by Sharon Rowse
She daren’t spend long here in case someone came in, but she didn’t know where to start. With a sigh, she sat down in her father’s leather chair and opened the first drawer on the right. A quick glance told her the contents: a fountain pen, some ink, and a pen wipe. The second drawer held a collection of engraved cards. The third and fourth drawers held a loose collection of papers and a few files. Emily thumbed through them, then spread them out on the desk blotter, nearer to the lamp.
It would help if I knew what I was looking for, she thought, turning over one paper after another. Her father’s writing was cramped and difficult to read, which slowed her progress. She found no references to Mr. Jackson or to Mr. Granville’s partner.
Replacing the papers carefully in the drawer, Emily went through the drawers on the left, with similar results. A hurried search through the pigeonholes and document boxes in the roll-top yielded nothing.
She stood up and opened the first drawer of the first file cabinet; a row of files, each carefully labeled, met her eyes. She scanned them, moving several forward so she could read the ones behind. Copies of schedules, contracts, bills of lading. Nothing that meant anything to her. The next drawer was the same, and the third, while the bottom drawer held only a stack of dusty ledgers.
Coughing, Emily closed the drawer, and eyed the second file cabinet with trepidation. The first and second drawers were as boring as the previous four. The third drawer, however, caught her interest; it held bills of lading and passenger manifests, filed in date order, for the three Empresses: Japan, China, and India.
Her father had said that the day Mr. Jackson was killed, the India had finally arrived. Emily remembered it clearly because her father had been so relieved when the ship docked. She stared at the files, thinking hard. Could there be a connection between Mr. Jackson and that particular sailing?
Sorting through the files, Emily found the manifests for that sailing; the Empress of India had left Japan on December 3rd, carrying 1,915 bales of silk, 600 pounds of tea, and 276 passengers. She’d been delayed by a storm, arriving in Vancouver on the 6th. As Emily scanned the list of passengers, she realized with shock that this was the voyage on which Bertie’s cousin had vanished; surely the two weren’t connected? She scanned the list again, but his was the only name she recognized. Emily wished Mr. Granville were here—he might recognize other names.
Making a sudden decision, Emily removed those pages, folded them tightly, and hid them in her sleeve. Heart pounding, she replaced the files, then hurriedly checked the last drawer, finding nothing of interest. Reaching to turn off the desk lamp, something about the way the blotter was laying caught her eye and she raised the edge, finding underneath it several half-size sheets of paper with notes in her father’s handwriting.
Emily pounced on them, then froze at the sound of footsteps approaching the study. Was someone coming in? Her heart beating an uneven rhythm in her chest, she ducked under the desk, crawled into the kneehole, and held her breath, waiting. She heard voices, then what sounded like two people walking away from the door.
She drew a deep breath, and had to choke back a sneeze. It seemed Sally never dusted under the desk. Crawling out, Emily smoothed out the now rather crumpled pages she had been clutching and examined them under the light. It looked as if her father had been doing his thinking on paper, jotting things down.
Jackson’s name was there, with several sums listed against it; the smallest number was one thousand dollars, the largest five thousand. Emily drew in a breath at the latter. Five thousand dollars!
There were four other names, also with figures listed against them, but none were familiar. Here was the link to Jackson she’d been looking for, but what did it mean? Her father had said he didn’t know Mr. Jackson, so what was his name doing here as if he were some kind of business connection? Had Papa lied to her? But why would he do that?
Confused, she turned to the next page, which seemed to be a rough sequence of events when unloading the silk shipments. The third page listed how long it took the silk from the day it left Japan to arrival in New York; four hours to load, ten days aboard ship, five hours to unload, 120 hours on the train. Why would her father be jotting down such information? Emily looked from one page to the next; it looked like information you’d need if you were thinking of hijacking a shipment of silk. Surely her father couldn’t be involved in something illegal, could he?
Emily suddenly felt very cold. This information might help Mr. Granville free his partner, but what would it do to her father? What if he really had done something illegal, and she betrayed him? But how could she doubt Papa like this? Surely he could have done nothing wrong.
With an abrupt motion, Emily shoved the papers back under the blotter out of sight, then flicked off the light and whirled toward the door. Just as she was pulling it open, her father stepped in.
“Emily? What are you doing here?”
Emily felt her face heat up, and tried by force of will to make the blood recede, to keep her expression smooth and innocent. “Hello, Papa. You’re home early. I was just checking on Sally’s work. She hasn’t been dusting anything except the surfaces.”
