by Y. S. Lee
There was a charged silence. Then, abruptly, the queen turned the conversation. “This is not a time for riddles. You had better explain exactly what has happened.”
“Of course, Your Majesty. We are here to inform you of a grave accident that has happened, this night, to the Honorable Ralph Beaulieu-Buckworth. I believe you are acquainted with this young person?”
Prince Albert’s voice was hard. “One could scarcely say ‘acquainted.’ He is the same age as the Prince of Wales. They may even have friends in common. But the prince does not associate with the person you named.”
Commissioner Russell scarcely paused. “Your Majesty, Your Highness. I am sorry to inform you that your son was in the Honorable Ralph Beaulieu-Buckworth’s company at the time of the — tragedy. The time, in fact, of Mr. Beaulieu-Buckworth’s unfortunate death.” His last word seemed to echo in the silence that followed; a heavy, absolute silence in which the soft ffffft of the gas lamps became loud and obtrusive. There was no soft oath, no sudden intake of breath, from the royal couple. When Russell spoke again, his tone was even, measured — the voice of a bureaucrat doing his job. “The Prince of Wales has stated to us that he came down to London this afternoon at the invitation of Mr. Beaulieu-Buckworth.”
“You questioned the Prince of Wales in the absence of his parents?” Her Majesty’s anger was clear. “He is but eighteen years old.”
“We did not formally question him, Your Majesty; I apologize for the false impression my words may have created. The Prince of Wales, in his agitation, gave us to understand a number of facts. We realize, of course, that upon reflection he may be able to correct some of those statements. But we are repeating to you the information he volunteered to us.”
A grim, skeptical silence. Then the prince consort again: “Carry on, Commissioner.”
“Thank you, sir. The young men’s intention was to celebrate Mr. Beaulieu-Buckworth’s birthday, and a number of young gentlemen were invited to the festivities. The prince’s equerries were in attendance, naturally.” A pause.
“It was rather a large gathering. They dined at —”
“Oh, what does it matter where they dined?” cried the queen in a voice so terrible that even the commissioner’s dry recitation faltered. “Stop toying with us, man, and tell us what has happened!”
Russell swallowed audibly. “Very well, Your Majesty. You’ll understand, ma’am, that the young men had drunk wine with dinner, and continued to indulge in various wines and spirits over the course of the long evening. The Prince of Wales informs us that by two o’clock in the morning, he and Mr. Beaulieu-Buckworth were gravely impaired. They had become separated from their companions, including the prince’s equerries, and Mr. Beaulieu-Buckworth proposed a tour of what he called ‘the dark side.’ Against the prince’s better judgment —”
The queen gave a sharp, sudden sob. “Judgment, my God! The boy lacks all common sense and good judgment!”
Commissioner Russell paused, uncertain.
“Pray continue, Commissioner,” said Prince Albert.
“The Prince of Wales assented. Mr. Beaulieu-Buckworth led him into east London, through a maze of streets the prince assured us he should never have been able to navigate alone. They eventually came to an establishment catering to the desire for the consumption of opium —” Commissioner Russell paused.
“Even we, with our sheltered lives, have heard of opium dens,” said the prince consort with heavy irony.
Russell cleared his throat. “Quite. At any rate, Mr. Beaulieu-Buckworth persuaded the prince to enter, in order to view what he described as ‘the scum.’ The prince informed us that he was reluctant to enter. However, he feared losing Mr. Beaulieu-Buckworth, who promised to guide him afterward out of the maze of slums. Thus he followed his friend into the opium-smoking establishment.
“The prince tells us that a dark-skinned man — the proprietor of the establishment, we believe — asked them if they wished to smoke. Although they declined, the dark-skinned man proceeded to fill a hookah for them and urge them to sample his wares. Mr. Beaulieu-Buckworth became agitated — remember, he was extremely intoxicated — and either struck or kicked at the smoking device.” The commissioner stopped, as though considering how to phrase his next sentence.
The room became perfectly quiet once more, the queen and her consort still awaiting the terrible blow that was surely to come.
