Shanghai Secrets

by Sulari Gentill

  She shivered.

  “Come on, you’re cold.”

  Edna did not return to the attic where she had been sleeping but followed Rowland into the bedroom he normally shared with Wing. That in itself did not alarm Rowland in any way. It was the sculptress’s habit to visit the men she lived with at odd times of the night, seized with enthusiasm for an idea, or rage against some inequity, or simply because she could not sleep.

  “You get under the covers,” Rowland instructed, concerned that she was still shivering. It was not a cold evening. He left the candle on the dresser, pulled a chair up to the bed and sat down, waiting for her to confess what was troubling her.

  “I know who sent the flowers.” She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms about them. “I think—no, I’m sure it was Bertie.”

  “Middleton? We left him in Sydney.”

  “I know.” She took a deep breath. “Last year, after what he did, I told him I never wanted to see him again.” She looked up at Rowland. “He was so angry, Rowly.”

  Rowland tensed. “What did he do?”

  The sculptress looked panicked for a moment. She forced out the words. “He came to the house. I told him to leave and he refused.”

  Rowland waited as she lowered her gaze.

  “He wouldn’t let me leave,” she whispered. “He said I belonged to him, he wouldn’t let me go…and that he’d see you off. And then when you were stabbed, I thought…”

  “That wasn’t—”

  “I know, but for a while I thought he might have… He promised he’d never let me go, that he’d see me dead first.” She closed her eyes. “I’d never seen that side of him. He smashed the clay sculpture I’d been working on…not in a fit of temper but slowly, piece by piece while I watched. Rowly, he was so angry.” She shook her head. “I thought he was going to… He scared me.”

  “I’ll kill him.” Rowland’s eyes darkened, almost black in the flickering candlelight. “I will kill the—” He took Edna’s hand, words lost for a moment in fury. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “Milt was recovering from that horrible accident—he still wasn’t able to even walk—and you’d just been stabbed, Rowly. And you were getting married. It seemed so trivial. I didn’t want you, any of you, worrying about me.” She spoke quickly.

  Rowland remembered then how winded and fragile she had seemed when she’d thought him heartbroken over the rejection of Jemima Roche. He had been too focused on getting Egon Kisch to Melbourne; perhaps he had wanted it to be about him… He hadn’t asked. God, he hadn’t been there, nor Clyde. And Milton had been laid up… He was livid with Middleton and now furious at himself. He should have known there was something wrong; he should have asked.

  “I wasn’t really hurt, and there were more important things going on than Bertram Middleton. I should have realised he was—” Edna swallowed. “I’ve known him for years, Rowly. I didn’t ever think he could—”

  Rowland put his arms around her and held her fiercely. But as angry as he was, he knew that rage was not what the sculptress needed from him. He waited for her to speak again.

  “He turned up when I went into the city the next day. I looked up and there he was. He begged me to forgive him.”

  “Did you?” he asked hoarsely.

  She shook her head. “He wrote to me almost every day, sent me gifts—I sent everything back.” Rowland could feel tears, hot and wet against his chest, as he felt her breath against his heart when she spoke. “He began putting his letters in envelopes with no return address, so I’d open them before I knew they were his. He turned up at odd times when I was out… He always seemed to know where I was. And he’d leave flowers on the doorstep with no card.”

  Inwardly, Rowland cursed. He recalled Mary Brown speaking to him about flowers left at the threshold of Woodlands House, complaining that it was untidy and highly improper. He had not thought much of it—there were many men who brought Edna flowers, and his housekeeper was wont to think everything, bar church, improper. “You didn’t say a word.”

  “I felt safe,” she said. “I thought he’d stop eventually, and I felt bad that I’d hurt him. But now…here. What if he’s here, Rowly?”

  “If Middleton’s here, it’ll be easier for me to have a few words with him.” There was flint in Rowland’s voice.

  “I’m being silly,” she said, wiping her face with her sleeve. “It’s a bunch of flowers, not a basket of snakes. Bertie would not have come all the way to China—not with a new job at the Sydney Morning Herald.”

