but found that his box was empty. A mosquito was whining close to his ear. ‘Damn,’ he mouthed silently, and turned to go in.

  * * *

  The engine was belching white smoke against the pale blue sky as Tom and Helen Frances waited by their mound of trunks and parcels on the makeshift wooden platform. Henry Manners had travelled ahead of them and should by now have organised the horses, mules and escort to take them on to Shishan, but there was no sign of him. For now they seemed to be stuck in the middle of nowhere. There was a shabby clay-walled village at the bottom of a gully a hundred yards off. A thin spiral of smoke rising from a flat roof showed Helen Frances that it was inhabited, but the only other sign of life she could detect was a dog worrying at a sheep bone on the bare ground at her feet. Beyond the cooling engine, the railway bed had already been dug and the line of black-brown earth curved to the horizon as far as they could see. Neither the steel tracks nor the sleepers had been laid, however, so the railway stopped here. While Tom was pacing the platform impatiently, worried by Manners’s nonappearance, Helen Frances only felt excitement. A strong wind was blowing, the scent of the grassland was fragrant in her nostrils, and she enjoyed a delightful sense of abandonment on this empty plain.

  She had also enjoyed the three-day rail journey from Peking. The carriage, with its sitting room and private sleeping compartments, its kitchen and its dining room, complete with a dozen servants and cooks and attendants waiting on them, had been luxurious beyond imagination. Manners had arranged the private car for them through his position in the railway company. It had been hitched on to the end of the regular train to Tientsin. After Tientsin they had been given their own locomotive to take them to the end of the line. Helen Frances had never experienced such royal treatment in her life. She and Tom had played endless games of ludo and halma in the day room, and dined off silver plate like princes in the evening. The landscape had been largely flat and uninteresting, but there had been considerable excitement on the second day when they had slowly shunted by the Great Wall, the remains of its battlements and crenellations stretching up in inconceivable angles along the jagged mountain ranges. They had then descended to the coastline, the railway track curving round the Gulf of Chih-li. The blue sea and the small pines on the headlands had made beautiful pictures framed by the curtains of their windows as they passed.

  Tom had been charming and attentive, keeping her amused with a stream of jokes and stories. This was actually the first time that she had ever really been alone with him, but he had been very sweet and proper, seeing her to the door of her sleeping compartment each evening, sealing the day with an embrace and a decorous kiss. He had not attempted anything more, which was no surprise. He took his responsibilities and her honour as seriously as life itself. She had caught herself wondering what it would have been like to travel alone in this luxury with Henry Manners. Would he have been quite such a gentleman? A young lady all alone and defence
less. The panther and its prey. She wondered why he had not chosen to travel with them on this first stage of their journey. She remembered one of the gossips in Peking speaking disapprovingly of his friends, the Customs boys, and what she called their harems of scarlet women. She knew that Manners had also taken a private company carriage. She had the wicked thought that he might not have been alone, after all. Had he spirited aboard an exotic Chinese courtesan in a blue silk gown, jade pins in her lustrous hair, with long red-painted fingernails and tiny feet? She could picture a doll-like creature sitting on Manners’s knee while he contemplated her sardonically, his shirt unbuttoned, a cigar in his lips, a balloon of brandy swilling in his hand. She had blushed at her own lurid imagination, looking at Tom’s open, cheerful face absorbed in an adventure in Blackwood’s magazine, and shaken her head.

  She knew that she was in love with Tom. She had been ever since that evening on the Indian Ocean, after the fancy-dress ball, when they had stood together on the top deck under the stars, the faint music of the orchestra mingling with the wash of the waves, the two of them enveloped by the blackness of the night and the phosphorescent sea. They had been told to dress as Shakespearian characters, and Helen Frances had chosen Othello and Desdemona. She had suggested daringly, and Tom had agreed, that they reverse the roles, so she had appeared in tights, doublet and shoeblack as a petite, exquisite Othello, while big Tom, draped in a stuffed dress made out of a curtain, with the end of a cleaning mop on his head as his flowing locks, and bright red lipstick daubed crookedly on his face like a French clown, had stolen the day as an outrageous parody of fair Desdemona. Naturally they had won the first prize, and somehow Tom had won her heart in the process. She had not been surprised when he had proposed, clumsily, almost apologetically, that night on the deck, and looking into his anxious eyes in the hideously painted clown’s face, she had been overcome with tenderness, and accepted. He had kissed her and in doing so smeared his face with shoe black, and they had sat on the deck and laughed and laughed, holding tightly to each other’s hands.