Her father gave her an odd look. Emily, interested in housekeeping? “Then that would explain the dust mice on your skirt,” he said in his dryly.
Emily looked down, batting at the offending evidence. “Yes,” she said, trying to sound convincing. “Mama always tells us we must be thorough in our inspections if we expect the work to be done correctly.”
She could tell from the look he gave her that he didn’t know whether to believe her or not. Emily swallowed hard. She’d never felt so guilty or so confused and she was far too aware of the papers stuck up her sleeve. She worried that an edge might be poking out. Thank heavens she’d put the other papers back. The ones she was hiding hadn’t seemed to actually be incriminating, like those others. There had to be an explanation for it all.
Emily felt so guilty she was startled when her father patted her gently on the head and told her that she was a good girl and to run along. Usually she hated it when he treated her as if she was still twelve years old. This time, she felt relieved, but more confused than ever. And she didn’t know what she was going to tell Mr. Granville the following day.
T W E N T Y – T W O
“Hell,” Granville muttered, bending to pick up the delicate chair Frances had overturned in her rush to leave them. Now what? He felt he should go and comfort her, but he sensed it wouldn’t help. The best thing he could do was focus on what she had told him, and how it might help free Scott.
Their sister was an opium-smoker. It was the last thing he’d expected to hear, and he’d been too blunt in asking how she had become addicted. It was the second time in three days Frances had fled from him in tears. Granville considered the problems Lizzie posed. She was most likely Jackson’s killer, but how was he going to find her, and what would he do when he did?
Having Lizzie in jail instead of Scott was not going to make either Frances or Scott very happy, but if Lizzie had killed Jackson, what other solution was there? Granville grimaced. He needed some way to vent the rage and frustration building inside him. He was getting nowhere, and Scott’s time was dwindling rapidly. Granville looked over at Trent, who looked worried now. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.
“But what about Miss Frances? She’s upset.”
“There’s nothing anyone could say that would help her right now. The only thing we can do for her is to get her brother out of jail. Now, are you coming, or aren’t you?”
“I’m coming,” Trent said, hurrying to catch up to Granville’s long strides. “But where are we going?”
“First things first.”
At the Turners’ house, they crossed the back porch and entered through the servant’s entrance, off the kitchen. Granville noted with interest the thick leather-covered door that separated the kitchen from the rest of the house, muffling the sounds and muting the odors of food preparation and cleanu
p.
When they had found Bertie and told him what they wanted, he looked thoughtful for a moment. “Not many women smoke opium, few are white. I do not know where to look, but I know who to ask.”
“Your uncle?”
He nodded. “Yes. I am most sorry I do not go with you tonight, but I am not finished washing up from dinner.”
Trent broke in. “What if we helped you?”
“Then, yes, perhaps I can take you.”
Bemused, Granville found himself holding a linen towel and wiping crystal glasses. William would have a fit if he could see me now, he thought with a gleam of unholy amusement. Still, Granville thought, he’d had to do far worse just to stay alive; at least for this he was dry and warm, and he did need Bertie’s guidance in finding the opium dens. With Bertie’s help, they might have some hope of finding Lizzie in time to save Scott.
Wong Ah Sun did not look surprised to see them; he sat at ease in his carved chair, holding a long pipe and filling the air with the fumes of good tobacco. He said something in Chinese to his nephew, then inclined his head toward Granville and Trent. “What may I do for you tonight?” he asked. His eyes gleamed at them through the smoke.
Granville stepped forward and inclined his head at the exact angle of Wong Ah Sun’s bow. “It is my request,” he began, using the formal speech patterns he had heard Wong Ah Sun use on their previous visit. “I seek the woman you told me of, the one with dark hair who shot Jackson. I have learned that her name is Lizzie, and that she smokes opium. Bertie has said that you may know where I might find such a woman.”
Wong Ah Sun nodded, and puffed silently on his pipe for several moments. Granville waited, aware this was another test. Minutes passed. Finally their host nodded again, then raised one hand. “Before I tell you anything, I must know that the information I give you shall not go further.”
Now Granville felt more out of his depth than ever. “Why? Making, selling, or using opium is not against the law, as long as you have the right licenses. Why should it matter?”
“Opium use is accepted for us,” Wong Ah Sun said, his face expressionless. “If it were known that a white woman had become an opium-smoker, then public opinion would be even more against us. And life here is difficult as it is.”
