But Malcolm’s death had not pleased him at all. It was the one option he had not planned for, not today. Now his scheme would have to be revised, and quickly. In God’s name, how? Could this brawl be used, he wondered, sifting possibilities while waiting to see what Jamie would do next.
Now that he had won, Jamie’s rage dissipated. His chest was heaving. Bile and blood filled his mouth. He spat it out. For years he had wanted to humble Norbert and now he had, and had his measure once and for all time—and had taken revenge for Malcolm who had been provoked deliberately.
“Norbert, you bastard,” he croaked, astonished how bad his voice sounded and how awful he felt. “You say any—anything against my tai-pan, anything, by God, or laugh about him again behind his back, I’ll smash you to pieces.”
Roughly he stumbled past Gornt, hardly seeing him, to go to the jetty. Ten or fifteen yards away his foot caught in a rut and he fell cursing, and remained there on his hands and knees, oblivious of the others, spent.
Norbert was coming around, spitting blood, his nose ruined, a mass of hurt, sick with rage that he had been beaten. And petrified. Old Man Brock won’t forgive you, his brain was screaming, you’ll lose your bonus and the stipend he promised, you’ll be the laughingstock of Asia, beaten and pulped and marked forever by that son of a bitch Jamie who’s nowhere near your size, a Struan bastard …
He felt himself helped to stand. Unsteadily he forced his eyes open. Gasping for air and confused, his face and head on fire, eyes puffed and mostly closed, he saw McFay groping to his feet a few paces away with his back towards him, Gornt half in front of him, still carrying the double-barrelled duelling pistol.
Half mad with pain, a tangle of thoughts rushed at him: Can’t miss at this distance, Gornt’s the only witness, at the inquest we’ll say, “McFay went for the gun, Sir William, we’d been fighting, yes, a struggle, yes, but he’d hit me first, didn’t he, Edward, tell the God’s truth, then terrible, Your Honor, terrible it was, somehow the gun went off, poor Jamie …”
Norbert grabbed the pistol and raised it.
“Jamie!” Gornt called out in warning.
McFay turned, startled, gaped at the pointed gun as Norbert jeered and pulled the trigger, but Gornt was ready and with another warning shout deflected the shot upwards and now, with his back towards McFay, covered the pistol with his body, holding it in both hands with surprising strength, simulating a momentary struggle with Norbert for possession. And all the time he stared into Norbert’s eyes who saw, appalled, only death. He twisted the muzzle into Norbert’s chest and squeezed the second trigger. Norbert died instantly. Then, pretending to be aghast, Gornt let the body fall. It had taken a few seconds.
“Christ Almighty,” Jamie gasped. Appalled, he stumbled over and sank to his knees beside the body.
“My God, suh, I didn’t know what to do. Oh, my God, suh, Mr. Greyforth, he was going to shoot you in the back and all I did … oh, my God, Mr. McFay … you saw him yourself, didn’t you? I shouted a warning but … he was going to shoot you in the back … isn’t there anything we can do? He was going to kill you …” Easy to convince McFay, who blearily staggered away to fetch help.
Once safely alone, Gornt exhaled. Pleased with himself. Delighted he had, in that instant, foreseen what Norbert would do and had gambled his life on it.
“When you’re gambling, timing and execution must be perfect,” was one of his stepfather’s litanies when teaching him the art of cards. “Sometimes there comes a chance, young Eddie, a gift from the Fates. They give you something special, you take it and make a killing. You win the big pot, you can’t fail if they’ve really offered it, their timing’s perfect. But don’t be fooled by the Devil—he’ll screw you to the cross, his deal’s like the other but different, you’ll recognize the difference once it comes your way …”
Gornt smiled crookedly. His stepfather hadn’t meant a killing literally though it had come to pass that way for him. His gift from the Fates was Norbert.
Perfect timing, perfect killing, perfect alibi.
Norbert had to be sent onward for many reasons. One was because Norbert might have been able to deflect part of the Brock disaster, turning it back against Struan’s. Another that Old Man Brock had ordered Norbert to kill Struan any way he could, another—the most important—that Norbert was common with no manners, no finesse, no sense of honor, and not a gentleman.
