A Multitude of Sins

by Margaret Pemberton

  ‘Are you all right, darling?’ Adam asked an hour later, padding out towards her in his pyjamas.

  She turned round to him and smiled – the slow, unknowingly sensuous smile that always made him catch his breath as if he had been punched in the chest. ‘Yes. I couldn’t sleep any longer. I feel like a child at Christmas. I’ve never seen anywhere so beautiful.’

  He slid his arm around her waist, looking with her out over the harbour at the flurry of sampans and junk masts and patched sails and beyond them to the towering mountains of Hong Kong Island and the tortuous valleys and ravines that gashed and scarred their slopes.

  ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ he said with satisfaction. ‘Let’s have breakfast and get out there and see it properly.’

  ‘I thought you had a meeting with Leigh Stafford this morning?’

  ‘Not till lunch-time,’ Adam said, picking up the telephone and dialling room service. ‘We can have the morning together and then later, after I’ve talked to Stafford, we can perhaps do a bit of house-hunting.’

  They ate breakfast on their balcony: scrambled eggs and bacon, and papaya with limes and mango juice as well as coffee. By the time they walked out through the Peninsula’s glass-fronted doors and on to the street, the delicious coolness of the early morning had given way to scorching heat, and Elizabeth was grateful for the light breeze that blew in off the water.

  ‘You’ll soon get used to it,’ Adam said with a grin. ‘And the houses are air-conditioned. Haven’t you seen all the fans?’

  She had. The sound of their soft whirr had lulled her to sleep the previous night, and she understood now why Tom Nicholson had suggested that they look for a house on the Peak. It would be much cooler up there.

  ‘Let’s go across to Victoria on the ferry,’ Adam said as they weaved their way between scores of Chinese women in black trousers and jackets, flat straw hats on their dark plaited hair. ‘There will be a strong breeze off the water and it will help you to acclimatize.’

  The ferry was packed with laughing, talking, jostling Chinese, and Elizabeth remembered Tom Nicholson’s observations about them and grinned. He was quite right. They were more like boisterous Italians than the impassive Orientals she had been led to expect.

  They landed at the Star Ferry Pier on Hong Kong Island only a few minutes later.

  ‘That has to be the shortest, most spectacular channel crossing in the world,’ Adam said as he extricated her from a throng of surging Chinese all eager to be the first to set foot on dry land. ‘Let’s find somewhere to take it easy and have a drink.’

  For half an hour they sat in the coolness of a traditional tea house, sipping jasmine-scented tea, adamant that they would not lose face by asking for milk or sugar, or even lemon.

  ‘When in Rome …,’ Adam had said with a grin when the traditional Chinese teacups, without handles and with small lids, had been set down before them. It had tasted nicer than they had expected, and they each drank two cups before they left in search of a rickshaw and a leisurely tour of the city.

  As their rickshaw-boy trundled them away from the harbour, the noise and clamour nearly took their breath away. It seemed as if the whole world was trying to squeeze into the narrow bustling streets. There were bicycles and trams and taxis, street-hawkers and sailors, delicately built Chinese women carrying their babies on their backs, old people pushing hand-carts, shop vendors touting their wares, their goods spilling out of tiny dark shops on to the street. The air was pungent with the smell of spices and dried fish and the sweetness of flowers, deafening with the cries of hawkers.

  ‘A bit different from Bond Street, isn’t it?’ Adam said with relish.

  ‘Much more fun,’ she agreed, her hand affectionately in his. ‘Oh, goodness, look at that jade, Adam! Is it real? It looks too good to be true!’

  They bought a jade necklace, an exquisitely carved ivory horse and a rose-quartz paperweight, returning with their treasures to the Peninsula Hotel and lunch with Leigh Stafford.

  He was a broadly built, stocky man in his early fifties, with an affable smile and an easy manner.

  ‘I must say, I was surprised to hear you were coming to Hong Kong to judge for yourself whether we should pull our horns in or not,’ he said when initial introductions were over and the soup had been served.

  ‘I had other reasons for coming out here,’ Adam said easily. ‘Personal reasons.’ He didn’t expand on what they were. ‘My fellow-directors don’t agree with you that there is any danger to the company at present. The general consensus of opinion is that there is to be no immediate pulling-in of assets.’

