Whitely appeared in high spirits. He made jokes and talked of standing drinks when the shift was done. Rowland kept his eyes down.
Whitely stopped at a door which was no different from the others in the prison, aside from being marked with the letter E. He unlocked it and strode through the doorway. Rowland was pushed in after him. The light switch was pulled, and Rowland found himself in a large, windowless room. A narrow stairwell in one corner led to a floor below. It took Rowland a moment to recognise the industrial structure on the other side of the room. A wooden scaffolding—gallows. Instinctively he recoiled.
“What am I doing here?”
Whitely smiled. “That’s between you and your God. We’ve come to hang you.”
“I’m on remand.” Rowland could feel the cold sweat breaking on his brow. “I haven’t been convicted, let alone sentenced!”
“Well I’ll be buggered!” Whitely feigned surprise. He poked the E on Rowland’s shirt. “And yet you’re wearing an execution shirt. Terrible mistake, but understandable.”
“You’re mad! That’s murder!”
“Oh no, felon, it’s you who are the murderer. We are just administering justice.”
Rowland tried to break away, but the warders converged to seize and hold him fast. They secured his hands behind his back and dragged him up onto the scaffold. Rowland fought but it was useless. The naiks had obviously dealt with men in these circumstances before. Even so it took four of them to restrain Rowland Sinclair and force him onto the trapdoor of the gallows.
“Once we cut your body down, you’ll fall through to the morgue,” Whitely said, grinning. “It’s a very modern and convenient design.”
Rowland swore at him. “You won’t get away with this, Whitely!”
Whitely held up his palms. “But I won’t even be here, felon. I’m going to leave you in the hands of the able gentlemen on the scaffold.” He cupped his hand behind his mouth and whispered loudly. “The darkies often make mistakes like this. I know we let them believe they’re British but one can only expect so much.” Whitely left via the stairs. Four of the warders followed him. The others remained at the gallows.
Rowland thought feverishly. Surely this could not be happening.
“Would you like a blindfold?” The naik’s question was almost casual.
Rowland shook his head. “I have not been sentenced to death,” he said clearly, trying to meet the man’s eye. “By God man, I haven’t even been tried.”
“Not by a court.”
“Why are you doing this?”
Hands gripped each shoulder to hold him in place. “If you accept it, it will soon be over. But if you struggle, you’ll choke slowly.”
The noose was slipped around his neck from behind and adjusted so that the knot sat at the top of his spine. “If you want to pray, start now.”
“Go to hell!”
“Any last words?”
Rowland thought of Edna. But those were not words he could trust to a man about to kill him. Panic was taking hold now. He felt dizzy.
One of the warders moved to grip the long lever beside the gallows.
Rowland’s entire body was taut. His heart pounded and the blood roared in his ears.
The lever was pulled. The trapdoor released. And he dropped.
* * *
Ranjit Singh relayed the news his cousin had given him.
They were silent, shocked. It was a relief to hear of Rowland, to make this contact, however indirect and small, but hearing of him also somehow made their predicament and his situation more real.
“He’s in isolation?” Edna’s voice trembled.
“Yes, but he’s doing well,” Singh assured her. “Obviously he’s not afraid of the dark, and Amrith believes he may be better off there.”
“Why?”
“He won’t come to the notice of the guards. Amrith will smuggle some food for him.”
“Why should he want to avoid the guards?” Milton asked sharply.
Ranjit elected not to tell them what the guards at Ward Road did to relieve boredom, what had already happened to Rowland Sinclair. There was no point in distressing them more than they were already when nothing could be done. “The general prison population is rife with tuberculosis. He is less likely to get sick in isolation.”
“We have to get him out,” Milton said. Unlike Clyde and Edna, the poet had seen the inside of a prison. He guessed what Ranjit was leaving out.