Flies were already swarming around and on the corpse. Gornt moved away and lit a cheroot. His eyes searched No Man’s Land, looking through the mist. Still no alien eyes, no one stirring. Dawn barely breaking the overcast. While he waited he removed the blanks from the other pistol, Malcolm’s pistol, that Norbert had insisted on. He smiled to himself. He would have switched them, giving Norbert the duds, if Norbert had decided to fight the duel, instead of cancelling as agreed.
What a bastard Norbert was, he thought. Good riddance. But I’m sorry about Malcolm. Never mind, now I’ll go to Hong Kong and make my deal with his mother—safer and better. Norbert was right, she’s the real tai-pan. I barter what I would have given Malcolm, real means and evidence to destroy Brock and Sons—to crush Morgan, the devil incarnate.
Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. But not with me. Not me, Edward Gornt, Morgan’s son. Ah, Father, if you only knew how glorious revenge will be, how correct patricide is! In payment for “I’ll marry the slut if …”
It’s ironic, Morgan, you’ve spent your life trying to ruin your only sister and her family—your father the same with his only daughter—and I’m your only son, and nemesis, protecting her to ruin you.
Safer dealing with Tess than Malcolm, better. She’ll deliver Rothwell’s in Shanghai, and underwrite the Victoria Bank loans I’ll need, and get me a seat on the Board. No, not that, rightly she’d consider that a threat, the seat will come later. Meanwhile, next on the list, Cooper-Tillman.
Meanwhile, what to do? Off to Hong Kong soon as possible. Curious, Norbert’s gone, and Malcolm. Strange.
Dying on the job? I wonder. What a way to go!
By removing Malcolm the Fates dealt me another prize. Angelique. She’s free and rich now, Noble House rich. Six months would be perfect, time enough for mourning, and me to get organized. By then Tess Struan will be glad to have her out of Hong Kong, and out of her hair. And married. Say she’s pregnant? I’ll worry about that, if. Makes no difference either way, I’ll get the Noble House quicker than already planned.
His low laugh mixed with the hum of the flies.
“Dr. Babcott’s outside, Sir William,” Tyrer said.
“Send him in, for God’s sake! George, ’morning, what the hell happened to the poor fellow—terrible news! What about Angelique, how is she, did you hear about Norbert? Miserable bastard tried to shoot Jamie in the back couple of hours ago!”
“Yes, yes, we heard.” Babcott was unshaven and clearly upset. “Hoag’s taken Angelique to the French Legation, we all came ashore together—she wouldn’t go back to Struan’s.”
“I can understand that, don’t blame her, how is she?”
“In shock, of course. We’ve given her sedatives. Dreadfully sorry for her—she’s had a rotten time here, the Tokaidō, then that bloody ronin thug and now this. Rotten luck, the worst luck. She’s hurting badly.”
“Oh. Will it…will it turn her mind?”
“Hope not. You never know. She’s young and strong but … you never know. By all that’s holy I hope not.” The two men were gravely concerned. “Such a shame for both of them. Rotten business, feel so damned useless.”
Sir William nodded. “Must confess I was bloody angry about their marriage, but then, when I heard this morning, well, I would have given anything for it not to have happened.” His face hardened. “Did you see Norbert’s body?”
“No, Hoag will do that once he’s settled Angelique. I thought I’d better come straight here and report.”
“Quite right. Now, what happened to Malcolm?”
In spite of his anguish,
Babcott became clinical. “Hemorrhage. An artery or vein ruptured or burst. In the night, while he was asleep, without any pain or contortions or he would have awakened her, life seeped out of him. I’ll do an autopsy, have to for the death certificate.”
“All right, if that’s what you recommend.” Sir William turned his mind off that macabre business, finding it distasteful, not liking, either, to be close to the doctor, any doctor, their clothes always bloodstained here and there, and always the faint odor of chemicals and carbolic surrounding them, however clean they were in themselves. “Poor young Struan. Terrible. He just bled to death?”
“Yes. For what it’s worth, Malcolm … he was the most incredibly peaceful man I’ve ever seen in death, as though it was welcomed.”
Sir William toyed with an inkwell on his desk. “George, would he, would coming—I mean finishing—would that … would that do it? I mean if he was hugely excited?”
