“What do you think?” he asked as they walked into the house.
She shrugged. “I’m glad that it turns out I’m not being hysterical. I’ve never thought of myself as prone to hysteria.”
“You’re not,” he said firmly.
Edna kicked off her shoes and curled into one of the armchairs in the drawing room. Rowland glanced out of the window at Kiangse Road before he sat down. “Middleton’s here, and now—thanks to Mickey—he knows where we’re staying.”
“Yes.” Edna pulled off her gloves distractedly. “Mickey wasn’t to know.”
“As soon as Clyde and Milt get back to stay with you, I’m going to go have a word with Middleton. I promise you he won’t come near you again.”
Edna was quiet. Simmering. Suddenly she pulled her gloves back on. “There’s no need to wait.”
“I’m not leaving you here alone.”
“No, you’re not. I’m coming with you.”
“What? No.”
Her eyes flashed angrily. “Rowly, I am not in any way, shape, or form afraid of Bertram Middleton. I will not be afraid of Bertram Middleton. We’ll simply call in at the North China Daily News now and tell him that he is not welcome on our doorstep. That this grand gesture of his is futile, and that he should go home and finish writing his stupid boring novel!”
“Ed.”
She took his hand. “I know you want to protect me. You and Clyde and Milt. But I can protect myself. And I think Bertie needs to know that I’m making this decision, not you.”
Rowland shook his head. “I don’t really care what Middleton needs.”
“I can’t believe he followed me to China—how dare he!” Her face was hard now, her words vehement. “I want him to know that I hate him, Rowly, and that it’s nothing to do with you.” She slipped her shoes back on. “Step lively, we’re going to have to walk to the Bund.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
COURTSHIP
…Although we live in a “modern” age, and courtship is short and swift, and usually ends with an indifferent “Will you marry me?”—an adherence to the beauties of the “old-fashioned” mode of courtship would, I think, make life far more interesting and enjoyable.
Why not make your courtship delightful and happy by being tactful and original, and thereby create impressions which will linger long?
The theme of this article comes from the “Centenary, Life, and Times of Daniel O’Connell,” published in 1875. This work says in part:
“Certain observations of O’Connell on the manner in which courtship should be carried on serve at once to illustrate the profound astuteness of his mental constitution, and the mode in which he doubtless conducted his own courtship. ‘It is injudicious on the part of a lover,’ he said, ‘to offer marriage at an early period of his courtship. By this precipitation he loses the advantage which female curiosity must otherwise afford him, and, in sapping his way to her heart, discards a powerful auxiliary. He may be tender and assiduous, but should not declare himself until the lady’s curiosity is awakened and piqued as to his intentions. In this way he awakes in her heart a certain interest concerning him which he may forfeit the moment he proposes.”…
—Sydney Morning Herald, 1 November 1934
* * *
Edna spoke to the receptionist on the ground floor of the North China Daily News building. She gave her name and requested a meeting with Mr. Middleton.
The young woman made a terse phone call via the switchboard, and then directed Edna and Rowland to the elevator.
“First floor, desk at the back,” she said, her attention already elsewhere.
When the elevator doors opened, Rowland and Edna emerged into what looked like a disordered typing pool, rows of desks clouded in a smog of cigarette smoke from the midst of which typewriters hammered a torrential rhythm. They passed an empty desk—the brass name block identified it as Emily Hahn’s—and made their way to the desk in the final row.
Bertram Middleton’s smile faded as he saw that Edna was not alone.
He opened his arms to embrace her, dropping them only when she stopped out of reach. “I say, did you get my flowers?”
“I did.” Edna kept her voice low. “I came to tell you not to leave any more.”
“I know I should have stayed to give them to you myself but—”
“No, you shouldn’t have come at all.”
Middleton’s voice became cold. “I sold everything I had, threw in my job to come here, to be with you.”
“And I told you I didn’t want to see you again! Neither here, nor in Sydney. Stay away, Bertie.”
“You don’t mean that!” Middleton’s voice rose. “It’s pre-wedding jitters, that’s all. Every bride gets cold feet.”
Heads began to turn. The tap of typewriters stopped.
“We’re not getting married, Bertie.”
“I won’t take no for an answer, sweetheart.”
Rowland had had enough. “Yes, you will.”
“You can’t scare me off, Sinclair!”
“The lady said no, Middleton. Come near her again, and you shall not find me so amiable…in fact I’ll—”
“Rowly!” Edna placed her hand on his arm. “Let’s go.”
Middleton accused Rowland of defaming him, of turning Edna against him through slander and lies, and he threatened legal redress. Rowland bit back any response and followed as Edna walked away.
Perhaps such altercations were not uncommon at the North China Daily News, for the other journalists returned to their desks and their cigarettes without a word, and the typewriters resumed tapping once again. Edna took Rowland’s hand as they left.
“I nearly lost my rag, Ed,” he admitted.
She smiled. “There’s nothing to be gained by threatening to kill him, Rowly.”
“I didn’t.”
“You were about to.”
“I… Yes, I probably was.”
