Killigrew and the Golden Dragon

by Jonathan Lunn

  The carriage clock on the mantelpiece chimed ten. ‘Time to rejoin the ladies for coffee, I think,’ said Rear-Admiral Collier, shooting Killigrew a warning look. Junior officers were not supposed to bandy words with respected citizens like Blase Bannatyne.

  An upper-storey verandah facing across the harbour had been chosen to stand in for a drawing room. Killigrew found himself seated on the opposite side of the verandah from Peri and exchanged private smiles with her as one of the older ladies lectured on the uselessness of Chinese as servants. Peri was looking lovelier than ever tonight and as he gazed at her Killigrew reached a decision: there was no doubt in his mind that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. To hell with the navy, with Society, with the whole damned bigoted bunch of snobs: he would propose to her. Not tonight – he wanted to do it properly; Hartcliffe would lend him the money for an engagement ring. He would get a civil licence from the superintendent-registrar: he could not see Peri wanting to get married in a Christian church, and he had never had his heart set on a church wedding.

  Assuming, of course, she accepted his proposal. Whatever she thought or said, it was a hard life for the wife of a naval officer, being left alone for years at a time. If he loved her, could he do that to her?

  But the solution, he knew, was obvious.

  He broke off his reverie when he realised that Bannatyne had risen to his feet and was making an announcement. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you won’t take exception, but in order to make tonight a particularly memorable occasion I’ve laid on an unusual entertainment which I hope you’ll all find diverting…’

  ‘Doesn’t he think it’s been memorable enough already?’ Killigrew murmured to Strachan.

  ‘If you’ll please follow me through…’ said Bannatyne.

  Killigrew noticed that Mrs Bannatyne looked distinctly uncomfortable – he wondered if she was going to be asked to entertain them at the pianoforte – but when they all trooped back to the compound he saw at once that Bannatyne had something else in mind. Row upon row of chairs had been set up facing the stage where the orchestra had played earlier in a quarter-circle, with an aisle running through them at an angle. On the stage itself there was a scene which suggested some kind of building repairs were in progress: and there were curious arrangements of bricks, trestles and thick wooden planks.

  Once everyone was seated, the biggest Chinese Killigrew had ever seen entered, dressed in some kind of white pyjama suit, his buttonless jacket fastened only with a black girdle tied around his waist, the gap above revealing a triangle of a smooth, glistening chest with well-defined muscles. It was hardly the kind of sight Killigrew expected to be offered after a meal. Instead of wearing his hair in the Manchu queue like every other Chinaman Killigrew had ever seen, this one wore a thick, black mop in the Western-style, parted to one side.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce my comprador, Shen Meng-fu,’ said Bannatyne. ‘Mr Shen has generously agreed to give us a demonstration of the ancient Chinese martial art of wu-yi. When you are ready, Mr Shen?’

  Shen picked up three thick planks of wood and handed one each to Bonham, General Staveley, and Killigrew.

  ‘If you would examine the planks, gentlemen, to confirm for yourselves that they are indeed ordinary pieces of timber, uninterfered with, and that there is no kind of trickery involved in what you are about to see,’ said Bannatyne.

  So that’s it, thought Killigrew. A magic show. He stifled a yawn and examined his plank, although he did not expect to find anything. If there was anything to see, he would not have been allowed to handle it.

  Shen gathered in the planks and laid the three of them one atop another across the trestles. Then he stood behind the trestle, took three deep breaths, and suddenly brought the edge of his hand down against the planks with a primeval yell which made some of the ladies present – and a few of the men – squeal in fright.

  All three planks had been broken in the middle.

  ‘Good God!’ exclaimed Staveley.

  ‘It must be some kind of trick,’ said Strachan. ‘There’s something up his sleeve…’

  ‘No trickery, I assure you, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Bannatyne. ‘Mr Shen, roll up your sleeves and show your arms to these people.’

  Mr Shen did just that. His forearms were like hocks of ham. He crossed to where a small block of masonry rested across another trestle. He gave another cry and brought his forehead down against it sharply. There was a loud crack, and the block crashed to the floor in two pieces.

  ‘Wu-yi, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Bannatyne, as the audience applauded uncertainly. ‘The power of mind over matter.’