  Leigh Stafford shrugged. It was no more than he had expected. What he hadn’t expected was someone coming out from London to judge the situation for himself. And bringing his wife with him. He tried to stop himself from staring across at Elizabeth. If Harland was to stay for any length of time, she would certainly cause a flurry in the dovecotes. The expatriate British clung together in a small exclusive social circle. Entry would be easily and eagerly given to a man of Adam Harland’s standing, but it would be his wife who would attract attention. Her ivory-blonde beauty would be head-turning in any country, but in Hong Kong it was sensational.

  ‘I have to tell you that I am not in agreement with them,’ Adam was saying to him.

  ‘Er, what? Sorry.…’ Stafford dragged his attention away from Elizabeth and once more towards Adam.

  ‘I’m not in agreement with them,’ Adam repeated. ‘I personally think that your assessment of the situation out here is correct The Japanese are casting covetous eyes on the Philippines and Malaya, and if war breaks out in Europe, then I think you’re right. The Japs will try to take advantage of it.’

  Leigh Stafford’s interest quickened. It was a welcome change to meet someone whose ideas accorded with his own. ‘Damn right they will!’ he said forcefully. ‘But tell that to the civil servants and they’ll laugh at you! No one is taking Japanese aggression seriously. It’s the usual story of complacency and facile optimism, and it’s grossly misplaced. The Japanese aren’t a joke. They’re ruthless and fanatical. Anyone in doubt of that should have a word with the Chinese. The Japs are biting deeper into China every day, and they won’t be content with China. Not when there are rich pickings of rubber and tin to be had in Burma and Malaya. Take my word for it, when the time is right they’ll make their move, and when they do we’re not going to like it!’

  The impassioned authority in his voice sent a shiver down Elizabeth’s spine. She had begun to believe that Adam’s prediction of war in the East was groundless. That Mrs Smythe and the Colonel were right. The thought of Japanese aggression directed towards Great Britain was ridiculous and not to be taken seriously. Now, after listening to Leigh Stafford, she was no longer so sure.

  ‘What signs have there been of their intentions?’ she asked, tilting her head a little to one side, her green-gold eyes grave.

  Leigh Stafford was grateful for the excuse once more to return his attention towards her. Her voice was as lovely as her face. Low and warm, with a faint trace of huskiness that he found entrancing.

  Watch it, old boy, he said to himself chidingly. You’re too old for this caper now. But as he answered her query he knew that it was too late. He already adored her. She had a serene, almost untouched quality about her that appealed to his old-fashioned notion of what a woman should be.

  ‘They are widening their grip on south China, moving uncomfortably close towards us, and they are flauntingly gleeful of the fact that Hitler’s Germany has recognized them as the rulers of Manchuria. Other than that, they’re playing a waiting game. They won’t make any move until our attention is center elsewhere.’

  ‘On Germany?’

  He nodded, and then grinned. ‘And I bet there are plenty of people back home who are still complacent and optimistic about him!’

  They had all laughed, and the tension had ebbed. As they were lingering over their coffee, Adam said to him: ‘Where is the best place to start h
ouse-hunting.’

  ‘Hobson’s in Chater Road. They generally have a good list of what’s available. Who is it that’s on the lookout?’

  ‘We are,’ Adam said, amused at his assumption that it was someone else.

  Leigh Stafford stared at him. It had never occurred to him that Adam Harland intended staying in Hong Kong permanently. Damn it all. Only minutes ago he had been agreeing with him that it would very shortly come under attack by the Japanese! And the man had his wife with him!

  He said carefully: ‘Wouldn’t it be wisest to forgo that sort of commitment? Considering what we have just been talking about?’

  The smile-lines around Adam’s mouth deepened. ‘We’re here for the duration, Leigh. When, and if, those little yellow devils attack, I shall be in the forefront, driving them back where they came from! It’s a confrontation I wouldn’t miss for the world!’

