by M. J. Tjia
I stare into his steady, grey eyes and then glance up at Amah who stands on the landing above. Her arms are crossed, and she shakes her head.
“Better stay in tonight, Heloise.”
CHAPTER 10
I think I will never get to sleep. The heavy rain that drums against the bedroom windows cannot mute my heartbeat, which throbs against my ribs. I lie on my back, fling my right arm above my head—how I usually find my way to sleep. But nothing.
How on earth am I going to get rid of those reporters? The last time I peeked out the window, the carriages were still there, biding their time, like a couple of damned debt collectors. What the hell will the neighbours think? The police the other night, and now blasted reporters. I’ve nothing to tell them of McBride. Didn’t even meet him. I slide onto my left side, then the right. Feeling feverish against the banked-up pillows, I fling two across the floor.
And I can’t involve the others. The reporters must not find out about my friends—of who they are—or the Pidgeons and Cosgrove may never attend my soirees again.
And Hatterleigh. He wouldn’t like this sort of publicity at all.
I lie on my back again, stare over at the closed curtains. Who did Amah think she’d seen out there when she gazed at the street? The same person who left McBride on my back doorstep? Lovejoy’s murderer? Why would he be lurking here?
I think again of the pooled blood on the doorstep, its shiny depths. As black as ink. Of drawing the ink into a well, dipping my pen in it… I wrench awake, clutch my throat.
The rest of the night is much the same. I feel like I haven’t slept at all, yet I wake to fragments of dreams, of draping myself over Hatterleigh’s broad back; of arguing with Amah until I feel a scream buzz in my eardrums. Worst—that I’m back in that room in Liverpool, the musty stench of mouse droppings, mould dappling the walls. My fingers are numb with cold, my jaw frozen shut. I weep and weep, heaving from my chest.
When I wake, the blankets have slipped off the bed and goosebumps pimple my arms. The grate is heaped with ash, barren of comforting amber embers.
“You’re awake early,” says Abigail, as she lumbers into the room, carrying the coal scuttle.
I sit up, watch her as she yanks the curtains open. “I don’t think I really slept.” Overnight, the rain has settled down to a light patter against the fogged windows.
After Abigail’s conjured up a brisk, cheerful blaze, she leaves the room, saying, “I’ll bring up your breakfast directly.”
I lean over the side of the bed, pull the pillows back up beside me. There’s a tautness across my forehead, almost a headache, from lack of sleep. I’ll wager there are dark smudges under my eyes, too. My skin will be puffy. I’m no longer feeling anxious, just grumpy. What the hell did that man have to be murdered on my doorstep for? What on earth is happening?
I press my eyes shut. Think of something else. Think of something pleasant.
I remember I’m seeing Hatterleigh later this evening. We’re going to Motts, and although it’s a treat to look forward to, I feel a sliver of irritation that I’m not well rested for it. That I won’t look my best.
Think of something pleasant…
Rolling over, I gaze towards my dressing room. I have a new Worth gown—French silk and the pretty lilac shade of a flowering betony. It has a wonderful array of frills, too, but the bow on the back, the rectangle pleats at the waist, make it look more like a walking dress than something I can wear to a dance.
I sit up, layer the pillows behind my back. So maybe I’ll wear the ivory taffeta gown again, the one with moss green trim. I don’t think Hatterleigh has seen me in it yet.
Amah comes into my room carrying my breakfast tray. She places it on the dressing table. “Heloise, can I dress your hair as soon as possible, please? I need to go out this morning.”
I swing my legs over the side of the bed. “Where do you need to get to in such a hurry?” I take a seat at the dresser and tilt my head to the side, appraising my face in the mirror. I don’t look tired at all. My eyes are a little bright, but that’s not a bad thing.
“I’m going to visit Miriam,” Amah says, hairpins clamped between her front teeth as she pulls the plait from my hair.
“Again? So soon?”
She shrugs, brushing my hair in long, smooth tugs. My head yanks back, but I know it’d be a waste of breath to complain.
