“Perhaps, perhaps it would, Ma’am.” He hesitated. “Jamie approves of the document?”
“He doesn’t know about it. No one does except me,” she told him, believing it. Why else would Malcolm hide it?
Thoughtfully, he poured some wine—he noticed she had not touched hers further. “I imagine,” he said delicately, “such a favor would require one in return, Ma’am.”
“I would like you to hurry by Prancing Cloud with all speed, as you planned, and see Tess Struan. And deliver a letter from me.”
His eyes widened with disbelief. “That’s all?”
“Not exactly. When you arrive in Hong Kong—the clipper will be there long before the mail ship—you must get to her before she hears the tragic news of my husband’s death from anyone else. It is essential that you get to her first, telling her you bring her terrible news but also secret information, vital information that guarantees the ruin of Brock’s forever, that will put them out of business forever quickly.” She took a deep breath. “It will, won’t it?”
“Yes,” he said softly, no longer a need to deny it.
“Next, tell her the Brocks had planned to murder Malcolm, using Norbert Greyforth. Third, that …”
“They what?”
“Isn’t that true? Wasn’t that part of Tyler Brock’s plot? Or Morgan’s? Certainly Jamie is of that opinion—he would swear to it. Mr. Skye told me about the duel, the rest I forced from Jamie—why there was a duel. Wasn’t Norbert just a pawn for murder?”
“Maybe,” Gornt said, overwhelmed by her. “Probably. Next?”
“Next.” Her voice became quieter but oddly, clearer: “Please tell her it’s because of me you’re bringing her the evidence to destroy Brock’s—you must keep stressing that.”
“Because of you?”
“Because of me. Yes. Emphasize that. It’s important to me, not much to ask, and you will get what you want anyway.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. You tell her you were going to forget this written contract you had with her son, believing it to be valueless now. But because I asked you, pleaded with you to see her in his stead, you decided to rush to Hong Kong to see her.” She leaned closer. “The information, must it be acted on quickly?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Then emphasize that. But most of all, keep stressing it was I who persuaded you to go to her, my pleading persuaded you to see her to give her the evidence to destroy Malcolm’s enemies and hers … that I assured you she would honor the contract, or give you an equivalent. And she will. Tess Struan will, I guarantee.”
“With your signature?”
“That’s the first thing she will notice, so mention it in advance. Say Malcolm asked me to witness his signature, saying only it was a business contract between you two, which I did in front of you, without thought—on Monday, before the party. I didn’t read it, nor ask about it. Last, say you have an urgent letter from me, and give it to her.” Angelique picked up her glass. “If she reads it in front of you, she probably won’t, but if she does, I’d like to know what she says or does.”
Now she took a second sip, leaned back, waiting, her eyes locked on his.
Her face still told him nothing. “What’s in the letter?”
“You may read it, if you wish, before I seal it.” She added lightly, without spite, “It will save you the bother of opening it.”
His mind was pondering the conundrum of her. “And the news of his death, your marriage and his death, how do I tell her that and all the rest?”
“I don’t know, Edward. You will know how to do that.”
He grunted, astounded by the gall—no, not gall, more by the cunning. Obviously, her goal was to slide into Tess’s favor out of the existing enmity, and to forestall any action, civil or criminal, that a mother such as Tess Struan, torn apart by the agony of her loss, might, will, unleash against her—the current betting five to one Tess Struan would, two to one she would win.
Never mind that, this strategy could squeeze Angelique into the winner’s circle—could. With care, not quite as she had suggested it, much more subtly than that, he could do what she proposed without harming his own position and make his deal with Tess, who would certainly give him everything he wanted—once the shock of her son’s death had lessened and she could appreciate the enormity of what he had to offer.
Better for me to ease Angelique off the Tess Struan barb, much better. What should I ask in return? Her signature, of course, but what else? What else do I want from her? There are all kinds of gambits I co—
Angelique was reaching for the pen. Her face was grave as she signed her name as witness, dating it the day before yesterday. Silently she powdered it dry, blew the excess away, and placed it in front of him, her eyes still downcast.
