“Fine—but she comes with me.”
“I think not.”
“I’m not leaving her with you.”
“If you sign the agreement, do your part, then I won’t be forced to hurt her.”
Rowland knew Carmel was lying. The lawyer couldn’t let them go now, no matter what Rowland signed. He played for time. “You weren’t forced to kill Alexandra Romanova, but you did anyway.”
Carmel exploded. “For pity’s sake, Sinclair, don’t be such a bloody fool!” He dropped the bayonet away from Edna’s throat, using it to remonstrate as he spoke. “The girl was working for me from the outset. She was a tart, hired to compromise your upstanding brother but you turned up instead and she got ideas. Fancied she might snare a wealthy husband instead of doing what she’d been hired to do. The little tramp went up to your suite to try it on for size, for God’s sake!”
“She liked to look at the first-class suites,” Rowland said. “She wasn’t—”
“Henri overheard her making that message for you. He took the disc from her, but the cunning little minx gave him a blank one. Oh yes… she intended to tell you, all right, to earn your love and gratitude by betraying me! I couldn’t allow that.”
“But Wilfred—”
“I might have misrepresented the facts a little there. He didn’t save my life, I saved his.” Carmel’s knuckles were white on the bayonet’s handle. “And how does he repay me for his miserable life, for the happiness and wife and children that came with it? I ask him to come to Shanghai and he lets me down, sends his idiot Communist brother in his place.”
Rowland’s eyes darted back to Edna. She was rigid. He wanted desperately to snatch her away from Carmel, to protect her, but he could not risk her to a skirmish.
“Did you kill Bertram Middleton, Mr. Carmel?” Edna forced sound through terror.
“Yes.” Carmel laughed. “Rowland told me about the man himself. I couldn’t believe my luck. I telephoned and made an appointment to meet him that evening.” With his free hand he pulled an imaginary trigger twice. “It was surprisingly simple, much easier than the Russian girl.”
Rowland felt sick. He’d as good as signed Middleton’s death warrant. Though he despised the man, though he’d threatened to kill him, this was different. “Why do you need me to sell wool to the Japanese?” Rowland asked.
“Because I advised some very dangerous men that the Sinclairs would sell to the Japanese. And they made investments accordingly. Your obstinacy, my boy, is set to ruin me. Now I suggest you go before Mr. Yiragowa becomes anxious.”
“Not unless Ed comes with me.” Rowland swallowed, aware of how dangerous the lawyer was. Their only chance, ironically, was with the Japanese businessmen. “I won’t leave her with you.”
“Would you rather watch me cut her throat, Rowland?”
Rowland’s mind worked furiously for some way of putting himself between Edna and Carmel’s blade. He tried to keep the lawyer’s attention on him. “If you do that, Mr. Carmel, then all this… the murder of two people, all your elaborate planning—it’s all wasted, because I will sign nothing.”
Carmel flicked the bayonet. Edna gasped as it nicked her throat. A bead of red trickled onto the blade. Le Fevre grabbed Rowland before he could lunge towards the lawyer. “Will you say that when she’s bleeding, Rowland?” Carmel demanded.
“Do not move, Monsieur,” Le Fevre whispered. “He will not hesitate.”
Rowland froze, and for a moment there was only fear and horror, eyes locked and breaths held. The screech of tyres startled them all. There were cars at the gate once more, a horn was sounded now, and for just a pounding heartbeat Carmel turned. Rowland took the chance that Le Fevre would not shoot and lunged, seizing Carmel’s wrist and forcing it away from Edna’s throat. Rowland brought Carmel to the ground and pounded the lawyer’s hand against the wooden floor in an attempt to loosen his grasp on the bayonet. He shouted for Edna to run but Carmel slammed his forehead into Rowland’s temple. Rowland weakened, dazed, and Carmel brought the blade up between them. Edna screamed.
Le Fevre opened the door and ran out into the hallway. Realising that Edna was still in the room, Rowland rallied, blocking Carmel’s arm before the blade could be plunged into his chest. Even so, Rowland knew he was fading, now coughing and battling to breathe.
“Rowly!” Milton’s voice from somewhere in the house.
Edna cried for help.
Still Carmel did not pull back, crazed, focused only on driving the bayonet home. Desperation more than strength was all Rowland had left.
