“My eye line, sorr, was high—”
“Forget your bloody eye line. Have you any rum left?”
Tinker coughed and reached into a hidden locker and pulled out another flask. It was half empty. Jamie took a large swallow, choked, and took another.
“There’ll be ten cases of rum in our warehouse for you to draw against, Tinker, with my thanks. You did a fine job, so did the stoker—four cases for him.” Tinker thanked him effusively. The grand rum heat in his stomach had swamped all his chill. He looked at the old weathered face and shrewd blue eyes. “I was never so bloody scared, never, in my whole life. I thought I was a goner three or four times.”
“Not me, sorr,” the Bosun said with a grin. “Not with you aboard, but I was right happy when the bugger and his box were overboard and him sucked down cursing us all the way …”
Though safe ashore, again Jamie shivered, thinking of it. Angelique said, “You should get out of those wet clothes.”
Hoag said, “Well, I’m off.”
She put her arms around him and kissed his cheek, closing her nostrils to the smell of vomit. “Thank you so much, see you tomorrow.” She did the same to Skye. The two men went off unsteadily. “Will they be all right?”
Jamie said, “Nothing that a few whiskies and a night’s sleep won’t cure.”
“They’re not in shape to discuss anything, are they?”
“No. What do you want to discuss?”
She took his arm in hers and hugged it. “Just to decide about to morrow.”
“We can talk as we go.” They said good night to Tinker and the stoker, both men again thanking McFay for the rum. Then they walked off arm in arm. “Angelique—before you say anything, I’m glad we did it.”
“Oh, so am I, dear Jamie, you are a dear and I truly am so glad and so happy nothing went wrong, no one was hurt.” A wan smile. “Just a little sick.”
“Nothing to worry about. Tomorrow?”
“I’ve decided not to go with the mail ship, no, please don’t say anything, I’ve decided. I’m safer here. Until I hear from Tess formally. Really, Jamie, I am, I’m safer here. And I’m sure Hoag and George would agree that medically it would be wise. I don’t think you should go either.”
“It’s my job to tell Mrs. Struan, Mrs. Tess Struan.”
“You can call me Angelique, you always have and I, well, I’ve only been Mrs. Struan for a moment.” She sighed, continued walking towards the Struan Building. “It’s better I stay. She’ll have to declare herself, better by letter here. Malcolm’s buried and that’s all that I wanted. Do you have to go?”
“In this wind,” he said, thinking aloud, “Prancing Cloud could make fifteen to seventeen knots, day in day out, and be tied up in Hong Kong in five days—she’ll have the bit between her teeth with such important news and important cargo.” They had all agreed that publicly and now privately they would consider that coffin the tai-pan’s. “The mail ship will average eight knots if she’s lucky so she’ll take the usual ten-odd days. By the time I got there the funeral will have been done, Tess will know everything from dozens of different points of view—my report’s aboard, so is Sir William’s and fifty others no doubt. She’s dismissed me at the end of the month and the new fellow arrives in a few days and I was told to show him the ropes.” Then there were reasons he decided not to say aloud: he should be canvassing other hongs—as the major companies were sometimes called—for a job. The only real, suitable job available and up to his experience and surely on offer would be Brock and Sons. Then he had to decide about Maureen, and then there was Nemi. He smiled at Angelique sadly. “It adds up to no reason to go, doesn’t it?”
She hugged his arm, oblivious of those passing. “I’m glad. I won’t feel lonely if you’re here.”
“Jamie!” Phillip Tyrer had called out from the British Legation doorway, hastily putting on his topcoat and hat, hurrying towards them. “’Evening Angelique, Jamie,” he said in an uneasy rush. “Sir William’s compliments, would you two and the—the rest of the—the passengers and crew of the cutter kindly see him tomorrow morning before church, before you both board the mail ship? She sails at two o’clock now.”
“For what purpose, Phillip?” Jamie said.
“I—I think he’d like to … dammit, oh, excuse me, Angelique, obviously he’d like to ask what on earth you were doing.”
“Doing?”