“Whatever you decide, this is yours now, freely,” she said, gambling on his well-advertised sense of honor. “As for the rest, if you help me, Edward,” now she looked up at him, something inside of him stirred deliciously, “you would also have my gratitude, my undying gratitude, forever.”
Inside the shoya’s dwelling, Jamie sat cross-legged on the tatami, shoeless, Hiraga opposite him. At the head of the table was the shoya, and saké and tea.
For an hour or more Jamie had answered and asked questions, Hiraga translating, hesitating over the strange words, wanting further explanations to understand clearly. Jamie was tired, not because of the time spent here, a fascinating and a welcome relief from all his other troubles, but because there seemed to be no solution to them. He had been upset by Sir William’s refusal to be swayed over the burial, though understanding perfectly—he would have done the same in his position. Poor Angelique, poor Malcolm, poor Noble House. Even poor bloody Tess.
Something has to give. It won’t be Wee Willie. It has to be Angelique—there’s nothing she or anyone can do. This time I think it will break her.
As simply as he could he had laid out his idea for a joint venture, the shoya and his contacts supplying the goods on consignment they agreed on, Jamie supplying the European know-how, a six-month leeway for payment, which would give time for the goods to be sold and the money either to come back or to be reinvested in mass-produced goods that they, in return, would advise the joint venture to import. This led into a discussion of quantities, then into mass production methods that could make them all rich.
“Shoya ask: What cost your massu produk’shun machine?”
“It depends what the machines are to make,” Jamie said.
“Jami-sama, he ask you, p’rease, you say what goods to make to se’re in Ing’rund. Not now, in three day, p’rease. If shoya agree, perhaps make stoku kompeni and bring massu produk’shun machine to Nippon.”
Jamie smiled. “Mass production is initially expensive to set up, machines and factory. It’s not like the joint venture I suggested. There’s no way I could raise that much money.”
“Jami-sama, you not worry, not worry about money. Gyokoyama can buy-se’re Yedo if want.” Hiraga smiled grimly as Jamie blinked. “Shoya thank you and I thank you. P’rease, in three days, you say what to make and price. I see you home.”
“No need for that, thanks.”
Hiraga bowed, the shoya bowed, Jamie bowed back equally and went into the evening air.
“Tea, Sire?” the shoya asked.
Hiraga nodded a yes, preparing to leave, needing a bath and massage, but pleased with himself, everything done now except to collect Jami Mukfey’s supposed fee of the three koku.
The shoya ordered fresh tea. When the maid had gone, he said, “I have some news. By carrier pigeon, Otami-sama, about Lord Yoshi, and about the shishi you might like to hear.”
“Stop playing games! Of course I wish to hear.” Now that he was alone with the shoya, Hiraga became imperious and samurai without noticing it. “What news?”
“There’s been another attempt on Lord Yoshi.”
“He’s dead?” Hiraga said hopefully.
“No, Otami-sama,
here, please read for yourself.” With pretended meekness the shoya offered the sliver of paper, the same he had previously shown to Raiko and Meikin: An assassination attempt on Lord Yoshi at dawn at Hamamatsu village failed. Lone shishi assassin slain by him. Lady Koiko also dead in skirmish. Inform House of Wisteria our great sadness. More information soon as possible.
Hiraga read it, and gasped. “When did this happen?”
“Five days ago, Otami-sama.”
“Nothing further?”
“Not yet.”
Reading the message, his headache seemed to become even worse, his thoughts jumbled. Koiko dead, another shishi dead! Who? If she’s dead, what about Sumomo? “You’ve informed the House of Wisteria?”
“Yes, Otami-sama.”
“What did Meikin say?”
“She was distraught, Otami-sama, naturally.”
“What else do you know, shoya?”
“What I know that affects you and shishi, I tell you.”
“What about Katsumata and Takeda?”
“The word, Sire, they were still travelling towards us, as, supposedly, Lord Yoshi is.”