  Rowland took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “You’re not being silly. I’m glad you finally told me.”

  Edna smiled wanly. “Mr. Blanshard’s warnings have made me jumpy. It was probably Nicky leaving flowers. He probably just forgot to leave a card.”

  Rowland thought the count too formally mannered to leave flowers on a doorstep, let alone without a calling card, but on that he said nothing.

  She pulled out of his arms, wiping the wet patch on his shirt with his handkerchief. “I’m sorry, Rowly. I should clear out of your bed and let you sleep.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not going to sleep. You take this bed.”

  Even in the dying candlelight, Rowland could see a flash of unguarded relief in her face, suppressed quickly. She was frightened, no matter what she said. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I’m staying right here,” he said. “The chair’s perfectly comfortable.”

  “Oh, Rowly, you can’t sleep in a chair.”

  “I’m not going to sleep, Ed.”

  “It’s still hours till morning.”

  “I need to think.” He smiled and kissed her hand. “Milt and Clyde are in the next room—if you listen carefully, you can hear Clyde snoring—and I’m right here. You sleep. We’ll deal with all this in the morning.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  WOMEN AND OPIUM

  Many women in China who are addicted to the opium habit are now receiving special treatment at the Lester Hospital, Shanghai, and hopes are entertained for their recovery. In nearly every case where women have applied for admission in order to break the habit, there has been a satisfactory care. The medical officer at the hospital, Dr. A. W. Towers, points out, however, that “they” bear pain and discomfort extremely badly and often; though we get them over the difficult habit of taking the drug, there remains a serious danger of relapse unless something can be done to strengthen moral fibre.

  —Newcastle Morning Herald and Miners’Advocate, 4 May 1936

  * * *

  Rowland answered the tap at the bedroom door before any subsequent taps could awaken Edna.

  “Clyde,” he whispered. “Good morning.”

  Clyde glanced first at his friend before his eye was caught by the sculptress stirring in Rowland’s bed. His brow rose more hopefully than askance. Had Rowland finally convinced Edna to love him? Had she finally realised how much Rowland Sinclair adored her? If so, Clyde was not so Catholic or pragmatic that he would not celebrate the breakthrough with all of his heart.

  Rowland motioned him outside the door. Though he had spent most of the night watching over Edna, the depth of his anger pushed all weariness aside. Quietly he told Clyde what had happened.

  Clyde’s wrath moved Rowland’s anew. “He did what?” Clyde was aghast. “I’ll tear his arm off!”

  “You may have to wait your turn,” Rowland murmured darkly. He told Clyde about the flowers left on the doorstep.

  “Do you think that bastard’s in Shanghai?” Clyde asked.

  “I wouldn’t have thought he’d have means for the fare, but who knows? He might have followed us here.”

  Edna peered into the hallway. “Oh, there you are. What are you both doing out here?”

  “Rowly was just telling me what happened last night.”

&
nbsp; Edna smiled. “He spent the night in a chair; we don’t have to get married.”

  Clyde responded by embracing her. “For pity’s sake, Ed, why didn’t you tell us?”

  “Because I would have been lonely with the three of you in gaol.”

  The enduring mumbles of conversation finally woke Milton, who stumbled out of his bedroom and demanded to know why they were having a meeting in the hallway.

  With a little coaxing, Edna told him everything she’d told Rowland the night before. In the light of day, the flowers seemed less threatening, the likelihood that they were from Middleton more remote. But still, the extent of Bertram Middleton’s behaviour elicited much the same reaction from Milton as it had in Rowland and Clyde. There was hurt as well as anger in the poet’s voice. “How could you not tell us, Ed? Didn’t you know we’d—”

  “I’m sorry.” Edna’s voice cracked. “I thought he’d stop. I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to think about it. None of you ever liked him, and I felt so, so stupid.”

  Rowland put his arm around Edna. “Look, it’s done, Milt. We know now. Let’s work out what we’re going to do.”

  Clyde sighed. “I’m going to brew coffee.”