The young man sighed. “Sorry, old boy, it’s not my idea. You’re on the mat, I’ve delivered the message, that’s all. Don’t pick on me, I’m just the nearest dogsbody.”
They both laughed, tension leaving them. “Ten o’clock?”
“Thanks, Jamie, that should be plenty of time.” Tyrer looked down the way at the cutter. “Looks as though you had a rough crossing, what on earth happened to the prow?”
Jamie glanced back. The damage was clearly visible under the lamp at the head of the jetty, and, he knew, easily observable with binoculars for miles from the Legation windows. “Flotsam,” he said readily. “A crate, what looked like a crate was washed aboard, then carried away again. No great problem.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
SUNDAY, 14TH DECEMBER:
“I don’t agree, Jamie. We have a distinct problem.” Sir William sat behind his desk, facing them. Phillip nearby, the mood in the drab office inquisitorial. “Let’s start again. You seem to be spokesman so I’ll address myself to you. I specifically said no funeral here, the body was to go back to Hong Kong an—”
“It’s already gone, Sir William, on Prancing Cloud,” Jamie repeated, his jaw set. They had been arguing for half an hour, he and Sir William, the others answering guardedly, all of them instructed by him and by Skye, only to respond when questioned directly and even then not to volunteer anything, just to answer the question as simply as possible: Hoag, Skye, Tinker, the stoker, and Angelique. Hoag was definitely the weakest link in the chain and twice had almost blurted out the reason. Angelique was heavily veiled, wearing black and dressed for church. “We had a make-believe funeral.”
“I know that and as I have asked repeatedly, repeatedly, if it was merely symbolic why use a real coffin with a real corpse, albeit with a native therein, and shove him over the side with a form of a Christian’s burial at sea?”
Jamie shrugged, stumped by that inevitable question. This morning Skye had said weakly, “We’d best shrug it off, brazen it out, keep our heads down, nothing much he can do but spit blood.”
“The coffin was there, I thought it a good idea.”
“Ah, this was all your idea then?”
“Yes,” Jamie said stubbornly, glaring at Hoag who started to open his mouth. “I suggested it and … and the others were good enough to go along with it. It was the tai-pan’s wish—it was Malcolm’s wish and Mrs. Struan’s. No harm was done.”
“I most assuredly disagree. The whole idea’s macabre. You deliberately went against my considered opinion; there seems to be an astonishing breakdown of reasonable thinking and a desire of all assembled here to avoid telling me the truth, the simple explanation, and you have colluded to hide … to hide what? Don’t you agree, Phillip?”
Tyrer jerked in his chair. “Er, yes, sir, if you say so.”
“Why the use of a real coffin and real body?”
Hoag shifted uncomfortably in his seat. They all knew that any moment he would break. Angelique decided that now was the time and she began to cry. “Why don’t you just leave us alone? We did no harm, just did what we thought best, what my husband wanted, what I wanted for him …”
“Angelique, please don’t cr—”
“That he wanted and you forbade. It’s your fault, Sir William, I thought you were our friend, if you were our friend and you’d been…been reasonable we wouldn’t have had all this trouble, of course it wasn’t nice to do anything underhanded, even though I think you were quite wrong and …”
“Mrs. Struan, I on—”
“Of course that wasn’t nice, none of us wanted to do that,
but at least we did it in good faith, before God, at least these friends, real friends helped to do properly what my husband and I … it wasn’t much to ask …”
For a moment she was going to flee the room but wisely did not, realizing that that would solve nothing and leave the others at his mercy so she stayed where she was, dissolving into ever more heartbreaking sobs, knowing she had not lied and had said nothing more than the truth: it was his fault!
In seconds they were all around her, trying to calm her, all feeling terrible, except Skye who was awed by the brilliance of her timing, and Sir William who was privately amused though, for face, pretending to be equally upset. He watched and waited, still disgusted with all of them for whatever machinations they had jointly conceived. What had possessed them and who was the real culprit? Surely not Jamie? Bloody stupid to do what they did. Ridiculous. Stupid to risk their lives like that.
