When he got back, Shi-Rong found that they’d given the assassin water and a little rice, which he’d thrown up. His eyes were sunken.
“We’re to go on,” Shi-Rong said to the sergeant. “Did he say anything?”
The sergeant shook his head. He was tired and irritated. He looked at the man on the dragon bed with fury. “Time to talk,” he said. And now he took a wedge and a heavy wooden mallet. Forcing the wedge down between the slats, he gave it a sudden vicious blow with the mallet that sent a frightful shock onto the half-shattered ankle bones.
The scream that came from the prisoner was not like anything Shi-Rong had heard from a human being before. Once, camping in a forest at night, he had heard something like this. A wild creature, he did not know what, had uttered a primal scream as it was being attacked—an unearthly scream, echoing through the trees in the darkness. And every man in the little camp had shuddered.
He started in horror. Even the sergeant looked shocked, to conceal which, he shouted angrily at the prisoner: “Now talk, you son of a dog.” And seizing the rod from his assistant he yanked it around a full turn, as if this would finish the business for good.
The prisoner’s gasp of agony and the moan that followed were so piteous that Shi-Rong doubled over. As he forced himself to straighten up, he was trembling. He saw that the assistant was still watching the proceedings with a calm curiosity.
“Ask him a question,” said the sergeant. But Shi-Rong could not.
“Talk, or I’ll do it again!” the sergeant snarled at the prisoner with a curse. But the prisoner had lost consciousness. Shi-Rong could only hope he had died.
But he hadn’t.
* * *
—
Two hours later, the sergeant went out and came in after a short while carrying a fresh set of boards. Working together, he and the assistant removed the three uprights and inserted the new boards in their place. As they did so, Shi-Rong could see that the pirate’s ankle bones were already smashed and that blood was flowing from them freely.
“Why do you change the boards?” he asked the sergeant.
“These ones have been soaked in water. Makes ’em heavier and they grip tighter.” He gave Shi-Rong a bleak look. “These’ll finish the business.”
* * *
—
So they went to work again, the assistant twisting the rope, the sergeant using his wedge and mallet, both occasionally slipping on the darkening pool of blood upon the floor.
Again and again Shi-Rong asked questions: “What is your name? Who are your accomplices?” He offered mercy, promised more pain. But got nothing. By midafternoon, the prisoner was drifting in and out of consciousness. It was hard to tell what he heard and what he did not. The room stank of sweat and urine. Shi-Rong suggested quietly to the sergeant that it might be more productive to pause, let the prisoner rest, and then start again the next day. But the sergeant made it a point of pride, it seemed, to break his victims quickly. And he would not stop.
It was only at the end of the afternoon, when he heard the sergeant curse in frustration, that Shi-Rong discovered that the prisoner was dead.
“I never fail,” the sergeant muttered furiously, and walked out of the room in disgust. His assistant followed him.
But Shi-Rong did not leave. He did not wish to be with them. Let the sergeant tell the commissioner he’d failed. He sat down on the bench and buried his face in his hands.
“I am sorry,” he said to the dead man at last. “I am so sorry.” Did he want the dead man to forgive him? He had no hope of that. “Oh,” he moaned, “it is terrible.”
Silence.
And then the dead man spoke. “You’re lucky.” A faint, rasping whisper.
Shi-Rong started and stared at the dead man, who did not seem to have moved at all. Had he imagined it? He must have. Nothing more likely, given the state he was in. He shook his head, took it in his hands again, and gazed miserably at his feet.
“Remember…”—the sound was so soft he wasn’t even sure he heard it—“I told them…nothing.” A whisper, followed by a sigh.
Was he still alive, then, after all? Shi-Rong leaped up. He stood over the dead man, watching intently. He saw no sign of life.
And there must not be. This business had to end. The prisoner mustn’t talk now. Desperately, Shi-Rong looked around for something he could use to suffocate the fellow. He couldn’t see anything. He put one hand over the poor devil’s mouth, grabbed his nose with the other, and stood there while the long seconds passed. He glanced at the door, afraid that someone would come in and see him.
An age seemed to pass before he decided to let go. The fellow was dead, all right. He’d been dead from the start. The whisper? A hallucination. Or perhaps the dead man’s ghost had spoken. That must be it.
So long as no one heard.
* * *
—
When Shi-Rong entered the library, Commissioner Lin already knew that the prisoner was dead. He received Shi-Rong calmly. “You look tired.”
“I am, Excellency.”
“An interrogation is a distressing business. But unfortunately it is necessary. If this man had told us his accomplices, we might have questioned them and learned more.”
“I apologize, Excellency. I thought we should allow him to recover and try again tomorrow, but…”
“I am aware of all that. I do not think the prisoner would have talked. I think he wanted to die. For his honor, as he saw it.”
“Do you think he was part of a secret society, Excellency, like the White Lotus?”
“More likely he was just a pirate. These smugglers often come from the same village and clan…they’d sooner die than betray their comrades.” He paused a moment and gave Shi-Rong a bleak smile. “But if I am right, I do not intend to leave his accomplices at large. Tomorrow, I intend to start rounding up all the pirates along these coasts.”