I watch my mother’s serious face in the mirror. Of course, her hair is neatly drawn back into a low bun, and she is already dressed in her customary black skirt and white blouse. I’m pleased to see that she has clasped the collar together with the ivory cameo brooch I gave her. But I wonder if I can discern extra shadows under her eyes, if the lines of her face seem a bit more accentuated.
“I sent a missive to Pidgeon last night,” I tell her. “Asking him what he knows of Lovejoy’s death. Or if there’s any more news on McBride. I think the reporters must be right. They must be connected somehow.”
Amah’s dark eyes find mine. “And the little girl?”
I shrug, shake my head. “I don’t know.”
Amah presses my hair neat, pins small flowers into the braid.
“What are you doing today, Heloise?”
I take a sip of my coffee, pull a face when I realise it’s not sugared yet. “If the weather settles down I might go for a ride in the park. Tonight I will be out with Hatterleigh.”
Amah nods, but her eyes are fixed on the curls she’s arranging in my hair.
I remember that I have a gift of perfumed soap for Aunt Miriam and as soon as Amah pats my hair neat one last time I hurry into my dressing room, find the package at the bottom of the shelves that house my hats.
“Give these to my aunt, will you?” I say, placing the fragrant package into Amah’s hands. “I bought them from a sweet little shop on Tottenham Court Road. The woman said they were from France. Made with lavender.”
Gazing at my vast assortment of hats, I remember my young cousin, Rosemary, swooning over my straw bonnet, the one with the cluster of silk rose buds across its curved brim. I take it from its shelf, but hesitate a moment. It’s not as if Rosemary expects me to give it to her. I really love its velvet ribbons and it’s a bit of a wrench to give away, but I really love Rosemary too.
I hand it over to Amah. “And give this to Rosemary. She admired it when we had morning tea last month.”
Amah puts my offerings on top of the chest of drawers. “And what will you wear today?” She rummages through the top drawer, brings out a chemise and bloomers. “You’re staying in, aren’t you?”
I stare at her. “Maybe a ride; seeing Hatterleigh tonight,” I tell her again, wondering where her mind is at. “I really wanted to wear the new gown from Worth, but it’s still drizzling, and I don’t want it to become ruined.”
Amah glances at me and sniffs. “That purple thing? Be good if it was ruined in the rain.”
CHAPTER 11
Amah comes down the stairs, securing a woollen scarf around her neck. She tugs it a little way from her skin because, although necessarily warm, wool always makes her feel itchy.
Abigail peers through the sidelight by the front door. Looking over her shoulder at Amah, she says, “Four coaches now.” She returns her gaze to the window. “And I can see at least five of those vermin reporters.”
Amah reaches the bottom floor and turns towards the back of the house, passing Agneau in the kitchen, who’s chopping chives with fine precision, a steaming cup of chocolate before him. She lowers the netting over her face and opens the back door. Cold air, as sharp as a knife, strafes her skin. She quickly pulls the door shut behind her, before Agneau can complain.
Bundle has done a fine job of cleaning the back steps, although, in the furthest left corner, right at the bottom, almost covered by a tendril of ivy, she can see the slightest smudge, as ruby red as pomegranate juice. But maybe she’s only imagining it. She decides to not look too closely.
Coming out onto the side street, a man runs
towards her, notebook in hand. He blocks her way. “Madam, madam, can you tell me anything of the horror that happened here three nights ago?”
Over his shoulder she sees two more men approach. Across the road and three doors down, a young couple step from their house and stare at her, curious, and she recognises them from the other night—the two who had gazed so lovingly at each other, strolling arm in arm.
“Madam, tell us what happened,” the reporter says, his voice more urgent as the others almost catch him up.
Amah lifts her veil, stares at him blankly. Shrugs. “Sir?”
The reporter gapes at her for a moment, his eyes roaming over her facial features. He jots something in his notebook, turning away from her.
Amah’s mouth twists to the side as she pulls the veil back down.
She makes her way to Limehouse, to her Uncle Chee’s. She gives Miriam the presents from Heloise, and asks after Jakub.