“That’s probably what happened. Not the climax itself but the uncontrollable straining it generates could easily tear weakened tissues or cause a rupture. His genitals were in perfect shape but his stomach cavity generally weak. I’d repaired part of the large bowel and sutured a couple of arteries, there were some nasty lesions and he wasn’t healing as I would have liked, his liver was—”
“Yes, well, I don’t need the details now,” Sir William said squeamishly, already feeling slightly sick. “My God, young Struan! Seems impossible—then there’s Norbert! If it weren’t for Gornt we’d also have a murder on our hands. That fellow deserves a medal. He said, by the way, Jamie was provoked and Norbert deserved to get pasted. Did you know Malcolm and Norbert were meeting in Drunk Town to duel?”
“Not till a moment ago. Phillip told me. Madmen, both of them. Damn it, you warned them!”
“Yes, I did. Damn fools, though Gornt swore both had agreed to accept the other’s apology, but he also said Norbert told him this morning he had changed his mind and was going to kill Struan. Miserable bastard!” Uneasily Sir William shifted things on his desk, straightening papers and the small, silver mounted portrait. “What do we do now?”
“About Norbert?”
“No, Malcolm, what about Malcolm first?”
“I’ll do the autopsy today, this evening. I’ve taken the liberty of arranging to have the body taken to Kanagawa—it’ll be easier there. Hoag will assist and you’ll have a report in the morning. We’ll sign the death certificate, it’ll all be quite normal.”
“I meant with the body,” Sir William said testily.
“You can bury him at your leisure. In this weather there’s no hurry, the body will keep.”
“Will it … is there time to send Prancing Cloud to Hong Kong to find out what his, what Mrs. Struan wants to do? I mean she might want to bury him there an—”
“My God, I wouldn’t like to bring her that news.”
“Nor would I.” Sir William tugged at his collar. As usual it was chilly in the office, the coal fire tiny and miserable, with a strong draft from ill-fitting windows. “Hoag’s the family doctor, he could go. But, George, I mean, will he, will the body keep that long? To send word to her, come back, then take the body back—if that’s what she wants?”
“You’d better make the decision, to bury him here or to send him back at once. We’d keep him on ice, surround the coffin with ice, on deck under canvas, he’ll keep very well.”
Sir William nodded, revolted. “Phillip,” he shouted through the door. “Ask Jamie to come by at once! George, I think the wisest course, provided he will, er, he’ll keep would be to send him back. What’s your advice?”
“I agree.”
“Good, thank you, keep me advised about Angelique and don’t forget supper tonight. What about our bridge game?”
“Best postpone both till tomorrow.”
“All right, fine, that’ll be fine. Thanks again … damn it, I forgot. What about Norbert?”
“A quick burial, soon forgotten and not regretted.”
“I’ll have to hold an inquest, Edward Gornt’s American, a foreign national—he’s preparing a signed statement. Just as well Adamson’s on leave or he’d want to be involved. He’s a lawyer isn’t he, as well as U.S. Chargé d’Affaires?”
“Doesn’t matter either way. Hoag and I can give medical evidence.” Babcott got up and added coldly, “But the ‘shooting in the back’? Not a very good advertisement for Yokohama.”
“My whole point.” Sir William’s face screwed up. “My whole point. Wouldn’t like that breezed about.”
“You mean to our hosts?”
“Yes. They’ll have to be informed, that’s required. Can’t formally tell them exactly what happened, in either case. Obviously Norbert’s an accidental death. But Struan?”
“Tell them the truth,” Babcott said, enraged by the waste and furious with himself that his work had not been good enough, and that, not as a doctor, he had desperately wanted to take Angelique in his arms to protect her from it all. “The truth is this unnecessary, early death of that fine young man was attributable directly to wounds sustained in his unprovoked attack on the Tokaidō!”
Sir William added bitterly, “By murdering bastards who still haven’t been brought to justice. You’re right.”
He let Babcott out, waved Tyrer away, then stood at the window, upset with his present impotence. I’ve got to bring the Bakufu to heel quickly or we’re finished, and our vision of opening up Japan is lost. They won’t do it for themselves so we have to help them. But they’ve got to behave like civilized, law-abiding people … meanwhile the clock’s ticking, I know in my bones they’ll fall on us one night, put us to the torch and that will be that. Sure as God made little apples!