Eventually, Commissioner Russell cleared his throat. “At this point, the prince’s recollections become regrettably confused, but he describes, in general terms, a contretemps. The proprietor was angered by this destruction of his property, and harsh words were exchanged. There were a number of patrons — Lascars, mainly, on shore leave — smoking opium at the time. Some were, of course, in a drug-induced stupor that left them unaware of the goings-on. But others were more alert, and one seems to have been enraged by Mr. Beaulieu-Buckworth’s language; the prince described it as strong. This man — the prince describes him as an elderly sailor and an Asiatic — rose up and staggered toward the young gentlemen. The Prince of Wales was a little closer to the Asiatic and thus caught the first blow. The prince says he attempted to grapple with the man but soon found himself thrown aside with a force that was quite astonishing, given the Asiatic’s apparent age and build.
“Mr. Beaulieu-Buckworth said something — the prince does not recall precisely what. The Asiatic then turned to Mr. Beaulieu-Buckworth. It seemed a fistfight, at first, but in a very short time — the prince was unable to say how many minutes, as he was still downed and attempting to make sense of the struggle — Mr. Beaulieu-Buckworth lay sprawled on the floor, facedown.”
Mary could well imagine what Beaulieu-Buckworth’s “strong” language had been like. England was rarely a comfortable place for Asiatics, or any foreigners for that matter. But since that past summer’s aggression and bloodshed between Britain and China, tempers and temperatures had run especially high, particularly for the Chinese community in London. England was not at war with China. Not officially, at least. But English troops were killing Chinese — both soldiers and civilians; the Chinese retaliated, and there had been rumors of torture.
The horrors in China now echoed through Limehouse, where for generations Asians had lived in quiet — if not, perhaps, peaceful — coexistence with their English neighbors. Now there were reports of conflict: service refused to a Chinese woman at market, a Chinese man attacked by a gang of boys, a shop selling Chinese herbs burned down. English outrage was high, and some took that as license to “retaliate”— as though the denizens of east London were responsible for the actions of the Chinese emperor. There could be no doubt as to where Beaulieu-Buckworth stood.
Had stood. That was the key: the pig was dead. And although his name was mud in aristocratic circles — a well-known gambler, whoremonger, drunkard, and coward — he was still one of them. He was, after all, an “Honorable,” a scion of a noble house. That his short life had been almost entirely without honor or nobility mattered not. There would be no satisfactory ending to this tale.
“The prince,” continued the commissioner, “though alarmed by the general violence, decided this was a good opportunity to persuade Mr. Beaulieu-Buckworth to depart. But when he tried to help his friend up, he found him dying, a knife buried deep in his chest.”
A strange, high-pitched sound erupted — a cry that seemed more animal than human. “Murder!”
Mary scrambled to make sense of this scream. It hadn’t come from the queen.
“Murder of a young aristocrat, and an attempt on the Prince of Wales’s life!”
“Indeed, Mrs. Dalrymple,” said Russell. “But we are speaking to Her Majesty in confidence; it is of utmost importance that you keep silence about what you’ve just heard.”
“That goes without saying,” said Her Majesty severely. “We do not tolerate tale bearing and idle gossip at our court.”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty.” But Honoria’s voice continued to vibrate with emotion.
“We are glad of your discretion in coming to us first,” said Prince Albert, “and we still have much to discuss. But first: you have arrested the vermin, of course?”
“Yes, Your Highness. The miscreant is in Tower jail even as we speak.”
“He was an opium fiend?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“And an Asiatic, you said.”
“A Chinese sailor, Your Highness, and a rather elderly one at that. Unless I’m much mistaken, he sailed his last journey some years ago.”
A pause. Then the prince consort murmured, “That is useful.”
“‘Useful,’ sir?”
“Surely you understand me, Commissioner,” said His Highness in a meaningful tone.
“Mrs. Dalrymple,” said the queen suddenly, “you may instruct my maids to draw my bath and prepare my morning dress.”
“Very good, Your Majesty,” said Honoria in a soft, even voice. A few moments later, the door closed behind her with the softest of clicks, and Mary tried to visualize those who remained: Queen Victoria, Prince Albert, Russell, and Russell’s silent subordinate, she thought.