  The demonstration lasted about five minutes, and even Killigrew could not help but be impressed as Shen smashed thick boards, bricks and masonry blocks with no more than his bare hands and feet, apparently without injury to himself.

  ‘For the next part of our demonstration, Mr Shen requires the assistance of someone from our audience,’ said Bannatyne. As a showman, he could have given Mr P. T. Barnum a run for his money. ‘Mr Killigrew, perhaps you would care to step up?’

  ‘That depends.’ Killigrew rose to his feet. ‘He’s not going to put me across one of those trestles, is he?’

  Smiling, Bannatyne shook his head. ‘A demonstration of the “iron shirt”, ladies and gentlemen. Wu-yi experts must learn the technique of receiving blows as well as giving them. Are you a practitioner of the noble art of pugilism, Mr Killigrew?’

  ‘Not if I can help it. Fencing’s more my cup of char.’

  ‘But a young man with your widespread military experience must have some knowledge of hand-to-hand combat. I dare say you think you can deliver a powerful blow with your bare hands?’

  ‘I have been known to, when the necessity arose.’

  Bannatyne indicated Shen. ‘Please demonstrate.’

  ‘And have him chop me up like so much lumber?’

  ‘Mr Shen will not retaliate. He will stand perfectly still and allow you to strike him wherever you will. Perhaps I can offer you a set of brass knuckles?’

  ‘Not the sort of assistance a gentleman requires, I assure you.’ Killigrew unbuttoned his tail-coat and handed it to Strachan.

  ‘So be it.’ Bannatyne gestured to Shen once more. The Chinese stood with every muscle in his body tensed, his feet braced squarely on the ground.

  ‘And he won’t hit me back?’

  ‘You have my word on it, Mr Killigrew.’

  The lieutenant squared up to Shen. Killigrew was tall, even for a European, but Shen met him eye to eye, and was nearly half as broad again across the shoulders. Killigrew half turned back to Bannatyne. ‘There’s just one thing I don’t understand…’ he said, and in the same breath turned back to Shen and drove his fist into his solar plexus with all his might.

  As Bannatyne had surmised, Killigrew had picked up a few pugilistic tricks, and he kept himself in good shape. He knew a blow like that should have brought even a fit young man to his knees. But it was like punching a block of rubber. Shen did not even flinch, except to crack his smooth face into a smile.

  Killigrew stepped back and shook his hand before flexing his fingers. He suspected the blow had hurt himself more than it had hurt the Chinese. ‘Of course, in a real fight I would be more inclined to go for the face,’ he said, knowing he was just making excuses now.

  ‘Please try it,’ said Mr Bannatyne. ‘Once again, I assure you Mr Shen will not retaliate.’

  Killigrew drove his fist at Shen’s face and put all his strength behind the blow. One of Shen’s hands whipped up as fast as a cobra, caught Killigrew’s fist and stopped it dead in its tracks.

  As a final demonstration, Shen turned and drove a hand through a wooden board: not a fist, but his outstretched fingertips. The board splintered effortlessly. He turned back to Killigrew with a smile which seemed to say: I could do the same to your ribcage.

  Killigrew returned his smile. ‘Very impressive,’ he said, reaching into his poc
ket for a guinea. ‘What does he do for an encore? Sing a couple of choruses from “Oh Rest Thee, My Darling”?’ He tossed the coin on the stage at Shen’s feet. ‘There’s a shiner for your trouble.’

  Shen merely folded his arms across his brawny chest with a look of disdain.

  ‘Don’t think that Mr Shen can be bought, Mr Killigrew,’ Bannatyne said coldly. ‘I pay him extraordinarily well.’

  ‘If he’s so strong, let him prove it by picking up the coin.’

  For the first time a look of helplessness entered Shen’s eyes.

  Killigrew smiled. ‘He can’t, can he? His wu-yi has so toughened the skin on his hands he’s lost all sensitivity in them. Such a skill is not won without great cost. One thing I have learned in the navy, Mr Bannatyne. Brute strength is no match for subtlety and intelligence.’

  Shen left the coin on the ground and stomped inside.

