by C. S. Harris
But the lingering whispers of that all-consuming fear remained.
* * *
Tuesday, 14 June
“You seem to have hit a nerve with someone,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy the next morning as they walked through the crowded piazza of Covent Garden. “Any idea as to your assailant’s identity?”
“None whatsoever.” Sebastian gazed out over the colorful, bustling, brawling, shouting crowd of the marketplace. “The rifle was a common enough one, and I’m fairly confident the actual shooter was only a hireling. I’ve never known a man who could get off two shots in less than twenty seconds who wasn’t a rifleman at some point. And even then it’s rare.”
“Ah. Goodness knows there are more and more ex-soldiers flooding into London every day, most of them desperate for work.” Lovejoy paused, his face even more serious than usual.
“What?” said Sebastian, watching him.
“I heard the other day that Titus Poole has been going around bragging about hiring ex-soldiers. Seems he has ambitions of expanding his operation into something similar to the Bow Street Runners, only private. Those who are becoming increasingly frustrated by Britain’s lack of a proper police force are actively encouraging him—despite his past history.”
“Huh. Sounds like something Theo Brownbeck would support. I wonder if they know each other.”
“Surely not.”
Sebastian watched a ragged little girl steal an apple from a stall, and said, “I think I need to have another talk with Mr. Poole.”
* * *
Titus Poole was behind the bar in the taproom of his wife’s inn when Sebastian walked up and ordered a pint.
Poole pressed both hands flat on the polished surface of the bar and leaned into them, his small, nasty eyes narrowed in pugnacious hostility. “Ye ain’t welcome here.”
“No?” Sebastian gave the man a smile that showed his teeth. “Then let’s drop all pretense of civility and simply have a frank, straightforward conversation, shall we? Word is, you’ve recently hired yourself an ex-soldier or two.”
Poole’s jaw tightened. “Ye got a problem with that?”
“On the contrary, I find it commendable. Any of those ex-soldiers happen to be a rifleman?”
“Why ye askin’?”
“Because someone took a shot at my carriage last night. Someone who’s obviously very good at what he does.”
Poole smiled, revealing tobacco-stained teeth and a half-masticated plug. “Scared ye, did he?”
“He nearly hit my wife.”
“Ah. Now that woulda been a real shame.”
Sebastian felt the skin of his face tighten, the blood pounding in his neck. “Let me make myself perfectly clear: If anyone harms, threatens, follows, watches, or even comes anywhere near my wife again, I’ll hold you responsible. And you won’t live long enough to hang—you or whoever is paying you.”
Poole’s color was high, his big head thrown back, his nostrils flaring. “Ye can’t talk to me like that.”
Sebastian adjusted the tilt of his hat. “You’re lucky I didn’t kill you.” And then he turned and left before the urge to do this man damage became overwhelming.
Chapter 36
T he painted wooden sign outside Mahmoud Abbasi’s Turkish Baths in Portman Square was small and discreet, but Sebastian knew he must have seen it several times, at least. Just below the proudly emblazoned name of the establishment, it depicted the same ancient stone building as Hayes’s bronze token. And yet somehow Sebastian hadn’t made the connection.
The baths had been open for business some six months. Prior to that, Mr. Abbasi had run the Hindu Kush Coffeehouse in George Street, serving a variety of curries and other authentic Indian dishes as well as providing hookahs and chilam tobacco. That establishment had not done well. Curries might have been popular with men who’d served in India with the British Army and the East India Company, but the taste was simply too exotic for most Londoners. And so Abbasi had closed his coffeehouse and opened the baths, which provided a hot room, a “shampooing” or massage room, a plunge bath, and a cooling and rest room.
Sebastian wondered if this venture was doing any better than the last.
He found the bathhouse’s foyer decorated in an ostentatiously Eastern theme, with lots of red silk and shiny brass and colorful mosaics. At his entrance, a man who looked like he’d be more at home in the craggy, snow-covered mountains of the Hindu Kush came from behind the counter and bowed. “May I help you?” He was tall and wiry, with a dark complexion, thick black hair, and merry black eyes. In age he could have been anywhere between thirty-five and fifty-five, with even white teeth that flashed in a wide smile.
The smile slipped when Sebastian laid the small bronze token on the countertop beside them and said, “This was in Nicholas Hayes’s pocket when he was found murdered up in Somer’s Town last Thursday.”
Abbasi held himself very still, in the manner of a man who senses danger but is as yet unsure of its nature. A silent, watchful boy of perhaps eight or nine came to stand in a nearby curtained doorway. His resemblance to Abbasi was unmistakable, but he was so much fairer than his father that Sebastian suspected the child must have an English mother.
When Abbasi remained silent, Sebastian said, “I’m not with Bow Street, if that’s what’s worrying you. The name is Devlin, and my only interest is in finding out who killed Hayes.”
One corner of the man’s mouth quirked up as if with an irrepressible bubble of amusement. “I must admit, you don’t look like anyone from Bow Street I’ve ever seen. In fact, you remind me of a cavalry captain I once knew. He was with the Nineteenth Light Dragoons.”
Sebastian found himself smiling in return. “I was with the Twenty-fifth. How could you tell?”