Miriam barely reacts to the presents and instead, looks worried. “We haven’t seen him. He might be at that Strangers’ Home. Down West India Road. Near St Andrews.”
Amah’s not sure how far it is, so she summons a cab, which drops her in front of a handsome two-storey building with at least twenty arched windows across its façade. She climbs the shallow steps to the portico and pushes the heavy swing door open.
The commotion in the expansive hall reminds her of the market bazaar in Makassar after a large ship had come in. Men cluster around neat rows of benches and tables, which are spread across the vast floor space. Lascars, and maybe a number of Cingalese, in soft tunics with bandanas swathed around their heads, are seated at the back of the room, as close to the fire as possible. More are slumped against the wall, arms crossed, waiting. Seated at the tables closest to the entrance are three groups of Chinese men, dressed in robes that hang to their shins. They appear to be arguing, but on closer inspection, Amah sees that the occupants of one table are in the middle of a noisy game of cards, while the men gathered at the remaining two tables seem to be trading clothing, nuts and pipes.
Glancing around for an office of some sort, at which she can enquire after Jakub, she’s surprised to see three Indian women standing by an open doorway that leads into another hall that smells of roasting meat and boiled cabbage. Their saris—spangled blue, carnation pink, the off-white of an elephant tusk—wink from beneath their heavy overcoats. The woman in blue has a white baby cradled in her arms, while the woman in the pink sari wears sandals, her toes bare to the cold weather.
A sudden icy draught brings forth two men through the swing doors. They’re taller than anybody Amah has ever seen, with skin as dark as mulberries. They’re dressed in drab suits, battered bowler hats on their heads. They walk straight through the hall, disappear into a room to the right.
“Zanzibaris,” says a voice at her elbow. “A ship just came in from Africa. Can I help you at all?”
A man, only as tall as she is, smiles at her. His hair is like ash, streaks of white and steel grey, and his skin is so pale she can see the spidery red veins that travel across his cheeks.
“What is this place?” she asks.
“Ah. This is the Strangers’ Home. We look after foreign seamen, mostly, who need somewhere to stay between voyages. Some of these men might be looking for more work, but unfortunately some are itinerant.”
“And the women?” Amah nods towards the Indian women.
“Nannies, come to hear news of relatives,” he says. “The one in the pink sari, she seeks a passage home. Are you after the same thing? Because there is also an excellent agency I can point you to that looks after women from… China?”
“Makassar.”
“Ah. Let me introduce myself. Reverend John Cadogan. I was previously a missionary in China. I can speak a little of the language, but no Malay, alas.”
“Mrs Chan,” Amah responds. “I’m looking for my nephew. I was told I might find him here. Jakub Chan?”
“I’ll have to look in the ledger, I’m afraid. We can house up to two hundred people here, you know. Sometimes more. It’s very difficult to keep track.” He smiles apologetically at her, as he guides her past the three Indian women. “If you’ll just wait for me in the reading room, please. I believe luncheon is to be served soon in the dining hall, and it’s bedlam around here then.”
He leaves Amah in a plain room that smells of dust and something like dried leaves. Four sofas, the leather worn and creased, are arranged near the bookcases that line the walls. Only one of the bookcases—the one nearest the window that faces the road—has an assortment of reading material. The bottom shelves are heaped with old periodicals, and the three top shelves are lined with leather-bound books of different shades, each one with a gold cross engraved upon its spine. Amah takes down one with a moss-green cover, blows dust from the top, flips it open. She thinks it might be Chinese script she’s looking at and, slipping it back onto the shelf, she pulls down another, this one with a red cover. The script is unfamiliar, the words long. She pushes the book back between the others just as Cadogan returns.
“Please, take a seat, Mrs Chan.” He’s holding a thick ledger, which he balances on his knees as he sits down.
Amah perches on the sofa’s edge a couple of feet away from him.
Placing a pair of spectacles onto his nose, he opens the ledger. “When do you think he might have arrived?”
Amah thinks back to Miriam’s words. “Within the last two weeks, perhaps?”