“The Prince of Wales must not be named as a party to this shocking event,” said the queen in a rapid and matter-of-fact fashion. “Mr. Beaulieu-Buckworth was alone in his visit to the opium den. The prince and his equerries became separated from the larger group at a much earlier hour, and the prince returned here, to his family, at midnight.”
Russell cleared his throat. “There is the small matter, ma’am, of the other witnesses. Patrons of the opium den, for example.”
“A ragtag band of drug-addled sots,” replied the queen.
“And the owner, with whom the prince exchanged words?”
“He must be convinced of his error. He cannot possibly believe that the Prince of Wales entered his low den and spoke to him.”
“We can certainly try, ma’am. But the gravest difficulty lies with the Lascar who attacked Mr. Beaulieu-Buckworth. He will insist that the Prince of Wales was present — perhaps, even, that he joined with Mr. Beaulieu-Buckworth in attacking him. Pure invention, of course,” Commissioner Russell added hastily, “but these scoundrels seize upon anything to shore up their defense and muddy the truth.”
“He may be certain of a second gentleman,” allowed the queen, “but he is clearly mad if he imagines it to have been the Prince of Wales. Did you not say the man was an opium fiend?”
“We believe so.”
“And do opium addicts not suffer from fits and delusions?”
“Y-yes . . .”
“Then we have no difficulty.” There was a long, meaningful pause. “Have we?”
“And yet we may.” Prince Albert’s voice was deep, reluctant — and utterly surprising. “The first attack,” he said very slowly, “was on the Prince of Wales. And you say the Asiatic sailor recognized him?”
“The Prince of Wales thinks so,” said Russell. “He believes he was recognized.”
“Then we have not only a clear identification, but a much more serious crime: an attack — most likely a murderous attack — on the person of the future King of England.”
There was a prolonged silence, during which the unspoken word seemed to reverberate about the chilly room. Treason — not merely against the state, but against the monarchy. That made it high treason.
“Correct, Your Highness.”
“That is true only if Bertie is correct about the identification,” objected Queen Victoria. “Could he not be in error? What would an opium-addled foreigner know about the Prince of Wales’s appearance to enable him to identify him so confidently, especially in such circumstances?” Her voice grew angry. “It beggars belief that such a villain could instantly recognize — and have the temerity to attack — the future king. This must surely be a grotesque error.”
“The Prince of Wales is a public figure,” argued Prince Albert. “His portrait appears regularly in society papers. Just as your subjects recognize you, my dear, they recognize your heir.”
“Perhaps,” said the queen. “And I grant the seriousness of the attack. But if we pursue this route, the Prince of Wales will be subjected to a public scrutiny far too painful for him to bear. There will be scandal, not to mention the horror of a trial — good God, what if he were required to testify? Only think of what people would say — what newspapers might print! I cannot permit this!”
There was another prolonged silence. It was perhaps fanciful of Mary to imagine, sightless as she was behind the drapes, but this pause had a different quality. It was not a standoff but a sort of silent negotiation between husband and wife. Mary had witnessed this before — the rapid, minute flashes of change and exchange in their eyes. The sort of conversation only a close, long-married couple could have.
After a moment, Her Majesty once again addressed the commissioner. “The prince consort and I shall speak with our son tomorrow, when he is awake and calm. We shall ask the Prince of Wales to repeat his impressions of the night’s events. Once we have arrived at an understanding, we shall inform you of how we wish to proceed.”
A pause. Then, reluctantly, “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
The interview was over, bar the formalities. Mary let out a long, silent breath she hadn’t known she was holding until that moment. She raised her shoulders and willed her tense muscles to soften. Outside this room, the day was starting. Servants would soon be rising. It was cutting it fine, but she ought to have time to return to the bedroom before Amy woke.
“A moment, Commissioner.” Queen Victoria’s voice sliced through Mary’s thoughts. “What is the name of this opium fiend — the murderer?”
“It’s a Chinese name, Your Majesty. Difficult to say — even assuming he gave his real name.”
“Do your best.”
A pause. Then, haltingly, “It’s Lang.”