  Stafford drew in his breath sharply. Harland was a director, and he couldn’t very well tell him that he was a fool. Nevertheless, he was staggered by his naivety. For over an hour they had discussed Japanese aggression, and he had assumed Harland understood the seriousness-of the threat. He hadn’t. He thought it a game. A game that, like a little boy, he wanted to take part in. ‘You must excuse me,’ he said abruptly, rising to his feet. ‘I have to be going now. I understand you are chairing our supplies meeting tomorrow? I’ll see you then.’ He nodded courteously and turned to Elizabeth, his fury that her safety should be valued so lightly by her husband white hot. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Harland. It’s been a pleasure meeting you. I hope we meet again.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said, but though her smile was warm her eyes were curious. Leigh Stafford was ragingly angry, and she wondered why. Was it because Adam had stated his intention of remaining in Hong Kong for some time? Was he afraid that his position as company manager would be usurped by Adam’s seniority?

  ‘Nice chap,’ Adam said, oblivious of the undercurrents as Stafford strode quickly from the dining-room.

  ‘He’s not afraid that you’ve come out here to check up on how he is running things, is he?’ Elizabeth asked, frowning slightly.

  Adam laughed. ‘Good God, no! I’ve told him I’m here on a sabbatical, not a business trip. After tomorrow I doubt that I’ll go near the office. Whatever put an idea like that in your head?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, carelessly dismissive, not wanting to spoil the day by reflecting too deeply on the alternative reason for Leigh Stafford’s sudden flare of rage. It was far too disturbing and thought-provoking. She would think about it later, when she was alone.

  They found a suitable house to rent on their very first trip to Victoria Peak. Hobson’s had supplied them with details of three houses, but they only needed to see the first. It was a long, low, stately white mansion that had been built in the early years of the century by a prosperous merchant. The garden surrounding it was vast and lush, the views stupendous. A swimming-pool had been installed by a later owner, and from the terrace surrounding it could be seen the distant harbour and Green Island and Peng Chau Island to the north, Lantau Island and Macau to the west. The furnishings were a pleasing mixture of modern comfort and Chinese elegance. Deep creamy-white sofas and chairs, silk Chinese carpets, jade cabinets, and ivory-framed mirrors. The houses of their affluent neighbours were hidden by forests of bamboo and fern, stunted Chinese pines, hibiscus and vines, so it seemed as if they were alone in a tropical paradise.

  ‘Tom Nicholson lives only fifteen minutes away. He seems to be about the only civil servant here that Stafford has any time for,’ Adam said as they walked in from the garden, both knowing that they were going to take the house.

  ‘Does Leigh Stafford live on the Peak as well?’ Elizabeth asked, mentally planning her first dinner-party.

  ‘No.’ Adam was about to say that no company manager could afford the sky-high prices of Peak property when Elizabeth seized his arm.

  ‘Look! Over there, in the trees! It’s a monkey, Adam! I’m sure of it!’

  ‘Then, I would prefer it to keep its distance,’ Adam said with equanimity. ‘Let’s drive back to Chater Road and tell Hobson’s that we’ll take the house as soon as possible, with or without wildlife!’

  On Friday evening they drove up to the Peak once more, this time for dinner with Tom Nicholson.

  ‘Whatever sort of civil servant he is, he certainly isn’t a minor one,’ Adam said drily as they drove along exclusive Plantation Road, catching glimpses of colonial-style mansions hidden behind thick screens of bamboo and pine.

  ‘Perhaps he’s the governor,’ Elizabeth said impishly. She was wearing an ice-coloured blue dress which hung silkily from her shoulders and danced softly over her skin. It was a halter neck with a low V in the back, and her silver-blonde hair was swept high into an elegant knot, revealing aquamarines at her ears and throat. She looked sensational, and Adam grinned, knowing full well the effect she would have at the Nicholson dinner-table. He began to whistle beneath his breath. He was feeling more relaxed and fit than he had for a long time. The change of climate and scenery was doing him good. He no longer felt as if he was hurtling fast towards a wheelchair and decrepitude. The lifestyle of a wealthy expatriate suited him. There was plenty of sport: tennis and swimming were a part of daily life, as were the cocktail-parties and dinner-parties. The thought came from out of nowhere that it was a way of life Jerry would have loved. He felt a pang of loss as he drove up the wide drive of Tom Nicholson’s home. It had been seven years since Jerry had died, and he still missed him like hell. His hand closed over Elizabeth’s and tightened. ‘I love you,’ he said thickly as the car slid to a halt. He had lost Jerry but he would never lose Beth. She was the central point of his life and always had been, always would be.