Edna was trying to pull Carmel off when Milton burst into the room. He grabbed Carmel’s arm and forced it back, blade and all. Then Clyde threw himself into the fray. The bayonet skittered across the wooden floor. Rowland rolled away, gasping for air and coughing blood.
38
ETIQUETTE OF THE HANDKERCHIEF.
Mrs. Jefferson Davis is the ‘New York Journal’s’ distinguished authority on etiquette. Recently she discoursed on the etiquette of legs, informing her lady readers that it was very bad form to sit with the legs crossed. Now the wearing and carrying of the pocket handkerchief claims her attention. She says: The handkerchief is one of the most necessary articles of the modern wardrobe. But etiquette demands that in spite of its usefulness it should be kept out of sight. The inconspicuous use of the handkerchief proves the refined man or woman. The misuse of the handkerchief indicates lack of breeding as much as faulty grammar or gaudy dress.
The etiquette of the handkerchief for a man, although very important, is also very simple and direct. Don’t use a handkerchief as if signalling an enemy with a flag of truce. Don’t display a handkerchief in a breast pocket as if it were an advertisement. Don’t in full dress wear it tucked in the waistcoat as though its sole purpose was to protect the shirt front. Don’t on a hot day wear a handkerchief tucked inside a collar, like a bib. Gaudy handkerchiefs are considered as bad taste for men as women. It is no longer correct for a man to carry a large silk handkerchief. The proper handkerchief is fine white linen with a half-inch hem, and a tiny embroidered initial in the corner. When necessary to use a handkerchief in public, always do so in the quietest, most unobtrusive manner. The fashionable multitudes have never become used to the bugle blast some people blow.
Yackandandah Times, 27 July 1900
Chief Inspector Randolph surveyed the sorry gathering before him, trying to ascertain what exactly had occurred from the babble of accounts. As a precaution, he had placed everyone, including Edna, under arrest, confining them to various rooms in the sanatorium, while he waited for more vehicles to transport the prisoners back to the International Police Headquarters.
The Japanese businessmen were furious, alternately demanding immediate release and the attendance of the consul and lawyers.
Rowland coughed again. The rally in his health had, once the immediate danger was over, subsided and he felt wretched. He left it to Edna to explain to the police what had happened. From the guarded office, Gilbert Carmel was shouting with all the force and volume of the law, claiming that he was the victim of a deranged, homicidal client. Le Fevre was as yet unaccounted for.
Alastair Blanshard lit a cigarette. He introduced himself to Randolph. “Might I have a private word, Chief Inspector?”
For a moment it seemed Randolph might refuse, and then he relented.
Rowland watched the exchange. He wondered if Blanshard had pulled some sort of rank. Perhaps international spies outranked the local police. He realised that he had never ascertained what exactly Blanshard was doing in Shanghai.
Edna returned from giving her statement, ignoring the young policeman who tried to direct her to wait in another room. She went immediately to Rowland’s side. “Haven’t they seen you yet?” she asked, placing a hand on his forehead. “Rowly, you’re running hot. You should be in bed.”
He looked at her throat. “Did he—”
“Just the tiniest scratch, Rowly.”
“God, E
d, I’m sorry. If I thought he’d let you go, I would have signed over everything I own.”
“Oh, I know that. You did the right thing.” She took his hand in hers. “Mr. Carmel would have killed me the moment you stepped out of the room. He couldn’t very well allow either of us to live.”
Clyde and Milton sat down opposite Rowland.
“So Carmel was behind it all?” Clyde handed him a glass of water. “Why?”
“Money, I suppose. I expect he always knew the Sinclairs were unlikely to pre-empt the embargo.” Rowland swallowed painfully and drained the glass before he went on. “But he’d promised his clients that we would, so he hired Alexandra to compromise Wil.”
“To blackmail him?”
Rowland nodded.
“But then you turned up so he decided to kill her instead?”
Edna pushed the hair gently back from Rowland’s face. “Alexandra wanted to tell Rowly the truth. She might have told him she wanted out of the scheme, or Le Fevre might have told him about the message he overheard her making for Rowly. Mr. Carmel couldn’t allow that.”
“Bloody hell, the poor girl… What about Middleton?”