“I was a lieutenant with the East India Company. Long ago.”
“Not so long ago, surely.”
Abbasi laughed. “Long enough that I feel each old wound whenever a cold wind blows off the North Sea.” The amusement faded. “What is your interest in Nicholas?”
Nicholas, Sebastian noticed, not Hayes. “They say we owe the living respect, but the dead deserve the truth.”
Abbasi nodded, then quoted in perfect French, “‘On doit des égards aux vivants; on ne doit aux morts que la vérité.’” He glanced over at the half-grown boy who still hovered in the curtained doorway. “Take over for me, Baba.”
He led Sebastian to a small room covered from floor to ceiling with colorful Moroccan tiles and furnished with thick Persian carpets and piles of pillows. A shy, pretty little girl with black hair and huge brown eyes brought them thick Middle Eastern coffee as they sat cross-legged on the floor and talked of things common to military men all over the world, of brutal forced marches and the horses they’d known and fighting men they admired. Then Abbasi lit a hubble-bubble and said, “When I left the East India Company, I spent several years in Canton. It was there I came to know Nicholas.”
Sebastian drew the cool, fragrant smoke deep into his lungs. “How long ago was this?”
“I left nine—no, almost ten years ago now.”
“What was he like? I mean as a man.”
Abbasi sucked on the hubble-bubble, his eyes narrowing against the smoke. “You’ve heard of his time in Botany Bay?”
“Some of it.”
Abbasi nodded. “He was a man who had once been a certain way—a gentleman’s son, heedless and gay and thinking little of tomorrow. Then he went through the worst kind of hell, and when he came out on the other side of it, he was inevitably . . . changed. Shattered. Hollowed out. But fate gave him a chance to remake himself into something else entirely, and so he did.”
Sebastian found himself thinking about the worn prayer beads he’d seen in Hayes’s room at the Red Lion. “He became a Buddhist?”
“He never called himself one. But he befriended a man who’d been a
monk in Tibet and who taught him many things. I think you could say he eventually found a measure of peace.”
“So why come back here, to England?”
“He said he had his reasons. I didn’t ask what they were.”
Abbasi’s open acknowledgment of their recent meeting was unexpectedly frank. Sebastian said, “When exactly did you see him?”
“Last week sometime. Perhaps two or three days before he died.”
“Here?”
Abbasi nodded. “We ate kofta and rice. Smoked the hubble-bubble. Talked of old times. I showed him that example of the tokens I’m planning to have made, and he said I should put the bath’s name and address on the back rather than have both sides the same. I laughed, said he was right, and gave it to him as a souvenir.”
“Was the boy with him?”
Abbasi looked puzzled. “What boy?”
“Hayes brought a boy of eight or nine with him from China. His name is Ji.”
“No, he came here alone.” Abbasi leaned back against his pile of pillows. “When I knew Nicholas in Canton, he had a little girl. But she would be older now—as much as twelve or thirteen. He made no mention of her, and I assumed she must have died.”
Sebastian thought about the miniature painting of the young woman he’d seen at the Red Lion. “Did you know the little girl’s mother?”
“No. She died before I ever met Nicholas.”
“Who was she?”
“He told me she’d been a bondmaid, sold into slavery when her father fell out of favor with the Emperor and was executed. Her owner was getting ready to give her to some old man as a concubine, and Hayes offered double what the man was going to pay for her. He said once that his love for her was the only thing that got him through that first year after Botany Bay—that and her love for him. And then she died in childbirth.”
“Was there another woman after her?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Although to be honest, I’m not certain the woman he told me about was his child’s mother. I may simply have assumed it.”
Sebastian was silent for a moment, overwhelmed by the relentless tragedy of Nicholas Hayes’s life. He said, “I was under the impression foreigners aren’t welcome in China.”
“They’re not. They’re confined to their own quarter outside Canton and officially forbidden to set foot within the city walls. But exceptions are sometimes made.”
“And exceptions were made for Hayes?”
“To a certain extent. I don’t know how it came about, but he was quite close to one of the Hong merchants there, a fellow by the name of Chen Shouguan.” He paused. “How much do you know about Canton?”
“Not much,” Sebastian admitted.
Abbasi nodded. “The Hong merchants are the only ones permitted by the Emperor to trade with foreigners, and they are required to deal with the Westerners through one of five officially licensed linguists. All the linguists are Chinese, and despite being called ‘linguists,’ they don’t actually speak English, just pidgin English. Most of the merchants don’t really care. It’s the linguists who negotiate terms with the foreigners and keep track of all the duties and fees required of their ships, so the emphasis is on their skills at negotiating and making deals rather than on their language abilities.”
“But Chen was different?”
“Very. He wanted someone who could listen to the foreigners talk amongst themselves and know exactly what they were saying. That and understand how Europeans think.”
“Wise man,” said Sebastian. “Maybe that’s why Hayes left China. Maybe something happened to Chen?”
Abbasi shook his head. “I asked Nicholas how the tough old bastard was doing, and he said Chen had just bought a new concubine. The man must be at least eighty.”
“Charming.”
Abbasi’s teeth flashed in a grin. “It’s a different world.”