  ‘I don’t need to employ anyone to be subtle or intelligent on my behalf, Mr Killigrew,’ Bannatyne said tightly.

  Killigrew took back his tail-coat from Strachan and shrugged it on. He was still buttoning it up with a sense of satisfaction when Shen returned from the banqueting hall with a dab of gravy on the tip of his finger. He bent down and pressed it against the coin. When he lifted the finger, the coin had stuck to his fingertip long enough for him to be able to pinch it between thumb and forefinger.

  Some of the spectators applauded. ‘Oh, I say!’ exclaimed Framjee. ‘That’s jolly clever!’

  Jago Verran grinned. ‘What were you saying about subtlety and intelligence, Kit?’

  Glaring at Killigrew, Shen exerted pressure on the coin between his fingers until his whole arm trembled and the veins stood out in his forehead. Just when Killigrew thought the Chinese was going to have a seizure, the coin snapped with a sound like a musket-shot. The impressive effect was marred by the way one half of the coin shot across the room, narrowly missing Mrs Staveley’s head and bringing down one of the Chinese lanterns which promptly burst into flames. Two footmen hurriedly ran across to stamp it out.

  ‘Damn it, man!’ General Staveley snarled at Bannatyne. ‘Your trained monkey almost had my wife’s eye out! Enough of this damned tomfoolery!’

  ‘All right, Shen, you can go,’ snapped Bannatyne, his face flushed.

  ‘I think we can all go,’ said Bonham. ‘We’ve seen enough.’

  Bannatyne remained in the compound as everyone filed in to the reception room. His wife escorted them and a footman handed out hats. No one congratulated her on the ball, except Killigrew, who hung back long enough to make sure he was the last to leave. ‘Capital ball, ma’am,’ he said as he set his cocked hat on his head at a rakish angle. ‘Are all your parties this much of a lark?’

  She smiled thinly and gestured to the door. Grinning, he touched the prow of his hat in salute to her, and then strolled out after the others.

  He tripped lightly down the steps into the compound. Most of the carriages had already gone. He caught up with Strachan. ‘The others have gone ahead,’ said the assistant surgeon.

  Killigrew nodded. The two of them were about to walk through the gate when the last carriage rattled up behind them. Killigrew pulled Strachan back out of harm’s way, but the Sikh coachman had seen them and reined in. Sir Dadabhoy Framjee leaned out of the window.

  ‘Can I give you and your friend a ride, Mr Killigrew? Perhaps you would care to join Peri and I for a drink before we part? It is still quite early.’

  Killigrew and Strachan exchanged glances; there was no need for anything to be said. ‘We’d be delighted,’ Killigrew told Framjee as he and his friend sat down opposite Framjee and his daughter. The Parsi rapped the ferrule of his cane on the floor of the victoria and they rattled off. ‘Well, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve certainly enjoyed this evening,’ said Killigrew.

  ‘Indeed!’ beamed Framjee. ‘It is wrong of me, I know, but I certainly enjoyed watching Bannatyne’s first attempt at a ball end in disaster. I wonder if tonight’s events will have put him off hosting any more?’

  ‘Only time will tell, sir. But somehow I think he’ll get over tonight’s humiliation.’

  At length the coachman reined in the horses in front of Framjee’s villa. As they climbed down from the carriage, the butler emerged from the house to greet them.

  ‘We’ll take coffee in the drawing room, Gobinda,’ Framjee told him as they passed inside, and turned to Strachan. ‘I understand you are an artist, Mr Strachan.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far, sir. I used to dabble a little; sketches and that sort of stuff. These days photography’s more my game, though I still do the occasional aquatint.’

  ‘Do you think it is true that photography will replace painting altogether?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think art will have to become more innovative to stay ahead if it’s going to survive. The camera can only show what it sees, but the artist can see so much more, tell the story behind the picture.’ When it came to art, Strachan displayed the same enthusiasm he had towards fossils. ‘In fact, I think there’s a chance photography could be the saving of art. It’s been getting awfully stale of late.’

  ‘We have some of Mr Chinnery’s landscapes in the upper gallery, if you would care to see them?’

  ‘I’d be delighted.’

  Framjee turned to his daughter. ‘Peri, perhaps you’d care to show Mr Strachan while I have a word with Mr Killigrew here?’