* * *
For a moment, Rowland thought they’d succeeded and he’d fallen into hell. Dead men surrounded him, their faces twisted into grotesques, limbs stiff. And laughter, screeching scornful mirth. Hoots and cheers. Whitely’s laugh louder than the others. Then the realisation that he was not dead but that the men beneath him were. Rowland recoiled, bucking though his hands were still secured behind him. He rolled off the pallet of bodies onto the cement, where for a moment he lay gagging and retching. The noose was still around his neck, the rope never connected to the gallows.
One of the warders hauled him to his feet. Rowland’s knees buckled. In what may have been an unexpected act of kindness, the warder removed the cuffs so that Rowland could use a nearby rail to keep himself upright as his stomach heaved uncontrollably.
“Bloody oath!” Whitely slapped his thigh and wiped tears from his eyes. “The look on your face! That never gets old.”
Rowland stared at the corpses piled on the pallet. Executed by hanging or disease and neglect, and then in a final indignity used to break his fall in some cruel schoolboy prank. God! He gripped the rail trying to catch his breath.
Only Whitely was still laughing now. “You really thought—” He slapped Rowland on the back like they were old friends.
Rowland ignited, turning and launching himself at the man. It was hard to know why exactly the other warders held back, why they allowed Rowland to break Whitely’s nose before they raised their batons and pulled him off.
* * *
Ranjit Singh’s Buick pulled up outside the house of Du Yuesheng. Milton and Wing Zau climbed out. The poet had elected to keep his plan from Clyde and Edna, but it had been necessary to bring Wing into his confidence. It had taken them over a day to be granted an audience with the zongshi. Rowland had now been in prison for three days, and there was still no sign of Carmel.
“I’m sorry to drag you into this, comrade,” Milton said, clapping his hand on Wing’s shoulder. “I know full well it’s dangerous, but I can’t talk to Mr. Du without you.”
Wing straightened, pushing out his chest. “I want to help. I am grateful to you for the opportunity to do so and for your trust…” He glanced back at the Buick and Singh. “But I’m not sure I understand why you haven’t confided in Miss Higgins and Mr. Jones.”
“I’m about to ask a gangster for help, comrade. I assume his methods will be less than legal, and to be honest, I don’t care.”
“But Miss Higgins and Mr. Watson Jones will?”
“They might… Women and Catholics can both be awkwardly moral. I didn’t want to take the chance.”
“Zongshi will require something in return for his help.”
“Yes, I expect he will.” Milton glanced at Singh. “But we need to get Rowly out of Ward Road.”
Singh rested his elbow on the open driver’s-side window and looked up at them. Since their near altercation, he had been less hostile towards Wing. “Yes. I think it is necessary. The City of the Doomed is no place for a man like Mr. Sinclair.”
“Right.” Milton adjusted his cravat. “Onward then. Men may come and men may go; we’ll go on forever.”
“Well said, Mr. Isaacs!” Wing fell in beside him.
Milton smiled wistfully. “Rowly would probably have wanted to give Tennyson the credit, you know.”
Of course, Milton could not know what Wing said to the various circles
of security around Du Yuesheng, but whatever it was, it did gain them an audience. As he did the first time they met the taipan, Wing kowtowed. Milton watched, allowing Wing to observe whatever proprieties and pay whatever deference was necessary. For Rowland’s sake, the poet too would have happily dropped to his knees, but the kowtow was more complex than that and the risk of giving offense by doing it improperly, too great.
Milton spotted Kruznetsov among the security guards who maintained a circle around Du. Neither he nor the Russian gave any sign of recognition.
Du Yuesheng sat on a wide carved chair with scrolled arms and no back. He spoke before either Milton or Wing had uttered a word.
“Master Du wishes to know if you are here about Mr. Sinclair,” Wing translated.
“Could you ask him what he knows about Rowly’s situation?” Milton replied warily.
Wing obliged and the zongshi spoke again.
“He knows Mr. Sinclair is in Ward Road Prison. He knows he was arrested for the murder of another foreigner.”
“Tell him that Rowly didn’t kill anybody.”
To that, Du Yuesheng did not react. He spoke again.