Mary caught her breath. The blood in her veins seemed to freeze for a long moment, then resume its course with a drunken swoop. Foolish, she scolded herself. Utter coincidence. Lang was a common-enough Chinese surname. What did it matter that it was the same as hers — the real name she’d abandoned, yet another fragment of her lost childhood?
“Why, there are Englishmen named Lang.” Prince Albert sounded the g in Lang, making the name hard and Teutonic, not tonal and Chinese. “The name is of German origin.”
“It’s the rest of his name that gives trouble, Your Highness,” said Russell with an air of apology. “His Christian names — although I doubt he’s a Christian. It’s something like Jinn High.”
Mary swayed and caught desperately at the windowsill for balance, suddenly knocked dizzy by two syllables.
“Jinn what?”
“Spelled J–i–n H–a–i, Your Majesty. Jin Hai Lang.”
Her pulse roared in her ears, so loudly she could scarcely hear the queen’s terse thanks and dismissal.
Jin Hai Lang, a Lascar in Limehouse.
Lang Jin Hai, his name in Chinese.
An opium addict.
A murderer.
And, unless she’d gone completely mad . . .
Her father.
Mary stumbled back up to her attic room, kicked off her shoes, and climbed back under the bed coverings. Her head ached. Her pulse hammered a single rhythm through her consciousness: Lang Jin Hai. Lang Jin Hai. Her father’s name, and one of the few things about him she could remember.
He was gone — lost at sea when she was a small child — risking all on a mission to uncover truth. His death was the reason she and her mother had suffered so. The bone-deep cold and perpetual hunger. Her mother’s desperate turn to prostitution and, not long after, her death. Mary’s own years on the streets, keeping alive as a pickpocket and housebreaker. The inevitable arrest and trial, and the certainty of death — so very close that she’d all but felt the noose about her neck.
And then, miraculously, her rescue. The women of the Agency had given her life anew. Mary Lang, the only child of a Chinese sailor and an Irish
seamstress, was gone forever. She’d been reborn as Mary Quinn, orphan. Educated at Miss Scrimshaw’s Academy for Girls. Trained as an undercover agent. An exciting, hopeful, active life had lain before her. Until this morning.
Mary pressed her palms to her temples, as though that might still the roar of her blood. The blood she shared with an opium fiend and a murderer. The father she’d longed so desperately to rediscover. At least while she’d thought him dead.
What if it were a hideous, improbable coincidence? There might be another Lascar who shared her father’s name. What else had the police said of him? “Elderly,” they’d called him. That was superficially comforting. Yet her father, had he lived, would now be in his late forties or early fifties — old enough, especially for a wind-blown, sun-beaten working man. It was not unthinkable that he might appear elderly. What else did she know of him? Only that in his youth he’d resembled Prince Albert: his nickname around Limehouse had been Prince. Was it possible for such a resemblance to persist, through years of hard living and wayfaring?
Her chances of getting a look at this Lang Jin Hai were slender. He was in prison and soon to be arraigned as the murderer of the dishonorable Ralph Beaulieu-Buckworth. He might be charged with the even graver crime of high treason, depending upon the queen’s decision. For the queen, this whole affair was largely a question of propriety, yet nobody was willing to challenge her views — not even the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. That rankled, too. It wasn’t that Mary wanted the Prince of Wales’s reputation sullied or the royal family disgraced through its association with Beaulieu-Buckworth. But Queen Victoria’s unquestioned authority in this matter raised other, even more dangerous questions about the sort of justice Lang Jin Hai might receive.
A new thought came to Mary: what if the prince was mistaken about what he had seen? What if he’d seen a struggle and a death but leaped to conclusions about the causes? He’d been slightly injured, of course — perhaps breathless and frightened and nursing his bruises when Beaulieu-Buckworth confronted the Lascar. What if Lang — as she must call him, whether he was her father or not — had attacked Prince Albert Edward first in an opium-induced haze without recognizing him at all? Lang may even have acted in self-defense, protecting himself from what he saw as a pair of aggressive, drunken toffs. Why, Beaulieu-Buckworth might even have picked up the knife and been the first to wield it!