  She leaned across to him, kissing him gently on the cheek, the aquamarines dancing softly against her neck. He resisted the urge to draw her into his arms. There would be time, later, for that. For the moment he would be content in showing her off, enjoying the looks of envy in the men of his own age group, the vain hope in the eyes of those who were younger. He knew very well that Nicholson was attracted to her and he also knew that he had nothing to fear. His only rival for her affections was her music and, for a little while at least, he had put that firmly in the background.

  A Chinese maid opened the door to them, and then Tom Nicholson strode towards them, his arms welcoming. ‘Good to see you!’ he said expansively, greeting them as if they were old friends and not relatively new acquaintances. ‘Let me introduce you to everyone.’

  He led them into a vast white-carpeted drawing-room, long high windows looking out over the dark hillside and the distant glittering lights of Victoria.

  ‘Helena, Elizabeth and Adam Harland. We met aboard the Orient Princess. Elizabeth and Adam, Helena Nicholson, my sister-in-law.’

  Helena Nicholson shook hands with them warmly. She was a tall well-built girl with a beautiful square-jawed, high-cheekboned face and a mass of auburn hair falling untidily to her shoulders. ‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ she said and then, with disarming directness, to Elizabeth: ‘Tom tells me that you play the piano.’ Tom Nicholson made an exasperated sound in the back of his throat, and she laughed. ‘Sorry, he said that on no account was I to ask you to play. That you were a Bach and Beethoven performer, not an Irving Berlin party player.’

  ‘If Irving Berlin is what you want, I’ll happily play it,’ Elizabeth said, liking Helena Nicholson instantly, and wondering just when her brother-in-law had eavesdropped on her early-morning practice sessions.

  There were five other guests: Major Alastair Munroe, a soft-spoken Scot in his early thirties, who had been stationed in Hong Kong for over three years; Sir Denholm and Lady Gresby, who had also been resident since 1936; and a tall languid American, Ronnie Ledsham, and his red-headed French wife, Julienne.

  ‘We could do with a bit of decent piano-playing,’ Ronnie Ledsham said as they all moved out of the drawing-room and on to the coolness of the veranda where
cocktails were being served. ‘” Land of Hope and Glory” is all Tom can play, and he can’t play that very well!’

  ‘I understand you’ve moved into the Sumnor house?’ Sir Denholm said to Adam as Tom Nicholson’s Chinese house-boy served them with wickedly dry Martinis. ‘Splendid views from there, if I remember rightly. A marvellous house for parties.’

  The Smalltalk continued. By the time they went in for dinner Elizabeth had gleaned that Helena Nicholson was a widow and that her escort for the evening was Major Munroe; that Ronnie Ledsham was a flirtatious rogue, and that Sir Denholm was a respected member of the Colonial Government. He talked knowledgeably of the East, discounting all suggestions that the Japanese were a force to Watch.

  ‘Certainly they are behaving belligerently,’ he said to Adam as deep-fried prawns were served, ‘but their sabre-rattling isn’t to be taken seriously. It’s just so much hot air. Nothing more.’

  The conversation turned to more important matters. To last Saturday’s race meeting, polo, the Royal Scots’ chances in a forthcoming army boxing championship.

  ‘I shall certainly not be there to cheer you on,’ Julienne said to Alastair Munroe in prettily accented English. ‘It is an ugly sport, the boxing. I do not understand your enthusiasm for it at all.’

  ‘And I don’t understand your enthusiasm for mammoth shopping sprees,’ her husband said to her amid much laughter.

  Julienne looked up at him from beneath her luxuriant eyelashes, saying with obvious mischief: ‘It is a pity that Raefe Elliot is not eligible to box for the Royal Scots. The result would be a foregone conclusion, would it not?’