“When does he arrive back? Has he changed his plans now?” he asked, his mind tumbling. If Koiko was killed in the skirmish, was it by accident, or had Yoshi discovered Koiko had tentacles to us, as Meikin has? “Eh?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps about eight days, Otami-sama.” The shoya studied Hiraga’s concern and thought that, yes, this youth should be concerned, for obviously he is in great danger, but eeee, how valuable he is! I agree he is a National Treasure, or should be. Joint-u ven’shur!—a godlike idea! My son will go to work with this Jami gai-jin starting tomorrow, to learn barbarian ways and then I will not need Hiraga, who represents nothing but trouble to me directly, and so sorry, is doomed. Like we all are, if we are not very clever. “Otami-sama, there are many troop movements around us.”
“Eh? What kind of movements?”
“The Bakufu have reinforced the three nearest Tokaidō way stations to us. Also, there are five hundred samurai straddling the road north and south of us.” A bead of sweat slid down his cheek. “We are in a box of Tairō Anjo.”
Hiraga cursed and, too, felt the pressure increase. “What do you hear, Shoya? Is he planning to attack us here?”
“I wish I knew, Otami-sama. Perhaps telling the Taira about the troops might help to find out what is the gai-jin plan.”
“They’ll bombard Yedo, any fool knows that.” Hiraga felt sickened at the thought of the inevitable gai-jin victory though it would serve sonno-joi like nothing else. “There’s nothing the tairō can do to prevent …” His heart skipped a beat and he stopped.
“Except, Otami-sama?”
“Except history’s answer, the usual answer: a sudden, brutal, surprise attack to destroy the fleet’s base.” Hiraga was astonished he had shared his thought, and been so open with such a lowly person, even though the shoya was intelligent, a valuable ally, and soon to be a business partner.
Eeee, he told himself through the throbbing of his headache, there’s so much I do not understand, the world is turning upside down, everything different, I am different, no longer samurai yet totally samurai. It is these filthy gai-jin with their tempting, sickening, awesome, greed-making ideas. They must be thrown out—sonno-joi sonno-joi sonno-joi—but not yet. First massu produk’shun, the first to make rifles.
“Shoya, send out all spies in case that is Anjo’s plan.”
“Spies, Otami-sama?”
Hiraga said, “The time is now to stop playing games, Shoya. You understand? No-more-games!”
“I obey in everything, Otami-sama. As usual, as I ha—”
“You did very well tonight, Shoya. The moment you hear anything about Yoshi or shishi, send me word, please.” Hiraga added the “please” as a major concession.
“As quick as a hunting sea bird, Sire.”
“Good night then—ah, so sorry, I forgot, there is the gai-jin’s fee. He asked me to remind you.”
The shoya’s stomach turned over. From his sleeve he extracted a small bag—it would have been very bad manners to give it to Jami-sama direct. “Here is the equal in gold oban for one and a half koku, Otami-sama, the rest in ten days.”
Hiraga shrugged and casually put it in his own sleeve, but the weight of it and the joy of it astonished him. “I will tell him, and see he is here in three days.”
“Thank you, Otami-sama. These troop movements, terribly worrisome. War is coming. My Masters say if they could have advance warning of gai-jin plans … they would appreciate deeply any help. Perhaps your Taira-sama …” Hopefully, he left the name hanging.
Another message from Head Office in Osaka had arrived today, more urgent than the last. As if I cannot read? the shoya thought angrily, as if I’m uncaring and disloyal. I do everything I can. It is those two cursed mama-sans. Two days and still nothing from them!
Before he had left Raiko and Meikin he had impressed on them his urgent need to know everything they knew, or could find out, quickly. His anger began to increase, not only because the two women had pretended to know nothing however much he cajoled them, even though he was sure that they already had an inkling, but also because his precious gold oban were in this rapacious samurai’s sleeve, fees, however well earned for an equally rapacious gai-jin. And where will all my lovely oban end up? Of course in some whore’s Golden Gully.
“Thank you so much, Otami-sama,” the shoya said unctuously, as Hiraga left, keeping his head on his tatami to hide the gnashing of his few remaining broken teeth, wanting to humble Hiraga, make him sweat, telling him, not sorry at all: oh, so sorry, your late whore Koiko was implicated in the plot, so was your trained female assassin and wife-to-be Sumomo who had her head chopped off too, and your shishi supporter Meikin, mama-san to the most important men in Yedo—even Gyokoyama leaders—is not long for this earth because we surmise Yoshi knows all this too.