* * *
Clyde and Milton were back at the Kiangse Road house when Edna and Rowland returned. They had discovered that Bertram Middleton was no longer at the Sydney Morning Herald, but that discovery had of course been superseded by Mickey Hahn’s revelations that morning. Milton was somewhat put out that they had confronted the journalist without him, and disappointed that Rowland had not taken the opportunity to “knock his block off once and for all.”
It was Edna who demanded they change the subject. “I have no intention of ever thinking about Bertram Middleton again. We need to focus on finding out who killed Alexandra and how we’re going to find Sergei.”
“Are we sure he’s not dead?” Clyde asked.
Rowland told them what they’d learned from Mickey Hahn; that Romanov might well have died, but not in the fire.
“So how are we going to find him?”
“Would Mr. Carmel be able to help, Rowly?” Edna asked. “Lawyers have to locate lost heirs, witnesses to crimes, and such—he might at least know where to start.”
Rowland nodded. “You’re right. Carmel might be able to help.”
“We probably should let him know about recent developments anyway,” Clyde added.
Harjeet came in with a plate of the syrupy cake she’d been baking that morning, insisting they try it. Clyde, Edna, and Milton complied enthusiastically, while Rowland telephoned Carmel and Smith.
“I was under the impression that the poor chap had perished in a fire,” Carmel said when Rowland asked him to do what he could to find Sergei Romanov.
“No. It seems he either got out or he was not there when the fire started.”
“I see. Yes, of course. I’ll do whatever I can.” A pause. “Now suppose you tell me about what happened at the Paramount. I understand there was a disagreement.”
“Who—”
“This is Shanghai, my dear boy. Word gets abou
t quite quickly.”
Rowland gave the solicitor his account of what had transpired during the meeting with the Japanese.
A sigh. “I’ve always advised against informal meetings. It’s so easy for misunderstandings to occur when people are socialising as well as conducting business.”
“There was no misunderstanding,” Rowland said. “There were too many Nazis in the company of the gentlemen from Japan for my comfort.”
“There is no trade embargo against Germany, Rowland.”
“Even so.” Rowland was tempted to confess that he’d never been authorised to enter into a contract with the Japanese. But there was no point now.
“On reflection, Rowland, could you have perhaps been a little rash? Wilfred might not agree—”
“Wilfred won’t countermand my decision.” Rowland spoke with more confidence than he felt.
Carmel tried to reason with him. “The proposed embargo is to do with the Japanese invasion of Manchuria. It has absolutely nothing to do with the Germans. I really think—”
“It’s done now.”
“I’m sure if you were to—”
“I won’t.”
Carmel exhaled. “Very well. But will you allow me to intercede with the Japanese to see what I can do to minimise any offence that might have been taken.”
“Please do,” Rowland replied wearily. “To be honest, Mr. Carmel, I am much more interested in finding Sergei Romanov than whether I hurt the feelings of some wool buyers.”
As a precaution, Rowland told the lawyer about Bertram Middleton and his flowers, as well as what had transpired that morning at the North China Daily News. “I don’t want him coming near Miss Higgins again.”
“Well, there may be prudent means of achieving that, Rowland,” Carmel replied. “That’s why you employ me. I shall be ready to fend off any allegations from that quarter.”
“I’m not particularly concerned about what he may allege, Mr. Carmel. Can you do anything to keep him away from Ed?”
“Can you prove he sent the flowers?”
“No.”
The lawyer sighed. “I’ll see what I can do, but we haven’t got any basis for a formal complaint.”
There was someone banging on the red door when Rowland hung up.
“Sinclair. Sinclair! Open up!” Andrew Petty’s voice.
Rowland opened the door. Petty was still in his dinner suit, though it was noticeably dishevelled now. He reeked of whisky and sweat. “I demand an explanation!”
Rowland grimaced. “Come in, Andrew.”
“Oh…hello, Mr. Petty,” Edna said as Rowland brought the broker in.
“I’ve come to talk to—nay, to plead with you, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Perhaps you should have some coffee first.”
“Do you know how many months I’ve been working on this deal with the Japanese!” Petty shouted.
Rowland said nothing. His friends retreated discreetly to the kitchen.
“Wilfred would have recognised the benefits and accepted the offer!”
“Look, Andrew,” Rowland said. “You seem…tired. Perhaps we should have this conversation later.”
Petty’s voice became conciliatory. “Rowland, you’re not the first young man to say something impulsively under pressure. Mr. Yiragowa will understand. He has a son your age; he knows what young men can do in the heat of the moment.”
Rowland shook his head. He was aware that he could not retreat from “no” to the neutral position his brother had directed him to maintain. God, he wished he could speak with Wilfred, and restore the manoeuvring and intrigues of trade to his keeping. “I’m sorry if you had other expectations, Andrew. But changing my mind is out of the question.”
Petty exploded into a lament about betrayal and prejudice and economics. He called Rowland a few names and wept. Rowland assumed, hoped, the man had been drinking and so allowed him to rant without reaction. In the end, he and Clyde helped Andrew Petty into the Buick and asked Singh to deliver him home. There were other telephone calls that morning, from the members of the Japan-Australia Society and a few other businessmen that Rowland had not met, all talking about the importance of trade between Japan and Australia and the potential ramifications of Rowland’s “misstep.”