“All of them, Excellency?”
“All that we can find. I expect it will be a large number.” Lin nodded. “And while I am doing that, I have another important assignment for you. Go and rest now, and report to me tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you, Excellency.” Shi-Rong bowed. And he was about to turn towards the door when Lin interrupted him.
“Before you go, Mr. Jiang, there is something I wish to ask you.” The commissioner gazed at him steadily. “Why do you think I ordered you to conduct the interrogation?”
“I do not know, Excellency.”
“Those who serve the emperor must accept grave responsibilities. A general knows that those following his commands may die in battle. A governor has to mete out punishments, including the sentence of death. And he must order interrogations. These duties are not taken lightly and may be hard to bear. It is important that you learn the bitter meaning of responsibility, Mr. Jiang. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“There is one thing more.” The mandarin was staring at him now in a way that was terrible. “You must agree, Mr. Jiang, that one aspect of this affair remains to be explained: Did the assassin have prior knowledge that Dr. Parker was going to send me the trusses? If so, was it Parker who gave the secret away? And if not Parker, then who? We cannot exclude the possibility that it was you.” Lin paused. “Can we?”
It might have been part of an examination essay: those Confucian essays for future government servants that called for logic, completeness, judgment. And justice.
“The possibility cannot be excluded,” Shi-Rong agreed.
“I never doubted your loyalty,” Lin continued. “But a careless word to a friend. The word repeated. Gossip overheard. This could have been the source.” Lin’s eyes remained fixed on him. “It is fortunate I was not killed. For if you had been the cause of my death, I feel sure you would have experienced a remorse so heavy that it would have weighed upon y
ou like a millstone, perhaps until your death.” Lin paused. “Instead, you saved my life.”
Was Lin offering him the opportunity to confess? Shi-Rong wanted to. He wanted so much to clear his conscience, to beg forgiveness from this man whom he had come to love and admire.
But what if this was a trap? He could not take the chance.
“I understand, Excellency,” he said, bowing his head.
“Quite so. Assuming you were not the source, as I have already said, the conduct of an interrogation was an unpleasant but valuable experience for you to undergo. But if by chance you were the source, then what better way of letting you understand the gravity of what you had done? And a punishment for your carelessness would have been appropriate. The horror of the interrogation in which you have just participated would have been a just punishment, and a good way of reminding you to be more responsible in future. Do you agree?”
Lin had guessed. No question. The great man had seen straight through him.
“Yes, Excellency,” Shi-Rong murmured, and hung his head.
“Sleep well, Mr. Jiang. Tomorrow you will be going on a journey.” The commissioner looked down at the papers on his desk, as a signal that the interview was over.
“A journey, Excellency?” Shi-Rong couldn’t help himself. “Where to?”
Lin looked up again, as if surprised his secretary was still there. “Macao.”
* * *
◦
The rumor began at the start of August. John Trader heard it from Tully Odstock. Not that he worried.
The last couple of weeks had been rather pleasant. For a start, Cecil Whiteparish had not appeared again since their awkward encounter. Thank God for that at least. The fellow was still on Macao, of course, but he was keeping his distance. Nor had anyone come up to him and said, “I hear you have a missionary in the family.” So presumably Whiteparish had lost his desire to have him as a cousin.
He’d enjoyed the usual social round. Marissa was contented. And although there were some war junks anchored off the island, the Celestial Kingdom didn’t seem to be taking much interest in the occupants of Macao.
Until the rumors began.
“Lin’s got some damned fellow running spies on the island,” Tully told him. “So be careful what you say.” He nodded. “Mum’s the word, Trader. Watch and ward.”
“Where is he? Do we know who it is?”
“Don’t know who. He’s operating out of one of the war junks down at the end of the island.”
“Well, I can’t think he’s going to learn anything of interest. Nothing’s happening.”
Tully Odstock gave him a strange look. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that, if I were you,” he said quietly.
“Really? I haven’t heard anything.”
“Too busy with that young woman of yours.” Tully’s sniff didn’t sound too disapproving. “Fact is, between you and me, the opium trade’s started again.”
“Already? We aren’t selling any. Who’s selling?”
“Matheson.” Tully shook his head. “The damn fella’s so rich he can do things we can’t. And behind his gentlemanlike appearance, he’s cunning as a barrel-load of monkeys.”
“How’s he doing it?”
“He’s operating ships out of Manila, other side of the China Sea. They’re carrying cargoes of cotton. Piled high with the stuff. Perfectly legal. But he’s got chests of opium hidden in the holds. And the clever thing is, there’s nothing in writing. Even if spies intercept the letters to his captains, they’ll only find instructions about cottons—that’s his code, you see. Each kind of opium is called a different sort of cotton. Cotton Chintz means Malwa opium, Whites are Patna opium, and so on. And with opium being scarce after Lin’s confiscation, he’s getting high prices for every chest.” He sighed in admiration. “Of course, if Lin ever does get wind of it, there’ll be hell to pay.”
