Sir Jonathan pushed aside the barricades of files and ledgers that surrounded him. What was the new catchword? Yes, net worth. What, he wondered, was his net worth? Impatiently he dismissed a question as meaningless as it was modish. His personal fortune could support the clan in comfort for two or three generations, though he could only estimate its value to the nearest £100,000. But he could not realize those long-term investments without major losses. They might be thrown into the battle in desperation, as a general might mobilize his sappers, cooks, bandsmen, and clerks to defend his threatened headquarters. They were not available for a broad assault, the decisive offensive battle.
For the next six months, Sir Jonathan concluded, he must stave off the Wheatleys’ attacks. Taking the offensive might be the best defense, and he would not hesitate to use violence—judiciously and surreptitiously. For the next six months, at least, he must remain comprador of Derwent, Hayes and Company, since he could not survive the humiliation of being forced out before that time. By the same token, he must be prepared to break with Derwent, Hayes thereafter—if it were absolutely necessary. But it would be better to play out the charade as long as possible.
Should he feel compelled to resign, it must be clearly seen that he had left of his own will. A roaring public fight would, he concluded, then best insure that Derwent’s rather than Sekloong’s was humiliated by his departure. He could provoke a quarrel over principle, hardly difficult considering the Wheatleys’ intricate chicanery. He could thus win the respectful sympathy of both the foreign and the Chinese business communities. The former because his cause was just; the latter because he had publicly humiliated the despised guai-lo, the devil people. But, all in all, it would be better to stay with the hong, if necessary in a state of armed truce, while he consolidated his own realm.
Sir Jonathan methodically tore up sheets of paper covered with his neat calculations before ringing for Miss Remedios and instructing her to order the Daimler. There was one other matter. His wife Lucinda, his daughter-in-law Mary, his daughter Matilda, and his grandchildren must be removed from the line of fire. Peitaiho on the Gulf of Chihli would be an idea bolthole. His commercial and Secret Society connections in the north were extensive. Since it was normal for women and children to go north to escape the grueling Hong Kong summer, their departure would not reveal that he was sending his noncombatants to safety while mobilizing his combatants against the Wheatleys. Charles he would keep by him, for he required a trustworthy adjutant.
But, Sir Jonathan concluded wearily, those final dispositions could wait a few days. Tonight he would relax with his favorite concubine, Precious Pearl, and their delightful daughters. It did not occur to him to remove them from the line of fire. If they were injured, he would grieve, but the clan, the House of Sekloong, would not suffer. They were his own, but they were not his hostages to fortune.
June 5, 1914–August 8, 1914
I want to buy wooltops and graycloth in job lots,” Mary Sekloong declared. “And boots, military boots and work boots.”
“Your department, my dear,” her father-in-law answered abstractedly. “Did you discuss it with Charles before he went off to Shanghai?”
“I didn’t—and I don’t terribly care to. I mean very large quantities, by the thousand gross—all available goods. And I’d advise you to buy all the tungsten and coal you can.”
Sir Jonathan cocked a thin, gray eyebrow. His daughter-in-law was in a strange mood. Foregoing the badinage and gossip that normally preceded their consultations, she had put forward extreme proposals that were virtually demands. He had not seen her so assertive since her bitter confrontation with Charles nine years earlier. Yet she had appeared reasonably happy during the past three years. If she wept at losing Harry, she wept in private. He had himself constantly reminded her that Harry must in time leave her to marry, and his second son, her lover, had been more often absent from Hong Kong than present since the Revolution of 1911. She had apparently accepted his sudden marriage with resignation, rather than bitterness. Herself increasingly caught up by the affairs of the House of Sekloong, she had undoubtedly recognized the danger to the House in their liaison’s continuing. Her partial reconciliation with Charles, capped by the birth of another son, named after his father, in late 1912, seemed to have restored her to mild contentment.
“But why, my dear?” Sir Jonathan asked, putting aside his musing on her tangled emotions to consider the straightforward commercial question. “Why such enormous quantities?”
“There’ll be war in Europe before autumn. I’ve had a letter from Peter French, who’s a full colonel at the War Office now. He’s certain all Europe will be at war within six months.”