“So I’m told,” said Sebastian. “Could Hayes speak Chinese?”
“He could, yes. It’s forbidden by Imperial decree for foreigners to learn the Chinese languages, but . . .” He shrugged. “There are always exceptions. Nicholas learned both Mandarin and Cantonese.”
“Impressive.”
“He was a smart man. Very smart.”
“I’m surprised he wasn’t worried one of the Englishmen he interacted with in Canton might recognize him.”
“But that’s just it: He didn’t interact with them directly. The official linguists were the ones who handled the actual negotiations. Nicholas’s role was more to quietly watch and listen from the sidelines. Plus, he wore a thick, full beard.” Abbasi’s teeth flashed in a smile. “When he walked into my baths last week all cleanly shaven, I didn’t recognize him until he spoke.”
Abbasi paused, a frown creasing his forehead.
“What?” asked Sebastian, watching him.
“I take that back. There actually was one fellow who recognized him. It happened shortly before I left. Nicholas ran into him by chance in Macau.”
“What was the man’s name? Do you know?”
“Sorry. All I remember is that he was with the East India Company. Nicholas hated British East India Company men—myself excepted, of course.” Abbasi flashed another smile. “He hated the British in general because of what His Majesty’s own had done to him in Botany Bay, and he hated the company specifically because it is behind most of the opium being smuggled into China.” Abbasi blew out a long stream of fragrant smoke. “I’m told that not long ago, the Chinese used opium the way we do, for pain. But now they’ve taken to smoking it the way we smoke tobacco, and it’s become a big problem. The emperors forbade its importation, so the East India Company switched to smuggling it.”
“Is the smuggling that hard to stop?”
“The thing is, the eradication of smuggling is the responsibility of the Hoppas—the customs superintendents. They’re the same officials who collect the duties and fees in the port. And it’s the opium smuggling that earns the East India Company the silver they then turn around and use to buy Chinese goods. So the Hoppas are afraid that if they crack down too hard on the opium smuggling, they’ll see a corresponding fall in the revenues they send to the Imperial Court in Beijing. Obviously, that would impact their own income. And it also wouldn’t be good for their necks.” Abbasi illustrated the point by slashing a knifelike hand across his throat with a grimace.
“So one of the East India Company men recognized Hayes?”
“Not exactly. Nicholas recognized him. The first time he saw the man, we were on the streets of Macau.” Abbasi paused. “Nicholas told me once that he was different when he was younger—impulsive and quick to anger. But the Nicholas I knew was one of the calmest, most controlled people I’ve met outside of a monastery. And yet the sight of that East India Company man drove him wild. I managed to hold him back then. But when we ran into the same man two days later on the waterfront . . .” Abbasi’s voice trailed away, and he shook his head.
“What happened?”
“Nicholas got the fellow down on the dock and was slamming his head against the boards. And all the while he was doing it, he was screaming, ‘You killed her. The two of you, you killed my baby.’”
You killed my baby. Sebastian felt the possibilities suggested by those words settle like an ache in his gut. “How did it end?”
“Some of the sailors from the East India Company ship ran up and pulled Nicholas off the man. But they didn’t dare do anything to Nicholas because of Chen, so they let him go.”
“You think the man recognized Nicholas?”
“He must have, because he kept shouting, ‘I didn’t kill the thing. It died.’” Abbasi paused, something that was not a smile curling his lips. “The ‘thing.’”
“Did Hayes ever tell you what it was all about?”
Abbasi shook his head. “He simply apologized for losing contro
l. But over the years that I knew him, he said other things that led me to think that before he left England he’d been in love with a woman who had his child, only the child later died. I never knew how the East India Company man was connected to it all.”
“Do you remember what the man looked like?” asked Sebastian, although he thought he already knew the answer.
Abbasi took a long pull on the hubble-bubble, then let the smoke stream out before answering, “I do, yes, because he was so unusual. He was still a fairly young man with a smooth, unlined face. But his hair was completely silver.”
Chapter 37
T he headquarters of the East India Company lay in Leadenhall Street, in the City of London. An early-eighteenth-century structure known as East India House, it had recently been remodeled and expanded. Boasting a classical facade with giant Doric pilasters and an elaborate frieze, the place was massive, with multiple meeting rooms, Directors’ offices, an auction hall, and endless committee rooms as well as a courtyard and gardens. Over the years, the East India Company had also taken over most of the surrounding buildings, tearing them down and replacing them with endless rows of huge brick warehouses that virtually blocked out the sun.
Sir Lindsey Forbes was crossing the headquarters’ ornate marble-clad vestibule when Sebastian fell into step beside him and said, “You didn’t tell me you once had a nasty encounter with Nicholas Hayes on the waterfront of Macau.”
Forbes’s step faltered for only an instant before he resumed his previous pace. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. He beat your head against the dock and accused you of killing his baby.”
“The man was mad.”
“So you admit the incident occurred.”
Forbes drew up abruptly and swung to face Sebastian, his voice a low hiss. “What bloody difference does it make to anything?”
“It means you knew Hayes was alive. That he hadn’t died in Botany Bay the way everyone thought.”
