The Shanghai Incident

by Bryan Methods

  “I hope the letter I left him with helps him find a new family,” I continued, “and that his brother comes back too.”

  Nobody made any response, so I looked back to Uncle Reggie. We had left the country hoping to find his daughter and bring her home safely. Now we were returning with two invalids, no Elspeth, and only some vague mention of China.

  “What are we going to do next?” I asked.

  “Why don’t you take this and fan me for a bit? That sounds like a good plan,” Uncle Reggie said, foisting his paper fan on me.

  “I mean about Elspeth,” I said, grudgingly taking the fan and flapping it at him. If he had looked smug for a moment about being pampered, that thought sobered him again.

  “I suppose I’ll have to go to China,” he mumbled.

  “You’re in no state to go to China,” said Mr. Scant. “Nor will you be for a good long time.”

  “I’m just a bit bruised. I’ll manage.”

  “You have six broken bones,” Mr. Scant pointed out. “If anyone is going to China, it’s me.”

  “I’ll go too,” I said.

  “You will do no such thing,” said Mr. Scant. “This isn’t a game, and you have your schoolwork.”

  “It wasn’t a game when Mr. Binns was shooting at us, either!” I protested. “And where would I learn more than on a trip around the world? I already learned so much in Paris.”

  “I will go alone,” said Mr. Scant.

  “I’m supposed to be your apprentice,” I said.

  Mr. Scant didn’t answer. Uncle Reggie took the fan back, apparently not satisfied with my efforts, and resumed cooling himself. “No point arguing with him when he’s like that, lad,” he said. “Heck’s as stubborn as stubborn gets.”

  “I can be stubborn too,” I replied. “You wanted me to be able to make my own decisions,” I said to Mr. Scant, and even when he raised one eyebrow as if it were a particularly hairy moth taking flight, I was not cowed. “Well, whatever chance you would have in China, you’d have a better chance with me.”

  “Master Oliver,” Mr. Scant said flatly. “There is no question of me taking you to the other side of the world to contend with an unknown threat. We have very little information, and I intend to make use of what little favor we curried with Scotland Yard to gather all the leads I can about Elspeth’s whereabouts. China is a very large place, and my search could take months.”

  “And it could take half the time if I’m helping!”

  “Ha! You tell him, boy,” Dr. Mikolaitis put in.

  “A possibility,” said Mr. Scant. “But help me or hinder me, the point is moot. It is too far away, too uncertain, and too dangerous. My word is final.”

  I wanted to argue, but we were in danger of making a scene. “I’m going to look around.”

  “Don’t go far,” said Mr. Scant. “Stay where I can see you.”

  “I can look after myself. I don’t need you watching over me. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “I already have two injured children making trouble for me. I don’t need a third.”

  I walked away as Uncle Reggie sputtered his objection to being called a child. The ferry was big, with places to eat and relax and all manner of interesting rooms belowdecks, but despite what I had said, I decided not to stray too far from the others. Instead, I went to walk around the wide open deck.

  The English Channel was a gray-blue tapestry laid out between us and the horizon, which itself may or may not have held a glimpse of white cliffs. Bright gems embroidered the water, glinting just for a moment as they caught the sun before vanishing again. The Channel looked bluer than it had on our way to France, when the lack of sunshine had made the tapestry look more like a lumpy gray bedsheet. On one side of the boat, a boy a little older than me was learning over the rail, presumably seasick, with his mother beside him, rubbing his back. I felt a pang of sympathy, but more than that, I wondered what he could see. I went over to the edge of the deck and, gripping the handrail tightly, looked over the edge.

  The ferry carved its way through the water at a speed that was almost imperceptible when looking out toward Dover. Looking down, however, made for a bracing view, as the bulk of metal sliced its way through the salt water, cleaving it and tossing it carelessly behind. I could hear it too, the sound of the ferry forging its path, and felt I knew just for a moment why so many Englishmen found the call of life on the ocean wave irresistible.