“Your old friend Lord Peter!” Sir Jonathan’s eyebrow rose higher. “You accept his judgment as gospel? I always thought he was an aristocratic fop.”
“He’s changed since you knew him,” Mary answered shortly. “Other people have changed too. Charles, for one.”
“I thought,” Sir Jonathan gingerly probed the unavoidable emotional question, “all was well between Charles and you.”
“Well enough, I suppose, but hardly satisfactory. Even little Charles, he doesn’t need me, not with all the doting servants. Nor do the others. Jonnie’ll soon be home for a while, but …”
Mary paused in perplexity. She did not herself comprehend the springs of her own discontent. How could she convey her fretful bewilderment to the autocrat who dominated their lives?
“Yes, but what?” he prompted. “Do tell me, Mary.”
“I suppose I’m bored, and I feel trapped in Hong Kong. It’s small and dull and snobbish. I’m accepted—up to a point—because of your name. But I’m only tolerated by both the white and Chinese communities. I’m a kind of licensed leper, an outcaste, an untouchable, once the formalities are discharged. And sometimes … I’m sorry, Father … sometimes I don’t like the Chinese very much.”
“As bad as that?”
“I’m afraid so. Aside from you and the children, there’s no one left I really care strongly about. Harry’s gone. Hilary Metcalfe’s gone too. I have no real women friends. The children? Because of their amahs they don’t truly need me. I hardly know them. And I feel I’m stifling.”
“But you have all the freedom in the world.”
“Freedom in Hong Kong, not the world. Like a trustee in jail.”
Sir Jonathan deliberately positioned his panatella in the massive malachite ashtray. Only his lifted eyebrow showed his astonishment.
“At least you’re fascinated by the business.”
“The business is fascinating, but it’s not enough.” Mary sighed. “Life’s too orderly. Too flat. I’m almost thirty-four. And I can see only the same gray existence until I die.”
“Oh, come now.” Sir Jonathan smiled uncomprehendingly. “Things can’t be all that bad. You’re just tired.”
“I’m sorry.” Mary smiled to ward off tears and spoke curtly. “Can we go back to business? I’m convinced we should buy heavily before prices soar.”
“If you wish, I suppose so,” Sir Jonathan responded, satisfied that her mood had passed. “But there may be some difficulties.”
“We’re not short of liquid cash,” Mary persisted. “Besides, the House of Sekloong can raise nearly a million on your signature alone. If you doubt my judgment, I’ll buy as much as I can on my own. I assume our agreement holds, that I can dispose of my accumulated percentages as I wish.”
“It’s not so much doubting your judgment, my dear, though I’d naturally like to discuss your proposals. You won’t have to speculate on your private account. It’s substantial. As I recall, about £45,000, though that won’t go far considering your grand ideas. But the firm itself could be short of funds in the next few months.”
“Why?” Mary’s alarm at Sir Jonathan’s warning diverted her from her own bored discontent. “Last time we talked the reserves were very healthy.”
“True. But we can’t overextend ourselves when we may ne
ed all our reserves to defend ourselves.”
“Defend ourselves? From what? Who’d dare attack us now, Father? We’ve never been more solid.”
“My esteemed step-father’s up to his old tricks.”
“But that’s not new,” Mary objected. “And you’re always more than a match for Old Dick and that hot-handed son of his, Iain.”
“The Wheatleys’ hostility isn’t new. Their tactics are.”
“What could they possibly …”
“The usual slander, poisonous whispers. Worse than before, but I can manage. Any serious charge they trump up must smear themselves. After all, I’m their comprador. But I’ve heard from various sources about a new plot. It’s ingenious—and very dangerous.”
“Not the old opium lark, surely. The Shanghai trade’s still legal, even if Hong Kong has cut back. Anyway, we’re out of it. Or are we?”
Sir Jonathan smiled at the indignant figure in the ankle-length hobble-skirt of fawn serge set off by a long-sleeved basque, her only ornament a small gold-dragon pin. Though she loved clothes, Mary wore simple costumes in the office as if to neutralize her gender.