  “I’m going to kill Middleton,” Milton snarled.

  Rowland nodded. “Both good plans. The coffee first, perhaps.”

  Edna shook her head firmly. “You sleep for a couple of hours, Rowly. We’ll wake you for breakfast when Harjeet gets here.”

  * * *

  Clyde and Milton consumed two pots of coffee while discussing what they would do. Edna drank tea. Despite their mutual anger, the men tempered their language and kept talk of Middleton in check for Edna’s sake. For her part, the sculptress was not unduly concerned by the threats they’d made on Middleton’s life, certain that neither of these men was a murderer, regardless of the provocation and despite what they said.

  She was less unsettled than she’d been the evening before, less sure that the bouquet had been left by Bertram Middleton, and a little shy that she had been so distressed. But only Rowland had seen that, and he was asleep. From Clyde and Milton, the sculptress kept the depth of the panic that had seized her in the middle of the night.

  The three of them examined the bouquet without success for any clue as to who might have sent it.

  “They’re probably from Nicky,” Edna repeated.

  “We should try and find out if Middleton is in Shanghai,” Milton said. “If he is, we can deal with him directly.”

  Harjeet arrived, letting herself in with the key Rowland had given her. She was, as usual, full of news and exclamation and seemed within moments of her arrival to fill the house with the aroma of baking. Rowland woke to the sound of her voice scolding Ranjit for something or other. The couple hours of sleep had cleared his head. He washed, dressed, and shaved quickly. He was still a little tender but determined now to deal with the matter of Bertram Middleton immediately. Downstairs, Rowland spoke to Harjeet about Blanshard’s warning, allowing her the opportunity to leave his employ and whatever risk that entailed. She shooed him out of her kitchen lest his nonsense make her cakes fall. Ranjit, if anything, seemed excited.

  “So from whom exactly do you expect this threat, sir? We should be ready for the enemy! Perhaps I could fortify the entrances.”

  “I doubt anyone will lay siege to the house, Mr. Singh.”

  “One should be prepared, sir.”

  Rowland sighed. “Mr. Blanshard seems to believe that the threat is widespread.” In the light of day, he was inclined to dismiss Blanshard’s dire warnings as hysterical. But the thought of Edna gave him pause. “Someone left a bouquet of flowers on the doorstep last night.”

  Singh frowned. “There were no flowers when I departed for home.”

  “No, they would have been left much later than that. After Miss Higgins and I returned.”

  “That Russian fellow—”

  “Perhaps…but maybe not.”

  “Wing Zau?”

  “Possible, I suppose, but I very much doubt it.”

  “Does Miss Higgins not like flowers?”

  “She’d prefer to know who left them.”

  Singh nodded thoughtfully. “I shall keep a watch, Mr. Sinclair.”

  * * *

  They decided over a late breakfast to renew their efforts to find out what happened to Sergei Romanov. It was Ranjit who suggested that Romanov might have started the fire himself to mask an escape of sorts.

  Edna was dubious but Clyde agreed. “If Kruznetsov is right, then perhaps Alexandra’s murder was the result of a falling out between crooks. Perhaps he was afraid his partner in crime would leave him for Rowly.”

  Inwardly Rowland wanted to reject the idea out of hand. But Clyde and Milton had always accused him of being too easily manipulated by women in distress, too ready to believe in them. The failing had nearly seen him married a few months before, so perhaps they were right. “It’s possible,” he conceded finally.

  “Romanov may well have died in the fire, whoever lit it,” Milton pointed out. “We’d better establish if they discovered any human remains before we start searching for him.”

  “How are we going to do that?” Edna asked sadly. “We’re not his family—we can’t demand the information.”

  Rowland glanced at his wristwatch. It was still early. “I’ll ask Mickey Hahn,” he said. “Surely the newspapers will be able to find out if the fire resulted in any loss of life.”

  “I’ll come with you.” Edna stood. “Mickey’s apartment is only a block or so from here. If we hurry, we can catch her before work.”