  I teetered as precariously as I dared over the rail, relishing the feeling of the salt air. When I leaned back and stretched my back in a satisfied way, I realized someone was beside me. I looked side to side and then down.

  “Victor?” I said. The little boy grinned.

  My shock quickly subsided. The determination on Victor’s face back in Paris had made me almost expect something like this would happen. And now here he stood, in my clothes, sleeves and trouser legs still rolled up and pinned to look like they fit him better than they did. His brother’s grubby shirt was half-hidden under my smallest waistcoat, topped with the large neckerchief Uncle Reggie had given him. He had managed to procure a white sailor’s cap from somewhere or other, with Marine Nationale stitched into the front and a red pom-pom on the top. With his clean hair and my clothes, he couldn’t have looked more different from when I had first seen him outside the Panthéon.

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded.

  “Ollie Olivier!” said a happy Victor.

  I did the only thing I could think of, taking the boy by the wrist and marching him to Mr. Scant, who also didn’t look particularly surprised but gave Victor a stern enough look that the boy began to explain. I couldn’t follow what he was saying, but at one point Dr. Mikolaitis guffawed until the pain of his wound made him stop.

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  Mr. Scant rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It seems that our cunning little gamin sat on the back of our carriage until we reached the docks, then simply said his mother and father were on board with his papers and ticket. Nobody thought to question such a well-dressed, polite little child. Of course a child that age had been accompanied by adults, they thought. Otherwise, how would he have gotten here?”

  “So he stowed away?”

  “It would appear so.”

  “What are we going to do? We have to take him back.”

  “You could ask the captain, but I’m not sure he’d be so keen to turn around,” Uncle Reggie said with a grin.

  “The boy wants to find his brother,” said Dr. Mikolaitis. “He has nobody else in the world and thinks you’re the only one who will help him. You’ve picked up a fine stray kitten, Master Oliver, and I think you’d better keep him safe.”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I said. “Both of you.”

  “It is a little funny,” said Uncle Reggie, “but I do feel for the lad. He’s completely alone. How would you feel in his situation?”

  “Mr. Scant, what should we do?”

  “What can we do, Master Oliver?”

  I held my temples. “Isn’t this illegal? Are we kidnapping him? No, I know, I know, there’s nobody who’s going to come looking for him. But surely we can’t just take him away from his home?”

  “He won’t be missed,” said Dr. Mikolaitis. “He only had his brother, and no home, no orphanage.”

  “But we can’t take him home with us, can we?”

  “Hmm,” Uncle Reggie said, “all things considered, that’s probably a better choice than dumping him overboard. And he does seems very attached to you.”

  I looked back at Victor, who was holding onto the back of my jacket and peering around me at the unfamiliar men.

  “Mr. Scant, I really don’t know what to do,” I said.

  “Well, Master Oliver, you can take this as a lesson in not giving chocolate bonbons to waifs and strays, but beyond that, I would say it’s now your responsibility to look after the lad. At least until we get home and can think of what best to do with him.”

  “Take hi
m home?” I said. All of a sudden, the Diplexito residence in Tunbridge Wells seemed all too real, no longer a vague idea at the end of an interesting trip but a looming and inevitable problem. “But what’s Mother going to say?”

  Greatly to my surprise, what Mother said was, “Oh, who is this darling little fellow? And Oliver, is that your jacket from Wilton’s he’s wearing?”

  “I . . . Yes, Mother.”

  “Doesn’t he look a little angel in it? It was getting too small for you, anyway. I’ll get Penny to take it up at the sleeves properly. Did you know she’s good at that sort of thing? Hello! Who are you?”

  “Hello!” Victor said and struck his chest proudly with his palm. “Victor!”

  “Why, hello there, Victor! Don’t you just look like the sweetest duckling in your little sailor hat?”

  “Ollie! Maman!” said Victor.

  “He doesn’t speak much English,” I said.