“Yes, we’re out of the trade,” he answered. “Have no fear. This is different, so ingenious I can’t believe Dick and Iain Wheatley thought it up themselves.”
Sir Jonathan stubbed out his panatella and beheaded another with his gold pocket guillotine. It was the first time Mary had seen him smoke one cigar immediately after another. When the slim golden-brown tube was tipped with red coal, he spoke again.
“Everyone knows the honorable President of the Republic of China, that old rascal Yüan Shih-kai, wants to make himself Emperor, establish the Great Constitutional Dynasty. He needs a large sum, about two million taels of gold to pay and arm his troops, to bribe his rivals.”
Mary calculated automatically. Two million taels was 2.66 million ounces of gold, about £11 million.
“But he’s pawned everything pawnable,” she argued, “and the Customs revenues are pledged for the next ten years. Where can he possibly get that much money?”
“From us, it appears, though I’d be pressed to raise a quarter of a million taels in gold.”
“From us? How possibly? Why?”
“So it’s to appear. The Wheatleys are making up the stake. And they’ve let it be known the gold is really for me. They’re simply helping a faithful servant pull himself out of a hole.”
“I see. Load you with an imaginary debt. No one’ll believe your denials. And involving you with Yüan Shih-kai. Your Chinese friends will be livid, and your foreign associates will be convinced you’re heading for bankruptcy.”
“That’s the scheme.”
“But,” Mary objected, “Dick Wheatley’d never part with a hundredth of that sum without cast-iron security—and Yüan Shih-kai has no realizable assets.”
“The Wheatleys, being the Wheatleys, will get solid collateral, far more than the value of the loan. But it won’t be cast-iron. Quite the contrary.”
“What do you mean, Father?”
“The Imperial Household Treasures, the personal possessions accumulated by emperor after emperor through dynasty after dynasty, are kept in the Imperial City in Peking. As you know, the little Emperor Hsüan Tung keeps his title, though he’s lost his throne and all power. Only China could be a republic with an Emperor. And his treasures, the National Treasures, are priceless. Ancient bronzes, jewels, porcelains, paintings, jades, gold and silver ornaments, ceremonial vessels, and funerary figures … I could go on for hours.”
Sir Jonathan knocked white ash from his panatella.
“Theoretically, that immense wealth is the Emperor’s personal property. Legally it belongs to the nation and can’t be sold off by either the Emperor or President Yüan Shih-kai. But it will be alienated. The Wheatleys’ collateral will be £15 to £20 million worth of Imperial Treasures.”
“But,” Mary asked, “how can Yüan Shih-kai possibly—”
“Quite easily. The treasures will be moving openly. Some pieces will go to London for display. China needs friends, and what better way to make friends than through displaying her ancient culture? The shipment’ll move through Tientsin.”
“And there?”
“The Wheatleys’ collateral—small in bulk, immense in value, and camouflaged by the public shipment to London—will be deposited secretly with the Gazetted Bank of Gibraltar and Asia. In short, in the Wheatleys’ vaults in the foreign concession of Tientsin beyond the reach of Chinese law. This humble director of the Gazetted Bank will, by an oversight, not be informed of the transaction.”
“And the gold itself? How precisely will we be victimized? I’m muddled by this business.”
“Not business,” Sir Jonathan snapped, “but grand larceny. That much you grasp. Since you’re muddled, I’ll try to explain as simply as I can, even if I repeat myself: First, Yüan Shih-kai, who’s certainly no republican, wants to reestablish the Empire, with himself as Emperor. He needs large sums to make his coup d’état. Second, the British Foreign Office doesn’t want a Chinese Republic either and backs Yüan’s ambitions. London’s chosen the Wheatleys as the conduit to funnel the gold to Yüan, having conceived the plot and arranged details through the British Secret Service. Third, the Wheatleys’ illegal collateral will be the Imperial Treasures. And, finally, the Wheatleys—whether they succeed or fail in the scheme—plan to ruin me by leaking rumors that it’s Sekloong, not Derwent’s, illegally providing gold, avariciously grabbing the National Treasures, and brazenly manipulating internal Chinese politics.”
“That’s clearer,” Mary said. “But the mechanics are still obscure.”