“He knows that Mr. Sinclair refused to do business with the Japanese.”
Milton was startled. How would the gangster know that? Why would he raise it?
“Master Du wishes to know if Mr. Sinclair will change his mind.”
Milton shook his head. “No. I don’t think so.”
Du Yuesheng studied the poet before he replied. His eyes were calculating and cold, and there was something vaguely chilling about his tone.
“Master Du says he will help Mr. Sinclair.”
Suddenly Milton was unsure. Du Yuesheng was a gangster, a murderer. Had he just procured a kind of help that Rowland himself would never countenance? Was he compromising Rowland in his desperation to help him? “Ask him what he plans to do, Mr. Wing.”
Wing’s eyes widened and he swallowed, but he translated the question.
Du seemed amused.
“Master Du says he will send his lawyers to the British Court to have Mr. Sinclair bailed immediately.”
“Tell him that’s already been attempted.”
“He says it has not. Zongshi says the bond is likely to be substantial.”
Milton nodded. “Rowland will be able to repay him in full as soon as he’s released.”
Du waved the promise away.
“Would you ask him what he wants in return for his help?” Milton ventured.
Wing licked his lips nervously and asked the question.
Du’s response was short.
“Master Du says he requires nothing.”
“Why?” Milton said before he could rein in his surprise. The question did not apparently require translation.
The gangster smiled as he stated his reason. “Du Yuesheng is Chinese.”
* * *
Edna reached the door before the shuffling amah. The old woman glared at her with such baleful ferocity that the sculptress wished she’d not responded to the knock. She opened the door.
“Mr. Carmel!” Relief and joy followed surprise in quick succession. “Oh Mr. Carmel, I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to see you.”
“Not a moment too soon, I gather!” Carmel kissed her on each cheek. “I’m so sorry, my dear. I feel wretched, truly wretched! To be away when Rowland truly needed me…I don’t know if Wilfred will ever forgive me! If I’d had the slightest inkling—”
“Well, you’re here now, Mr. Carmel.”
“Yes, indeed I am. The office tells me that young Murray was given the case file in my absence, but it seems he was a little out of his depth. This has been rather a cockup, I’m afraid. Fetch your coat, my dear—you can tell me exactly what happened on the way to the courthouse.”
“Clyde…”
“By all means bring Mr. Watson Jones, Mr. Isaacs too. I daresay Rowland will need his friends about him after what he’s been through.”
“Milt and Mr. Wing stepped out this morning. I’ll just call Clyde and let Harjeet know where we’re going.” She stopped to smile at the solicitor. “I’m just so glad to see you, Mr. Carmel. Do you think we could possibly have Rowly back today?”
“You just leave it to me, my dear. I shall insist upon it! I shall invoke Blackstone, Coke, and Locke, issue a writ of habeas corpus, and remind them of who Rowland Sinclair is. By the time I am done, they will not only release our beloved friend, but they will apologise!”
Chapter Thirty-Four
VALUE OF BATHS AND POULTICES
Poulticing is simply putting a hot bath on a particular spot, with the idea of soothing pain or inflammation by the local applications of warmth and moisture. The poultice may be made of various materials: bread or starch or rice flour, or bran, or linseed meal. It should always be applied as hot as it can be borne, and should be frequently changed, no poultice being of any value after two or three hours. The surface of the skin is often vaselined before the application is made. The poultice should be larger than the area to be covered, and so that the heat may be retained, it should be spread thick on a piece of linen, of which the edges have been turned in a little way on each side to prevent any portion escaping. A layer of cotton wool under oiled silk should cover the poultice, and a broad flannel bandage to keep it well on. In applying a poultice to the chest the nipples should not be covered over if possible…
—The Courier Mail, 31 August 1935
* * *
When Gilbert Carmel of Carmel and Smith arrived at the British Court, there was some confusion. It seemed that lawyers claiming to represent Rowland Sinclair had arrived as the courts opened to demand his release on bail. Carmel was outraged. “I am Mr. Sinclair’s legal representative. Why, this is preposterous—they are kidnappers no doubt. The hide of them—to snatch the poor fellow from Ward Road Gaol itself!”