“That’s a lot of names to go through,” he says, flipping back through four pages of the large book. His finger presses its way down the names written in the three columns arranged on each page.
A man dressed in a tidy naval uniform, turban upon his head, enters the reading room, picks up a newspaper from the pile on the table in the middle of the room. He lights a pipe, and settles into a chair to read.
“Ah, I think we have him here.” Cadogan shifts the ledger around so Amah can see. “There’s his name.” His voice drags at the end, as if he reads something troubling.
Next to Chan, Jakub. Dormitory 34b is an asterisk and the words: 3 nights/departed with one Sin Hok.
“Do you know this Sin Hok?” Amah asks, pointing to the name.
Cadogan’s brow lifts in surprise. “You read?”
Amah gives a short nod and repeats her question.
Cadogan frowns. “Actually, I do. To tell you the truth, he’s quite an unsavoury character, which is why Arnold, my associate here, has made a note of it.”
“Who is he?”
“A Chinese fellow. Recruits for a group who call themselves The Three Lotus. Came from Sarawak, I believe.”
“The Three Lotus?” Amah has never heard of them. “What do they do?”
Cadogan takes off his glasses, polishes them with a handkerchief. “They originated as three kungsi, I believe. The Golden Lotus, The Iron Lotus and The Fragrant Lotus. Do you know about kungsis?”
Amah shakes her head, although it sounds familiar. The word flickers like a warning at the back of her brain, like a shaft of lightning in the distance.
“Originally, they were just a collection of Chinese groups—Hakka—who wanted to strengthen their trading powers against the Hokkien Chinese in areas such as Sarawak and Montrado, but they’ve since branched out. One such collection has settled here. The Three Lotus. They’ve caused a bit of strife around here lately. The gang leaves their mark on buildings with a sign that looks like a triangle.”
“What sort of strife?”
He places his glasses back on his nose, glancing to the side at Amah. “Well, let us just say, they are not a good group for your nephew to become involved with. They’ve been associated with both extortion and violence. I believe this Sin Hok is what they refer to as a straw sandal. He recruits for them.”
Amah’s chest is tight. Her breaths feel constricted. Why would Jakub want to join The Three Lotus when he could be at home with Miriam and the children?
“Where can I find this Sin Hok?”
Cadogan looks alarmed. “Madam, you cannot track down these men. It would be too dangerous.”
“Of course I must,” says Amah, her voice firm. Annoyed, even. “If I do not, who will?”
Cadogan spreads his fingers. “I do not know where they are situated, in any case.”
“What of this Arnold? He might know?”
Another man in naval uniform enters the room, carrying a plate of food, and seats himself next to his compatriot.
“Arnold is not here today,” says Cadogan. “He might be in this evening. I will ask him if he knows where to find this Sin Hok. But, madam, if I do provide you with his whereabouts, you must promise me that you will not search for him alone. Surely, there must be some gentleman you can take with you or you can send in your stead?”
Amah stares at Cadogan for a moment, at his earnest expression, at the cross pinned to his collar. She doesn’t worship his god, so feels no compunction about lying to him. “Of course I will.”
It was on that terrible day in Sarawak that Amah first learnt more of this god the British were so devoted to. Mrs Preston was to meet her husband in Kuching, and she took Amah and her Uncle Chee along with her. They travelled down the Sarawak River, until a group of native children waved them in from the banks. Several men on horseback cantered down the hill behind the children. One was Mr Preston. He was an ugly man, and his face was bad-tempered, like a sulky child’s. As he ushered Mrs Preston onto the muddy banks, his voice was testy. Amah still can’t understand how a nice lady like Mrs Preston was saddled with such a man. It was also the first time Amah saw McBride and Pidgeon. McBride, skin shiny and orange even from a distance, calling out to them, organising the local people to help them alight; Pidgeon, his long face, skin peeling from too much sun.
Amah only recognised a few English words back then, as the men greeted Mrs Preston and bowed over her hand. They took them to the village, with its newly constructed homes, neat and white.