  Milton nodded. “You two do that. Clyde and I are going to send a telegram.”

  “To whom?”

  “The Sydney Morning Herald. It should be fairly easy to find out if Bertram Middleton has taken up his post.”

  “He will have,” Edna said quietly. “I’m quite sure the flowers were from Nicky.”

  “Let’s make sure,” Rowland replied.

  So the Australians parted ways. Clyde and Milton took Singh and the Buick as Emily Hahn’s flat was almost no distance to walk.

  A Chinese boy answered the door. “Nóng zō,” Edna said haltingly, continuing in Chinese pidgin. “Catchee Missy Hahn?”

  “Who you, Missy?”

  “Mr. Rowland Sinclair and Miss Edna Higgins.”

  “You waitee. Yes?”

  “Can do.”

  The boy disappeared and then returned to the door to admit them. Mickey Hahn’s flat was small and airless. The sitting room contained two worn couches with a low table between them. An opium pipe and a book on the works of Sappho had been left on the table. Mr. Mills sat on the sideboard, eating an orange and watching them with dark beady eyes. It was a few minutes before Mickey herself emerged in pyjamas and a Chinese silk dressing-gown. “Rowland, Edna, hello! What a wonderful surprise!” She turned back to the boy and snapped, “Catchee tea, chop chop!”

  The boy nodded vigorously and ran from the room. Mickey admonished Mr. Mills for making the sideboard sticky with orange juice and offered Rowland and Edna seats. “You must excuse me my slothfulness… I’m afraid I was quite late home last night.” She closed her eyes and smiled dreamily. “Xunmei took me to a dingy little place on the banks of the Huangpu—more authentically China than all the ballrooms in Shanghai. Of course, now I’ll be frightfully late for work.”

  “We won’t keep you long,” Rowland promised.

  She waved away any concern. “They don’t seem as bothered about punching the clock here,” she said. “I’ll still have time to get my stories out before I meet with Victor for drinks.”

  The boy brought in a tray of tea and set it down beside the opium pipe.

  “What can I do for you, Rowland? Before you say anything, you should probably know that Bernadine and I have fallen o
ut so I cannot intercede with her, if that’s what you want.”

  “It isn’t.” Rowland took the cup of tea she handed him, wondering if it was the attentions of Shao Xunmei that had come between Mickey and the society doyenne. “We were hoping you might make an enquiry for us.” He told her about the fire at the Chinese butchery above which Sergei Romanov lived. “Do you suppose you might be able to find out if he actually died in that fire?”

  “The butchery on Nanjing Road?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well I don’t need to find out. I know. I covered the story for the North China Daily News.” She took a sip of tea and sighed contently. “They didn’t find any remains. In fact, they now suspect that Mr. Romanov set the fire.”

  “Well, that’s good news,” Edna said. “Not about him being suspected of arson of course—just that he’s alive.”

  “It’s rather unlikely that you’ll find him, though,” Mickey warned. “People disappear in Shanghai all the time. It’s a good place in which to vanish.”

  Rowland finished his tea. “We should allow you to get ready for work.”

  “Did Bert find you?” she asked suddenly.

  “Bert?”

  “Middle-something. He’s just started as a foreign correspondent with the paper. He’s from your part of the world—only been in Shanghai for a few days.”

  Startled, Rowland glanced at Edna. She choked on her tea and then hastily put the cup and saucer down.

  “He seemed a bit homesick, so I gave him your details. Thought the company of fellow Australians might cheer him up. He was so pleased, I thought he’d call on you straight away.”

  Edna smiled tightly. “He may have come by when we were out.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame. But I’m sure he’ll try again.”

  * * *

  They walked back, arm in arm, but silent. Rowland was, if truth be told, staggered by Bertram Middleton’s gall. Though they had never progressed beyond an acquaintanceship, he’d known the journalist almost as long as he’d known Edna. Rowland was aware that he found it hard to be fair to any man who sought the sculptress’s heart, but he had never liked Middleton. Still, he had not believed the writer capable of threatening Edna, let alone pursuing her to China.