People are no damned good. Even Angelique. Ah, but what a lady, and what a treasure and what an actress—where in the name of God does she get it all from? Like most girls of her age, her education is minimal, in her case convent, which is a bloody sight worse. Is Heavenly coaching her for the trial of the century? Or am I just a cynical old fool? Either way, I really will be sad to lose her.
His mantelpiece clock chimed quarter to the hour. Time for church, he thought, time to stop—he was reading the lesson and had not yet had time to skim through it.
“There there, Mrs. Struan,” he said, as a good though stern father would. “No need for tears, we’ve all had enough of them recently. I must confess I still totally disapprove of the escapade, very poor show, but under the emotional circumstances I think we’ll let it rest there, for the moment.” Again he pretended not to hear their audible relief, or to notice the subsidence of her sobs. “Now it’s time for church, and then the mail ship and our wishes for a bon voyage and a long life will go with you. Truly we will be very sorry and very sad to see you leave our shores.”
“I—I’m not leaving yet, Sir William.”
“Eh?” Sir William and Tyrer were flabbergasted.
Between sobs, her head bowed, she said, “Dr. Hoag has advised me not to travel for at least a week.”
Hoag said quickly, “That’s right, medically not a good idea, Sir William, not a good idea at all, no, not at all.” This morning Skye, supported by Jamie, had insisted that it was best she did not go for a time. “A medical certificate is what she needs, Doctor, one you can attest to with Tess Struan. With all this emotion, surely she shouldn’t travel or have any confrontations until she’s stronger?” Hoag had readily agreed, and said to Sir William, “As you can see she’s easily upset, and I’ve given her a certificate, not that it’s necessary.”
For a moment Sir William did not know what to think. On the one hand they had not lost her, on the other the irritant that she already was, and the thorn she was bound to become when Tess Struan’s wrath fell on her and all of them, would still be in his jurisdiction. “You really should go, Ma’am. I would have thought it very important to be at the funeral.”
“I want to go but …” Her voice broke and a fresh sob racked her. “Dr. Hoag is—is going in my place, I really don’t feel up to … it’s best …”
“But Jamie, you’ll be going too?”
“No, sir. There are things I’ve been ordered to do here by Mrs. Tess Struan.”
“Bless my soul.” Halfheartedly Sir William tried to dissuade her, then sighed. “Well, if Dr. Hoag says so, that’s the end of that, he is the Struan doctor.” He got up. Openly relieved, they thanked him and began to leave. “A moment, Dr. Hoag, a word if you please.” He hid his pleasure seeing Jamie and Skye blanch and said pointedly as they hung back, “G’day Jamie, Mr. Skye. Phillip, no need for you to stay.”
The door closed. Hoag was like a rabbit before a cobra.
“Now, Doctor, quietly tell me the truth, how is she?”
“She’s very well, on the surface, Sir William,” Hoag said at once. “It’s a surface cure. What’s underneath no one knows. It could last days, weeks, a year or more—then the nightmare will return. What will happen then …” He shrugged.
“You’ll be seeing Tess Struan?”
“Yes, as soon as I arrive.” Hoag waited shakily, dreading the questioning, knowing he would fail.
Thoughtfully Sir William got up and poured a whisky and gave it to him. The liquor vanished. “You won’t be coming back here for a time, if ever. I need to know, in confidence, what medically are the chances of her carrying Malcolm’s child?”
Hoag blinked, the liquor and the unexpected gentleness calming him and putting him off balance, not expecting this line of questioning. He said with great sincerity, “Of course that’s up to God, sir. But Malcolm was healthy and so is she, both fine people, unfortunately both star-crossed—so sad. I’d say the chances are very good, for this was no idle fancy, their love-making must have been very passionate, as near a true love as I have ever seen.”
Sir William frowned. “Good. When you see Tess Struan … I think our Mrs. Struan will need all the help she can get. Eh?”
“You may rest assured I’ll intercede for her.”
Sir William nodded and reached into his drawer. The envelope was sealed and addressed Personal, Confidential and Private, by hand, to Sir Stanshope, Governor of Hong Kong, from Sir William Aylesbury, Minister to the Japans. “I have an official commission for you, a secret one. I want you to deliver this personally to the Governor, as soon as you arrive.”