  “Oh, I see,” Mother said before picking Victor up and carrying him on her hip, saying hello again in French, which she could speak well. I failed to follow exactly the words she spoke next, but she turned to her maid, Mrs. Winton, and said, “See if you can find some of Oliver’s old indoor shoes, won’t you? There should be some in the storeroom.” Then she looked back at Victor, and they laughed together. I felt a strange pang of old memories, while Victor beamed at Mother like he had been given a Christmas present. I wondered when he had last been held like that, if ever he had.

  That was when Mother caught sight of Uncle Reggie and Dr. Mikolaitis being eased out of a large carriage, one we had hired because it was big enough that the two of them could stay supine in the wheeled beds we had rented in Dover. “What on Earth happened here?” she asked Mr. Scant. “Oliver, your tutor . . . And this is your brother, isn’t it, Scant? We met at Christmas.”

  “Yes indeed. There was some unfortunate business in France, ma’am. These two were caught up in some sort of student demonstration. You know how violent the French can get. The police were involved.”

  “Sounds frightful,” Mother said. She turned to Uncle Reggie and then Dr. Mikolaitis. “Please do take the time to recuperate here. I’ll arrange for Dr. Webb to come and treat you.”

  “Much obliged, Mrs. Diplexito,” said Uncle Reggie. “Please don’t trouble yourself. My brother Heck is all the nurse we need. He’s a capable one, if not especially gentle.”

  “You weren’t hurt at all, rabbit?”

  “Please don’t call me that,” I said, squirming a little. “Nothing happened to me.”

  To my relief, that was all Mother asked. I felt a little guilty, but she was still in the dark about the incident with the Woodhouselee Society, Mr. Scant’s history, his secret identity as the Ruminating Claw, and my own adventures. As far as she was aware, while in France, I had been on an educational trip.

  “I hope you have time for nursing, Scant,” Mother said. “It’s been dreadful without you, but we muddled along. The girls try their best but can’t get the hang of the Earl Grey. Do prepare us a proper afternoon tea, will you?”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  “And some Victoria sponge for the little one, I think.” Mother grinned at Victor, who she was still carrying in her arms. “Children love a bit of sponge cake.”

  “Bitter spun cake!” Victor parroted.

  I helped Mr. Scant wheel Uncle Reggie and Dr. Mikolaitis to the back of the house and through the French windows. We settled the two of them in the conservatory before going back to help with the luggage. Victor had distracted Meg and Penny; the maids cooed over him, playing with the pom-pom on the hat he still had on his head, even indoors. Even so, when they caught sight of me, they greeted me brightly. “You look taller,” said Meg. “Or maybe I just didn’t notice you growing until you went away.”

  In addition to all his other duties, Mr. Scant tended to act as our porter, and once he and the driver had brought in my trunks, Meg and Penny shooed me out, insisting they could sort my clothes better on their own. I went to find Mother, who was proudly showing off her piano-playing to a rapt Victor. I waited patiently for her to finish her Beethoven and gave her some polite applause, which Victor imitated.

  “Well then,” she said, modestly waving her hand to stop us clapping, “you’ve obviously had quite the adventure. Two men, black and blue, and one little French guest here who must miss his mother dearly.”

  “I don’t think he has a mother,” I said.

  “Oh dear! Well, I’ll hear the whole story, but wait until dinner so you don’t have to repeat it for Father. You were safe, though, I trust?”

  “I was with Mr. Scant,” I said, which was answer enough.

  For his part, Mr. Scant seemed to be avoiding me. He busied himself first with unpacking and then, in Father’s study, going through his paperwork and appointments, making notes and rearranging things. When I tried to ask him what was going to happen next, he simply said, “I have my valet’s duties, Master Oliver, and you ought to look over your schoolwork before your next lesson.”

  “I finished my schoolwork. You made me finish it before we went to France!”

  “Then may I suggest checking and double-checking it?”

  By that time, Victor had fallen asleep in the guest room that Mother and old Mrs. Winton had arranged for him. His sailor hat was hanging from one corner of the headboard, while a pair of my old indoor shoes were waiting at the foot of the bed.

  “He misses his brother very much,” Mother said. “He says bad men took the poor chap off to China, but I’m not sure I understood all of it. Kept talking about men with a big gun. I think he has quite the imagination, and of course the poor little sweetling was falling asleep as he talked. He speaks very highly of you, though!”