  Killigrew nodded to himself. He had been wondering what Framjee’s motive in inviting him back here so late had been. Now he had a pretty good idea. So did Peri, if the concerned glance she gave him over her shoulder as she led Strachan upstairs was any indication.

  Framjee had opened the door to his library and gestured for Killigrew to precede him. Inside, the Parsi sat down behind his desk with his fingers steepled. He did not invite Killigrew to sit. ‘I wish to speak to you about Peri. And your intentions towards her.’

  ‘Strictly honourable, sir, I assure you.’

  ‘I do not doubt it. But I am wondering if your concept of what is and what is not honourable is the same as those accepted by most other people. You are aware, I take it, that her religion forbids her from marrying anyone other than another Parsi?’

  Killigrew smiled. ‘I could convert.’

  ‘You could become a Zarathustrian. But you could never become a Parsi. Unless both your parents were Parsis, which I must confess I very much doubt.’

  ‘She could convert.’

  ‘She could. If she wished so. But my Peri is very proud of her heritage.’ Framjee opened a drawer in his desk and took out a cheque. He dipped his pen in an inkwell and started to write.

  ‘Don’t you think that’s for your daughter to decide?’ Killigrew asked coldly.

  ‘What kind of father would I be if I did not concern myself about what is best for my daughter?’ Framjee dried the cheque with blotting paper and handed it to Killigrew. It was made out for five thousand pounds.

  The lieutenant resisted the urge to let out a low whistle. ‘A princely sum. I’m not sure whether to be flattered or insulted.’

  ‘I am not asking you never to see her again. But I would be happier if you faced the fact that there can be no future for you and my daughter. No more unchaperoned walks together, eh, Mr Killigrew?’

  The lieutenant slowly and deliberately tore up the cheque, scattering the pieces across the top of Framjee’s desk. ‘I can’t be bought.’

  The Parsi reached for another cheque. ‘Every man has his price,’ he said, dipping his pen into the inkwell once more.

  ‘Don’t bother. Mine isn’t money.’

  Framjee sighed and drained the ink from his nib before replacing the pen in its holder. ‘You are a man of principle, Mr Killigrew. I respect you for that. To tell the truth, I think I would have been disappointed if you had accepted my cheque. Then let me conclude by asking you, as a man of honour, to bear in mind all the consequences for my daughter if you persist in your attentions tow
ards her.’

  ‘I don’t need to be told to do that. Harming her is the last thing on my mind.’

  ‘I appreciate that. But it is often the case that common sense does not get a fair hearing when passions rule the day.’

  ‘The one must be balanced against the other,’ allowed Killigrew. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, sir, I think it’s time I returned to the Tisiphone.’

  Framjee inclined his head. The two of them went upstairs to the gallery where they found Peri and Strachan admiring a watercolour of Victoria Harbour.

  ‘Come on, Strachan,’ said Killigrew. ‘We’ve outstayed our welcome.’ Peri looked at him with concern. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Everything is fine, my child,’ said Framjee. ‘Mr Killigrew and I had some business to attend to. Now it is concluded, he feels it is appropriate he leaves. I am in agreement.’

  ‘I thought we were staying for a dram?’ protested Strachan.

  ‘Come on.’ Killigrew took his friend by the arm and all but dragged him back downstairs. The butler showed them out.

  ‘Take care, gentlemen,’ Framjee called after them. ‘Victoria is a dangerous place at night.’

  ‘Don’t worry about us, sir,’ said Strachan. ‘It’s only five minutes’ walk to the waterfront from here. What can possibly go wrong in that time?’

  * * *

  ‘What did you say to him?’ Peri demanded as her father returned inside and Gobinda closed the door behind him.

  Framjee said nothing, but walked softly to the drawing room. Peri followed him. ‘Father, what did you say to upset him like that?’

  Her father sat down on the divan and rubbed his temples wearily.

  ‘You tried to buy him off, didn’t you?’ persisted Peri. ‘That is it, is it not? You offered him money.’

  Framjee nodded.

  She turned away, not even trusting herself to look at her father. ‘Oh, how could you? You always said I could marry whom I chose, just as Mother defied her parents to marry you!’