“Somewhat obscure to me, too. But, as I understand it, the bullion shipment’ll be camouflaged by the pretext of moving China’s meager gold reserves for safety. That way, Yüan’ll have his gold, the Foreign Office’ll have a new Chinese Empire, and the Wheatleys’ll have the National Treasure—as well as dominant influence in the new Imperial Court.”
“Why can’t you blow the gaff, expose them?”
“Anything I say will count against me. I’d look like a criminal, caught in the act and trying to shift the guilt. I’d be pilloried by both Chinese and Europeans. Jonathan Sekloong, thief of China’s priceless national heritage, receiver of stolen goods, a common fence, a clumsy gold manipulator—a plotter against the Republic for profit.”
“And the upshot?” Mary asked. “What happens to us?”
“We’re bankrupted when all our creditors call their loans. We’re pressed to repay two million taels we never borrowed and to restore the Imperial Treasures we never held. The Wheatleys then take over my holdings at ten cents on the dollar and use our assets to repay the loan. It’s beautifully Machiavellian.”
“But can’t we fight?” Mary flared. “Knowing so much already, surely you can thwart them.”
“I do have some notions.” Sir Jonathan mused. “And I’ll have to develop them. We have time. Moving that much gold will take some time.”
“And what can I do?” Mary asked.
“You can take a holiday at Peitaiho.”
“Peitaiho, Father? For Heaven’s sake, why Peitaiho? You can’t mean it. My place is here.”
“Because Peitaiho is just one hundred ten miles from Tientsin where the bullion exchange must take place. I need you on the scene. It’s perfectly normal, your taking the family north for the summer. The Wheatleys mustn’t guess what we know—or even suspect.”
“How much of what you’ve told me,” Mary asked suspiciously, “is actual knowledge and how much guesswork?”
“Let’s say that I pieced it together. Many details I still don’t know. But I must have you at Peitaiho, just near enough to Tientsin to be useful, just far enough to avoid suspicion.”
“Are you using me as a decoy?”
“Of course, Mary, that too,” he acknowledged. “And you must leave within a week. The Foosing sails on the twelfth of June.”
“Well, if you really belie
ve I can be most useful there,” Mary conceded. “And we should get the children away.”
“Of course. The House of Sekloong must live in its heirs—and the Wheatleys have used assassins.”
“All right, then,” she agreed. “Your logic overwhelms me.”
“There’s a side advantage.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ve said you were bored, your life deadly dull. A change of scene and company could do you good. There’ll be danger, too, but you’ll be well guarded, very well guarded.”
“There are so many things I must do, clothes for the children and myself, so many things. I must get started.”
“Do that, by all means.”
Sir Jonathan rose to kiss Mary’s cheek and closed the door behind her. He was content with his morning’s work, though he had improvised grandly to fill out the tale. He was removing his most valuable property, Mary and the children, from his enemies’ reach in preparation for his own counterattack. Perhaps, he mused, the only way to avoid contrived charges of treason and grand larceny for despoiling the Imperial Treasures was to engage in grand larceny.
“Man,” the Chief Engineer of the S.S. Foosing said to the First Officer, “that lot’re not just sailing on this wee tub. They’re taking over like Bias Bay pirates.”
Mary laughed and flashed the officers of the 2,100-ton coaster a smile that brought them to her side, eagerly proferring assistance. The sardonic Scotsman was not far off the mark. The Sekloongs and their entourage clambered up the gangway from the fifty-eight-foot steam pinnace Lucinda, amid confusion that would have been excessive for the embarkation of a squadron of irregular cavalry and its camp followers. More than a hundred pieces of heavy baggage, including a baby grand piano, were already stowed in the hold. Though thirty-five cases of wine and eighty-six crates of food, ranging from tinned tongue, pâté de foie, and caviar to Cantonese dried vegetables and prepared sauces not available in the barbarian North, had been loaded, the servants were still carrying aboard an uncountable variety of boxes, cloth-wrapped bundles, woven-straw cases, and leather valises. The children’s four small pet dogs, three kittens, and a white rabbit contributed their barking and shrill mewing to the din. Six Alsatian guard dogs bayed menacingly.
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