Rowland rubbed his face. “That’s my fault,” he blurted. “I told Carmel about Middleton, that I’d threatened him, in case someone from the North China Daily News made a complaint. If I hadn’t—”
“Don’t you dare feel guilty about Bertie,” Edna said fiercely. “He got caught up in this because he followed us here! Because he was trying to…” Her lip trembled. She wiped her eyes, furious that after everything that had happened that day she would be reduced to tears over Bertram Middleton.
Rowland wrapped his arms around her. “I’m so sorry, Ed.”
She broke down then. Rowland held her as she sobbed into his chest. Clyde and Milton waited, without a word, for Edna’s tears to expend. They were shocked, but it was not a loss that they could grieve. Even Rowland, though he was plagued with guilt for his part in Middleton’s end, could feel only sadness for the wastage of a life. He had never liked Middleton particularly, and his recent treatment of Edna had transformed years of studied neutrality into open hostility. Even so, Middleton had been murdered. Callously and brutally. And it seemed right that at least Edna, who had loved him occasionally should weep, that here in China there should be tears, however confused.
A throat was cleared pointedly. Rowland looked up.
Chief Inspector Randolph nodded brusquely. “Would you care to come with me, Mr. Sinclair? If we take your statement now, we can release you to see a doctor as soon as possible. I understand you are unwell.”
Rowland was surprised by the new conciliation in Randolph’s manner. Nevertheless, he hesitated, reluctant to leave the sculptress.
It was Edna who drew away. “You go, Rowly.”
Clyde and Milton agreed. “We’ll keep an eye on Ed, mate. You tell them what Carmel’s been doing.”
Rowland took the handkerchief from the inside breast pocket of his jacket and handed it to Edna. “It’s clean. I always carry two of these.”
She laughed through her tears. “It’s just as well.”
39
WOMAN’S INTERESTS
(By “ALETHEA”)
Influenza Convalescents
One of the worst features of influenza is its weakening effect after recovery. Careful attention to diet, early bedtime, and freedom from over-exertion are obvious rules for the convalescent, but sometimes more than that is required to build up the strength which has ebbed since the illness. Those who have no great faith in the ordinary tonic will often take a home-made cordial, especially when it is based on eggs—the lightest, most nourishing and most easily digested of foods. The following egg tonic is recommended: Take 6 eggs, which should be straight from the nest, and not more than two days old. Wipe them thoroughly, and put them in an earthenware basin. Pour the juice of seven lemons over them, and let them stand for 18 hours until all the shells are dissolved. Turn them over occasionally, and take care that the eggs are covered with the juice of the lemons. Then when the eggs have absorbed all the juice, beat them up well, strain the mixture, and add a quarter of a pound of Demerara sugar, half a bottle of Jamaica rum, shake well, and bottle. The cordial is ready for use in a day or two. One liqueur-glassful should be taken in the middle of the morning with a biscuit. An egg cordial which needs less preparation is made as follows: Take the yolk of an egg, beat it well with three spoonfuls of castor sugar, and add a spoonful of port wine.
Mercury, 11 October 1934
“How are you feeling, comrade?” Milton walked into Rowland’s bedroom wearing a jacket of red and gold silk brocade he’d bought in a Chinese boutique.
Rowland winced. The jacket hurt his eyes, which until then had been the only part of his body which didn’t ache.
Milton frowned. “You look like death warmed up.”
“Then I look better than I feel.”
“O World! O Life! O Time! On whose last steps I climb…”
Rowland closed his eyes. “Clearly Shelley understood.”
From the armchair by his bed, where she’d spent much of the time he’d been ill, Edna rolled her eyes. “You were much more stoic when you had tuberculosis.”
“I never had tuberculosis.”
“Well, you complained less when I shot you.”
“That was just a bullet,” Rowland replied, smiling weakly.
“Yes,” Milton agreed, leaning on the scrolled foot of Rowland’s bed. “For pity’s sake, Ed, the man has a cold!”
Edna laughed. Now that she was sure Rowland wasn’t dying, she was determined not to give him unwarranted sympathy. “Come on, Rowly, get dressed. There is a legion of people who want to talk to you about wool.”