He scrawled on the bottom “Delivered by hand by Dr. Hoag” and had decided to use him the moment he had heard Jamie would not be on the mail ship, there being no one aboard Prancing Cloud he could trust. “It must be given over personally, to no one else, no one is to know you are a Queen’s courier. Clear?”
“Yes, sir, of course, Sir William,” Hoag said proudly.
He knew that now Hoag was putty and he could extract anything he wanted from him. Who began the escapade, what was in their minds at sea and why they did what they did, what really happened at Kanagawa. He smiled to himself, enjoying his position and for his own reasons let the matter rest. “Have a safe voyage, and I look forward to seeing you in Hong Kong.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Hoag fled, ecstatic to have escaped with his honor intact. Jamie and Skye were waiting anxiously on the High Street. “Nothing, honestly,” he said excitedly, “he just wanted to ask medical questions, private ones.”
“You’re sure?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die. Hurry up, time for a quick one before church. I still feel washed out.” They went off happily, not noticing Sir William watching from his window.
I wonder how happy those rotters would be if they could read my letter to the Governor, he thought, scowling. They’re not off the hook yet, none of us are. As if one coffin mattered when the whole world’s falling apart, Russia teetering towards war again, Prussia licking her chops over the intestines of Central Europe, the French with their militant, overblown pride, our Indian Empire and Asian colonies at risk because of misguided fools in Parliament, and us awaiting imminent Japanese liquidation.
On the surface the letter was innocuous. Decoded it read: Urgently request all fleet and army reinforcements possible as I expect the Settlement to be attacked any day by Bakufu samurai legions and may have to abandon our base here.
* * *
The Catholic church was candle-lit, the altar glinting, the congregation sparse and Father Leo was bringing the singsong litany of Mass to a close, his deep baritone voice melodious amidst the familiar perfume of incense that drifted over them—the service shorter than usual as a few had to catch the mail ship.
Angelique knelt at prayer in the front pew, Seratard beside her, André some rows behind, Vervene at the back with the rest of the Legation staff, a few traders, Eurasian Portuguese, and some officers and men from the French ships who had shore leave. The main body of French sailors had other services, earlier or later. Thankfully
for all ships companies, there were no priests with the fleet—to have one aboard always considered bad luck, on any ship of any flag.
Father Leo bowed to the altar, prayed and then blessed the congregation. Angelique took a deep breath, leisurely finished her prayer, waiting for Seratard to move.
She had already been confessed. In the little box she had said, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“What sins have you committed this week, my child?”
She had heard the barely disguised impatience to learn every thought and deed that had happened, this being the first time she had been to Confession since the troubles began. “I forgot to ask the Blessed Mother for forgiveness in my prayers one night,” she said with perfect calm, continuing her pact, and the plan and words she had devised, “and had many bad thoughts and dreams, and was afraid, and forgot I was in God’s hands with never a need to fear.”
“Yes, and what else?”
A little smile settled, hearing the impatience. “I sinned in that, though my marriage is legal in the sight of my husband’s people and his law and his Church, there was no time for us to make it conform to the True Church.”
“But … but that … that, senhora, that is not … not of itself a sin, you were not responsible for that, he was taken from us. What … what other sins did you commit?”
She kept her nostrils closed as much as she could to the stench of garlic and stale wine and unwashed clothes, using a pomaded kerchief. “I sinned in that I could not persuade Sir William to allow me to bury my husband as he wished and therefore I wished.”
“That … that in itself is not a sin, child. What else?”
“I sinned in that I could not persuade my husband to become Catholic before we married.”
“Nor is that a sin, senhora. What else?”
Now he was beginning to sound exasperated. As she expected. How odd I’m no longer petrified of him and can hear the nuances he seeks to hide. Is this another gift of God?
“Have you, did you commit sins of the flesh?”
Her eyes narrowed, the smile froze and she despised him even more, at the same time forgiving him some of it because of his magnanimity in blessing the other coffin. “I have been a correct wife in accordance with the teachings of the Church.”
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