  “Says you were like an angel,” said Mrs. Winton. “Course, he hasn’t seen the things we have.”

  Mother laughed, then sat on the bed and beckoned me over. Victor grumbled in his sleep and turned over as I sat down, but he didn’t wake.

  “He looks a little like you did when you were that age,” Mother observed. “Only you were more of a rabbit, and he’s more of a mouse. We’ll look after him for as long as we need to, though of course he must get back to his brother as soon as possible. I asked Mrs. George if she could make French food, but she says she only knows about snails and frogs. I hope the boy isn’t too picky.”

  “I think he’s learned to just eat whatever he’s given.”

  “Ah, a well-mannered boy.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Have you seen Mrs. George?” Mother asked. “She was very much looking forward to your return.”

  “No, I should go and say hello. When’s Father home?”

  “For dinner, if not before. What time is it now?”

  Mrs. Winton consulted a pocket watch. “A quarter to four.”

  “Another hour or two,” Mother said. “He’s looking forward to seeing you too.”

  “Honestly?” I asked.

  “Honestly.”

  As promised, I went to visit Mrs. George in her kitchens. She shrieked like a banshee at the sight of me and took me in a suffocating hug that would have gotten her dismissed from a stricter household. “The girls tell me that Mr. Gaunt decided to shoot the Russian fella but only got a good walloping for his trouble, and then you kidnapped a French baby.”

  “I . . . what? That’s not right,” I said with a laugh, unsure if the twins had been confused or if Mrs. George had misunderstood. “Uncle Reggie was beaten up by some hired hands, and someone from the Society shot Dr. Mikolaitis in the leg. But they’re alright. Well, not alright exactly, but they’ll get better.”

  Mrs. George nodded thoughtfully. Unlike Mother, Mrs. George had been along for the ride when we battled the Woodhouselee Society, so I had no secrets from her. “I’ll whip them up some chicken soup,” she said. “That always helps.”

  “I’m not sure it helps gunshot wounds.”

  “It helps everything,” Mrs. George said sagely.


  “If you say so. As for Victor, he’s not a baby—he’s nine or ten. And we didn’t kidnap him. He followed us. He stowed away on the ferry!”

  “Sounds like a piece of work. And now he wants a sponge cake, I hear.”

  “Well, I think that was Mother’s idea.”

  “Not to worry,” Mrs. George said, “I was making one anyway, for you. With custard. I know how you love it.”

  I smiled. “Can’t say no to a bit of custard.”

  Mrs. George laced her fingers together and pushed out her wrists so that her knuckles cracked. “I’m making such a dinner as you’ll never forget. Just waiting for a few more things to be delivered. But first, let’s go and see everyone. I can’t go gallivanting around the house on my own, but if you ask me to come with you, dear, dear Master Oliver, it won’t be a problem.”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  So I took Mrs. George to see our guests. Dr. Mikolaitis kissed her hand while looking exaggeratedly doleful. She laughed and promised him some vodka after dinner. Uncle Reggie greeted her like an old friend and told her all about how he had heroically fought off ten men before a “scoundrel crept up and coshed me from behind.” Mrs. George nodded sympathetically.

  “So if he gets vodka, do I get a nice single malt?” Uncle Reggie asked.

  “You’ll get a fresh lump on your head if you carry on like that,” said Mrs. George. “But I’ll see what I can scrounge up. Now, where’s this little one? I want to see him.”

  “Victor’s upstairs,” I said. “I’ll take you to see him.”

  But before I could lead her to the staircase, we heard voices in the hallway. Deep and resonant, the kind of voices that came from thick barrel chests by way of very bushy beards.

  “Father’s home!” I said, and ran out to meet him, with Mrs. George following behind, trying to tidy herself up.

  In the hallway, Mr. Scant was helping Father out of his coat, another coat already draped over his arm. “Father!” I called, and then noticed the owner of the other coat. “And Mr. Beards!”