And though you’re the cleverest samurai I’ve known, you’re doomed doomed doomed, and yet my illustrious superiors expect me to treat you as a National Treasure and keep you alive as well. Oh ko!
Tonight I shall get drunk, but not before congratulating myself on the imminent formation of the Ryoshi Joint-u Ven’shur Stoku Kompenil Eeee, an idea worthy of gods!
Walking home, Jamie McFay loosened his topcoat though the evening air was cold. He was warm. The knowledge gained was substantial and his concentration had driven away his cares. All very interesting, he thought, but neither of those two have any idea of the initial costs of mass production. And yet the way Nakama said Gyokoyama could buy and sell Yedo if they wanted, for the moment I really believed it. The shoya will go for a joint venture, I’m sure of it.
His step was brisk and he greeted others walking the High Steet and went up the Struan steps, into his domain. It’s mine again, he thought, with pride. Perhaps Tess will change her mind now—she’s no fool and I’ve done a good job.
Vargas was waiting.
“’Evening, Vargas, time to lock up?”
“Yes, but first, senhor, sorry, these came in yesterday’s mail but, somehow, were in my In tray.”
Both letters were marked Personal and Confidential and addressed to him. The first was in Tess Struan’s writing. His stomach heaved. The other was from Maureen Ross, his erstwhile fiancée. His unease doubled. “Thanks,” he said. In spite of his resolve to wait, he could not and tore Tess’s letter open. This is to inform you formally that Mr. Albert MacStruan is transferred from Shanghai, arriving by steamer, Wayfong, on the 17th. Please acquaint him with all Japanese operations. Subject to your noncompliance with previous letters he assumes control at the end of December.
His dismissal from the Noble House, now that it was in effect, did not anger him as he expected. In fact he was relieved. Weird, just a few moments ago I thought it was my …
He looked up at Vargas who was watching narrowly. “What else, Vargas?” He folded the letter and put it on his desk with the other one.
“Mrs. Angelique is in the tai-pan’s office. She asked if you could see her for a moment?”
“What’s up now?”
“Nothing that I know of, senhor, the evening has been peaceful. A message arrived from your Nemi, asking if you would be visiting later. One other small matter, Captain Strongbow again asked for sailing orders. Again I told him to be patient. It will be on the evening tide?”
“Yes. I think so. Send word to Nemi: Perhaps.”
“At once, senhor. Then it’s decided? The tai-pan’s remains will go with Cloud? And of course the Senhora?”
“Either by clipper, or the mail ship, one or the other,” he said, walked along the corridor, knocked and went in.
She was curled in Malcolm’s chair, which Jamie was coming to think of as her own, reading the Guardian by oil light. “Hello, Jamie.”
“’Evening. I’ve decided to go with you and the mail ship.” He tried unsuccessfully not to sound blunt. “It’s my job to explain to Tess Struan.” Having said it, he felt better. “It’s my job and I think Mal—I think he would like me to do that, and it might spare you a little.”
“Yes,” she said with her sweet smile, “I’m sure he would. Close the door, Jamie, and sit down a moment.” When he had obeyed, she dropped her voice and told him Hoag’s plan. “Can you bring the cutter to Kanagawa with the rest of us tomorrow evening?”
He was staring at her stupidly, completely off guard. “You’re crazy. That plan’s crazy.”
“No, not at all. Dr. Hoag thinks …”
“He’s over the moon too—you’d never get away with it.”
“Why?” she asked calmly.
“Fifty reasons,” he said. “So many reasons I’m not even going to mention any. Whole idea’s ludicrous, insane, Willie will have you in irons.”
“There’s no law against what we would be doing, Mr. Skye says. The burial would be quite legal, he says.”
“Mr. Bloody Know-it-all says that, eh? And what else’s Heavenly going to do,” he asked, “put his collar on backwards and read the bloody service?”
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