It was not until Milton and Wing emerged that it became clear that there was no elaborate plot to abduct Rowland. Carmel remained somewhat affronted that Milton had seen fit to replace him. The poet apologised. “We could not reach you, Mr. Carmel, and we’ve never laid eyes on Mr. Murray. You must understand, we were getting desperate.”
“Yes, of course. The timing was very unfortunate, but I’m here now.”
“I’m sure Mr. Soo will be happy for you to take over.”
Edward Soo shrugged. “Bail has been granted,” he said, unruffled. He nodded at Milton. “Please convey my regards, and those of Master Du, to Mr. Sinclair.”
Milton thanked him, and for a moment they all watched as Du Yuesheng’s lawyer departed with two junior solicitors trailing behind him.
“What did you do?” Clyde turned on Milton.
“It doesn’t matter what I did,” the poet replied firmly. “Rowly’s been bailed. We can pick him up from Ward Road.”
“What did you promise Du in return for his help?”
“Nothing. He wanted nothing.”
“I’m not sure enlisting the help of a man of Mr. Du’s reputation was wise, Mr. Isaacs.”
“We couldn’t reach you, Mr. Carmel,” Milton reminded him.
Carmel sighed. “Indeed, the fault is mine. Forgive me.”
Edna interrupted. “Can we please just get Rowly?”
Carmel nodded, smiling suddenly. “Yes, we should be there to collect the dear boy and celebrate this first victory. To the automobiles, my young friends!”
Shortly thereafter, Singh’s Buick and Carmel’s Packard drew up and parked outside the release gate of Ward Road Gaol. Unable to contain their impatience, the Australians climbed out and stood by the massive wooden gates. There was a small door in the gates through which, Carmel had informed them, Rowland would be allowed out.
Several minutes passed.
Clyde and Milton returned to the Packard to discuss the delay with Carme
l through the window. “Could something have gone wrong, Mr. Carmel?”
“Perhaps Mr. Soo did not file the application properly.” Carmel frowned. “Still…it all seemed in order when I spoke to the clerk.” He checked his pocket watch. “Releases are generally quite punctual affairs.”
“Could Randolph have—bloody hell!” Clyde broke off as the door finally opened and three men emerged.
Two were Sikh guards. They supported Rowland between them.
“Rowly!” Edna reached him first. “My God, what have they done to you?”
Rowland was damp and hot to touch.
The naiks did not release him until Clyde and Milton’s shoulders had taken the place of their own. Clearly Rowland could not stand unaided.
“Good grief, comrade, you’re burning up,” Milton said.
Ranjit Singh stepped out of the Buick and spoke to the guards in Punjabi. Carmel too left his vehicle to assess the state of Rowland Sinclair. The lawyer was furious. “You tell Mr. Whitely that I will not let this lie!” he bellowed at the guards.
Rowland tried to speak, but he was shivering quite violently.
Edna reached up to touch his face. She tried to speak, but horror stole her words.
“Put him in the motorcar,” Singh said. “I’ll take him straight to hospital.”
Carmel shook his head. “No, absolutely not. Hospitals in Shanghai are no more than reception rooms for mortuaries. I would not let one of their doctors treat my dog! Let us not have retrieved the dear boy only to hand him into a different kind of danger. Take Rowland home. I’ll meet you there with a doctor.”
* * *
Harjeet took charge the moment they returned with Rowland, pausing only a moment in her horror at the state of him.
“He has a fever,” she said, testing his forehead. “It’s no wonder in that filthy place.” She instructed Milton and Clyde to draw him a bath of tepid water and to take his clothes for Ranjit to burn. She told Wing to listen for Carmel and the doctor while she pounded herbs for a poultice and sent Edna to find Rowland’s pyjamas and fetch extra pillows.
Shanghai Secrets Page 29