Victor Sassoon also telephoned. It seemed that Chief Inspector Randolph had questioned Mickey Hahn that morning and the tycoon was displeased.
Consequently when someone knocked on the red door again, Rowland was wary. It was Wing, for the first time since Rowland had known him, not attired in Western style, but in traditional Chinese robes. He seemed in high spirits.
“Good morning, sir. How was”—he trailed off as he noticed the bruises and abrasions on Rowland’s face—”the ball.”
“Decidedly awkward.”
“Is there anything I can do, sir?”
“Actually, yes. We’ll be leaving in the next day or so.”
Wing looked puzzled, and then his face brightened. “You are no longer a suspect in the murder of Miss Romanova?”
“I’m afraid I am,” Rowland replied. “I don’t propose to leave Shanghai. Just to take another house.”
Edna looked sharply at him. “This isn’t because of Bertie, is it? I told you, I’m—”
“Not at all,” Rowland replied. “I’m afraid Victor Sassoon is withdrawing his hospitality.”
Milton pulled a face. “Old Victor’s rather protective of Mickey Hahn, all things considered.”
“He wouldn’t be the first bloke enslaved by a woman who won’t have him,” Clyde said, shrugging.
“What has this got to do with Mickey?” Edna asked.
Milton told them about the discovery that Mickey had occupied the Chinese Suite at the Cathay before them, and Sassoon’s insistence that they keep the information to themselves.
“You don’t believe Mickey killed Alexandra?”
“Why not?” Milton shrugged. “She was there, and she probably has access to Sassoon’s master key…”
“But why would she?”
“Maybe there’s more to her relationship with Sassoon than they’re letting on. She could have been jealous… Sassoon’s eye may have wandered in Alexandra’s direction…or maybe she and Sassoon were in it togeth—”
“It’s possible that Alexandra was murdered by someone who mistook her for Mickey.” Rowland interrupted Milton’s run of speculation. “In which case, Mickey could still be in danger, which is why we mentioned it to Randolph.”
“In direct contravention of Lord Victor’s orders,” Milton growled.
“I’ve asked Mr. Carmel to find us another house,” Rowland said. “Or a hotel that isn’t owned by Victor Sassoon.”
* * *
It took Gilbert Carmel only hours to find the mansion on the Avenue Joffre in a district known as Little Russia, though technically it was in the French Concession. They were by the next day able to move in. The grand colonial building had been built by a Parsi merchant who’d obviously done well with the China dream. Also on the block were three smaller houses, designed for each of the merchant’s sons, which were connected to the main house by covered walkways. The grounds had clearly once been a showpiece of sweeping lawns and flower beds—indeed the bones were still there—but the lack of a full-time gardener was apparent. The estate was, of course, far too large for the immediate needs of the Australians, but it had been available on short notice.
“What happened to the family that lived here?” Edna asked the caretaker who let them in.
“The family has moved to Hong Kong, Madam,” he said. “They intend to return some day.”
Milton inspected the massive sitting room with its parquetry floors. It was furnished, but sparsely so for its size. “We could have a game of cricket in here, Rowly.”
Rowland laughed. They had often used the ballroom at W
oodlands House for that purpose.
“There are dozens of cricket clubs in Shanghai, if you would like to attend a match, Mr. Isaacs,” Wing suggested helpfully.
“Wouldn’t be a challenge without chandeliers to avoid.” Milton bowled an imaginary ball.
Harjeet was already stocking the kitchen pantry, which she declared was much better appointed than the one on Kiangse Road. There were enough bedrooms to make sharing unnecessary, and the entire property was surrounded by a high iron fence. The house also came with three servants: an old woman and her two daughters, who had kept house and worked as amahs for the previous owners, and who occupied the adjoining servants’ quarters.
Discovering who killed Alexandra Romanova was more urgent now. It seemed that doing so was the only way to convince Randolph to relinquish Rowland as prime suspect, the only way he could leave Shanghai as anything but a fugitive. And regardless, Rowland still wanted justice for the taxi girl. Finding Sergei Romanov was, Rowland believed, the first step to any hope of that.
“We’re in Little Russia,” Edna suggested. “Perhaps we should try asking at the restaurants and businesses here. Surely he would go to his own community for help.”
“Maybe.” Rowland frowned. “Except that it was members of the Russian community that were defrauded by Alexandra.”
“What about this chap that she was seen with?” Milton said. “The one the band at the Cathay bashed our friend Wing for asking about. Perhaps we should try and track him down… Surely the band will be back by now.”
Rowland nodded. “Ed and I will call in at the Cathay now. You chaps see if any of the merchants in Little Russia remember Sergei.” He extracted his pocketbook and gave the poet several banknotes. “In case their memories require inducement.”
“Check if anyone’s been to the Cathay asking after us,” Clyde said, scowling. Danny Dong’s cousins had not yet found them, and he was becoming a little concerned that the old lady’s remains would not be claimed. The chest, which was her current place of rest, had once again been stowed under Clyde’s bed, which was compromising his own rest somewhat.
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