Rowland groaned. He was still congested and his body ached, though nearly three days of bed rest had improved him greatly. Dr. Rubenstein, who had taken over his care, such as it was, from Le Fevre, was confident that he did not have tuberculosis. “A severe chest infection,” he confirmed. “More uncomfortable because you are beaten and bruised—which is why there is pain when you cough. It will subside with time and rest.” And substantially, it had, though Rowland seemed uncharacteristically content to lie abed. His reluctance to claim recovery was probably not unconnected to the commercial furore that had arisen in the wake of the revelations about Gilbert Carmel, and the expectation that Rowland be involved in its resolution. The venerable members of the Japan–Australia Society had already enquired several times after his health, assuming that Gilbert Carmel’s criminal activities had rendered his refusal to contract with the Japanese null and void.
Chao Kung had offered his services in resurrecting relations between Rowland Sinclair and the Japanese wool buyers. It was only the man’s status as a cleric that had prevented Clyde from throwing him out. Milton, as always less influenced by the considerations offered to religion, escorted Kung from the premises, explaining exactly what the abbot could expect should they ever see him again.
Sir Victor Sassoon had also called personally to extend his apologies and that of the Cathay; to invite them to return to either the hotel or his house on Kiangse Road. They declined though they bore Sassoon no ill will.
Clyde strode in, scowling. He had just been to the Cathay once again in the hope of finding that Danny Dong’s cousins had called, but there had been no message or enquiry. He was beginning to worry that he would have to take the old lady’s bones back to Australia. He handed a telegram to Rowland. “Wilfred,” he said. As they had sent most of their previous telegrams to Wilfred through Carmel and Smith, it seemed none but the first, sent through the Cathay, had actually been despatched. And Wilfred’s telegrams demanding to know why Rowland had not reported as instructed had also not been passed on.
“I wired Wilfred through the Cathay yesterday.” Clyde grimaced. “He might have quite a lot to say.”
“No doubt.” Rowland read through the telegram with one eye closed, flinching every now and then. He placed th
e page on the bedside table. “I told him I was the wrong person to send.”
“Well, I expect you showed him.” Milton grinned.
Clyde sat down and pulled the chair up to Rowland’s bed. “What now, Rowly?”
Rowland shrugged. “Wil wants me to sell the Sinclair stockpile to the British. Their offer isn’t nearly as generous, but he thinks it might be to the only way to”—he picked up the telegram and read from it—“put the uncertainty I’ve generated in the market to rest.”
“That’s so unfair!” Edna protested. “This is hardly your fault. Gilbert Carmel is Wilfred’s old friend!”
Rowland nodded. “Make sure you include that in your next telegram, Clyde.”
Clyde snorted. “That’d be poking a brown snake. I feel a bit sorry for Wilfred, to be honest.”
“For Wil?”
“Carmel was his mate, they served together. Apparently he saved the blaggard’s life and named his son after him. Carmel planned to entrap Wilfred so he could blackmail him, until you turned up in his place. One helluva betrayal.”
Rowland nodded thoughtfully. Clyde was right. Knowing how much Wilfred cherished his family, Carmel’s plans seemed chillingly personal and cruel. Rowland had trusted Carmel without question because he knew Wilfred did. He glanced at the telegram, wondering now if there was more pain than anger in the missive.
Wing Zau entered bearing a tray of green tea. Sassoon had offered to reinstate him at Cathay once he’d finished his employ with Rowland Sinclair. Wing had declined, having decided to hang out his shingle as a private investigator. Indeed he and Ranjit Singh, reconciled now, intended to embark on the endeavour in partnership.
Clyde had tried to talk them out of it. Milton had recommended the “very instructive” works of Conan Doyle. And Rowland had invested financially in the venture.
Rowland drank the tea while Wing showed Edna the camera he’d purchased for surveillance. Between Harjeet and Wing, he’d been plied with every cold and influenza remedy ever concocted. Wing had obtained various powders and herbs from a practitioner of traditional Chinese medicine, most of which Harjeet had thrown out. Still, there were some that had met her approval and which she added to her own remedies and potions. Rowland learned that it was easier to imbibe without resistance and just trust that he wasn’t being poisoned. The occasional tonic was so laced with brandy or rum that he didn’t care what else was in it. Not green tea of course, it tasted like hot water.
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