All that day and the next, Trader found himself looking at people in the street with new eyes. Was this spymaster, whoever he might be, using the Chinese to do his bidding? Was he bribing local people? Might he even seek out someone like Mrs. Willems, who might get to hear such information? Or Marissa? Could Marissa ever do such a thing? He put the thought from him. All the same, he wouldn’t be telling her what he now knew, nor anyone else.
Two days later, coming back to his lodgings at midday, he encountered Tully. His partner was standing by the corner of the seafront, together with Elliot. They were gazing at a large proclamation that had been pasted on a wall. Tully beckoned him over and indicated he should read the poster.
It was from Commissioner Lin. It was in English, quite intelligible. And alarming.
“Remember those sailors who killed a native near Hong Kong last month?” Tully said.
“Yes. But I thought the man’s family were paid off. You said the whole thing would blow over.”
“Well, Lin’s found out about it. And judging by this poster, he ain’t going to let it go. He wants the culprit handed over.”
“Nobody’s been found guilty yet,” Elliot said sharply.
“I notice one thing,” Trader remarked. “Lin says that according to our own laws, a man who commits a crime in another country is tried by the laws of the sovereign state where the crime took place. Is that correct, legally?”
“Do you want our sailors to be tortured and executed?” Tully exploded.
“No.”
“Well then. What I say is, damn the law, if it’s not our law. Right, Elliot?”
“We have no treaty with China about such matters,” said Elliot firmly.
“Judging by the tone,” Trader offered, “I think Lin truly believes we’re behaving badly.”
“We have identified six men who took part in the incident,” said Elliot. “I shall hold a properly constituted trial in ten days. And I have already invited Commissioner Lin to attend or send a representative.”
“Do you think that’ll satisfy him?” Tully asked.
But Elliot, with a polite bow, was moving on.
* * *
—
The trial took place ten days later. Elliot conducted it on board ship. It lasted two days. Commissioner Lin did not attend, nor did he send any representative. Trader heard the news from Tully at lunchtime.
“He’s found five of the sailors guilty.”
“Of murder?”
“Certainly not. Riot and assault. He fined the lot of them. And they’ll be sent back to England to serve time in prison, too. So that’s that.”
Trader wasn’t so sure. But it was no use worrying about that now. He was due to see Marissa in a few hours. He had lunch with Tully and went for a walk on the seashore afterwards. After that, he took a siesta.
* * *
—
It was early evening. He had climbed the hill and was just below the high facade of St. Paul’s, and he was thinking that it would be a pleasant thing to turn into the old Jesuit cannon battery for a few minutes and gaze down upon the sea, when he noticed, ahead of him, a pair of figures heading in the same direction—one of whom he could have sworn he knew.
He followed them. And as they stopped beside the first old gun, and the younger turned his head to address his companion, he saw for certain that it was Shi-Rong, the commissioner’s secretary.
Insofar as he could judge, the times they’d met before, he’d rather liked the young mandarin. But what the devil was he doing here? Should he speak to him?
And then it suddenly dawned on him: Shi-Rong might be the spymaster.
He’d vaguely supposed it would be some older man. But Shi-Rong was Lin’s secretary. If he’d proved himself effective, the commissioner might have entrusted him with such a mission. Did that mean he should avoid him? On the contrary. All the more interesting to talk to him. Try to find out what was going on. He went forward. Shi-Rong glanced his w
ay, recognized him.
And at that moment, Trader remembered: the letter. Lin’s letter to Queen Victoria. The letter he’d promised to forward. He’d completely forgotten about it. Only one thing to do. He bowed, smiled.
“Long time no see,” he offered. “I sent Commissioner Lin’s letter to Oxford. Maybe the queen will see it one day.”
Had they understood? He couldn’t be sure. The man with Shi-Rong wasn’t Mr. Singapore. Short and middle-aged, he looked Malay, though his hair was plaited down his back in the Chinese queue. He might speak English. He might not.
“I was very sorry about the death of the man at Hong Kong,” said Trader politely. “The guilty men have all been sent to jail.” He waited. Shi-Rong and his companion looked at each other. “Did you understand?” Trader asked.
Both men bowed to him politely, but there did not seem to be a trace of understanding on their faces, and neither of them made any reply.
And Trader would no doubt have given up and left them had they not, all three, been surprised by a figure hastening towards them. The figure called out to John.
It was Cecil Whiteparish. He looked furious. He rudely ignored the two Chinese and practically made a run at Trader, as though he meant to knock him to the ground.
“What the devil do you want?” cried John in surprise and some alarm.
“I want to talk to you, sir,” shouted his cousin.
“This is hardly the time and place,” snapped John.
“Is it not, sir? I’ll be the judge of that. I sought you at your lodgings. You were not there. So I guessed I might find you up here—no doubt to visit your whore!”
With a supreme effort at self-control, John spoke with icy calm. “This gentleman…”—he indicated Shi-Rong—“is the private secretary of Commissioner Lin, whom I have the honor to know. I was just expressing to him my regret for the unfortunate death of one of his countrymen, and explaining to him that all the men who took part in the affray have just been sent to jail.”
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