Oh yes, retribution would fall back on them—with great loss of life. Meanwhile I will have failed in my duty, we’ll all be dead and that’s a very boring thought indeed. If only Ketterer wasn’t so pigheaded. How the hell do I turn that obstinate bastard to my will?
He sighed, knowing one answer: First you’d better make a peace with him!
Their stormy meeting late last night over the Admiral’s blatant disregard of Mrs. Struan’s request and his own advice, having had no suspicion of the real reason until he had wrung it out of Jamie McFay earlier, had deteriorated into a shouting confrontation: “It was ill advised to allow Marlowe to—”
“I thought it best! Now you listen to me—”
“Best? God damn it, I’ve just learned you thought it best to stupidly interfere in political and trade matters by trying to barter a nonenforceable agreement with the pretender to the Struan throne and so alienate the true head forever more!” he had said furiously. “Didn’t you?”
“And you, sirrah, you interfere in matters that are the sole prerogative of Parliament—declaring war—and the real reason you are so ill advised with your language, sirrah, and so upset, is because I will not begin a war we cannot win, cannot sustain with our present forces, if at all, and in my opinion any attack on the capital will rightly be considered an act of war by the natives and not an incident. Good night!”
“You agreed to assis—”
“I agreed to rattle a few sabres, fire a few practice rounds to impress the natives but I haven’t agreed to bombard Yedo, nor, for the last time, will I until you show me authority in writing, approved by the Admiralty. Good n—”
“The Navy and the Army are subject to civilian control and advice, by God, and I’m the control here!”
“Yes, you are, by God, if I agree,” the Admiral bellowed, neck and face purple, “but you’re not in command of my ships and until I get orders to the contrary, approved by the Admiralty, I will run my fleet as I think best. Good night!”
Sir William sat back at his desk. He sighed and picked up a pen and wrote on his headed paper:
Dear Admiral Ketterer, Much of what you said last night was correct. Please excuse my ill-advised use of some words in the heat of the moment. Perhaps you would be kind enough to stop by this afternoon. You will
have heard of young Struan’s sad death that, according to Dr. Babcott, is “directly attributable to wounds caused by the unprovoked Tokaidō attack.” I will have to make another, most serious complaint to the Bakufu about the demise of this fine English gentleman and would be very pleased to have your advice how this should be couched. Most sincerely, my dear Sir, I remain yr obedient servant.
“What I do for England,” he muttered, then shouted, “Phillip!” signed the paper and powdered it to dry the ink.
“Yessir?”
“Make a copy, then send it to Ketterer by messenger.”
“Jamie’s just arrived, sir, and there’s a deputation asking that you make this ‘Angel Day,’ a day of mourning.”
“Refused! Send Jamie in.”
Jamie was very bruised, his shoulder strapped up now.
“Jamie, you’re feeling better? Good. George Babcott gave me a report.” He told him what had been said about Malcolm’s body. “What do you think?”
“We should send him home to Hong Kong, sir.”
“Good, my thought too. You’ll accompany the … him?”
“No, sir. Mrs. Struan … afraid she doesn’t approve of me anymore, and if I went back it would only worsen a really rotten situation for her, poor lady. Between us, I’m dismissed at the end of this month.”
“Good God, why?” Sir William was shocked.
“Doesn’t matter, not now. Angelique, our Mrs. Struan, will of course go, and Dr. Hoag—did you know she changed her mind and decided to stay in her old apartments with us, and not at the French Legation after all?”
“No, oh well, I suppose that’s best. How is she?”
“Hoag says as well as can be expected, whatever the hell that means. We’ll send Prancing Cloud soon as you and he give me the word. When’s that likely?”
“George said he’d do the autopsy today and sign the death certificate, I’ll have that tomorrow. The clipper could leave tomorrow, only problem would be Angelique, when she’s fit to travel.” Sir William looked at him keenly. “What about her?”
“Don’t know, not really. I haven’t seen her since … since being aboard. She didn’t speak to me, not once, not lucidly. Hoag’s still with her.” Jamie tried to hold back his grief. “We can only hope.”
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