Granville nodded. Even in the short time he’d been in Vancouver, he understood what the man was talking about. His caution came out of hard experience. “You have my word. I will reveal nothing of what you tell me, and nothing of what I may find, except where it is necessary to free my partner.”
A smile flitted across Wong Ah Sun’s face, turning the fine skin across his cheeks into a myriad of tiny creases. “It is well. You have agreed to more than I asked for, and revealed you understand the spirit of what I asked. I will give you what you need.”
He turned to Bertie, deliberately choosing to speak to him in English. “Please guide this man, nephew, for it is beyond my ability tonight. There are two places to visit. The first is on the third level beneath Number Twelve, Dupont, beside the Wing Sang Company. The other is next to Hip Tuck Lung, at Number Five, but on the fourth level. You know where I mean?”
Bertie bowed. “I know, uncle.”
Aware that he shouldn’t interrupt, but needing to learn the answer, Granville said, “Is there more than one white woman who smokes opium?”
Wong Ah Sun’s face was still as he considered Granville. “Yes,” he said, his voice dry and thin. “There are three that I know of, but only two places that will allow them entry. He will take you.” He turned back to his nephew, and handed him a folded slip of paper, with an instruction in Chinese.
Bertie responded in the same language, then bowed and backed out of the room.
Impressed by the sense of power that suddenly crackled around the old man, Granville also bowed, a little deeper than before. “You have my thanks, and my assurance that I have not forgotten about your son. I will look into his disappearance as soon as I am free to do so.”
Wong Ah Sun dipped his head in acknowledgement. “I never doubted that you would do so. You are a man of honor,” he said.
Now what had given him that idea? Granville wondered as he bowed again. As he turned to leave, he was pleased to see Trent bowing, as well.
Less than ten minutes later, Granville found himself standing on Dupont Street in blowing snow, seeking the address they’d been given. He couldn’t read the black characters that ran vertically beside the door, but unless he missed his guess, this was an opium factory. It was closed and darkened now, but Bertie rattled the door handle, anyway. He didn’t seem surprised to find it locked, just nodded to himself and made his way further down Dupont to Columbia.
Bertie turned right, then right again when they reached the alley running behind Dupont Street. The alley was as poorly lit as the last time Granville had seen it and the snow made visibility worse. As they drew closer, he realized he was seeing light from several small windows in a low building that was built directly behind the building in front of it.
Invisible from the street, this second building could only be accessed from the alley. Granville could hear sound coming from the building, muffled by the snow. As they drew closer, he could hear drums, and a stringed instrument wailing, then a woman who sounded as if she were in pain. He stopped dead. “Bertie, what is that? What is wrong with that woman?”
“This is a theater, and you hear an actor. They play a great traditional opera, very old.”
“Opera?” It didn’t sound like any opera he’d ever heard. Again he felt as though he’d left the world he knew far behind.
Bertie nodded, then led them through a narrow doorway into a kind of antechamber. The room was empty, but close and hot, the heat overpowering after the chill outside. A red cotton curtain hung between this room and the next, which blazed with lantern light. Now the music was overwhelming; drums thundered, flutes wailed, and a male voice was raised in anguished response. Trent grimaced, but Granville was intrigued.
The music was unlike anything he’d ever heard, but there was something about it that stirred him. Bertie didn’t even pause to listen, but went straight to the far corner and a well-concealed door. He opened the door onto a dark stairwell, producing a candle from inside his coat. Lighting it, he turned to them. “Stay close, stay quiet,” he said, then turned back and began to descend, Granville and Trent on his heels.
The stairs were steep, and there was no handrail, so they went slowly. “Here, I think,” he said.
Granville could see only one sliver of light along the corridor as they moved still deeper into the building. There was an odd smell in the air, not strong enough for him to identify. The cold and damp were bone-chilling and there was no sound, not even the skittering of rats. A shiver ran across his back; the feeling of being trapped swept over him, stronger than when he’d been caught by a cave-in along the banks of the Ouzel when he was twelve. Somehow it felt worse knowing there was a building above him.
Gritting his teeth Granville fought off the fear as Bertie opened yet another door. A thin yellow light shone out, then a thick cloud of heavy smoke that smelled like roasting peanuts swept over them. Trent coughed, and Granville waved the smoke out of his face.
Bertie disappeared through the doorway. Granville followed and stepped into Hell.
They were in a small, low-ceilinged room, and his first thought was that it was full of corpses. Smoke filled the room, hanging in heavy layers that seemed to rise and fall like the tide. The smell was overwhelming, so thick it seemed to first smother and then caress him, inviting him to stay. A score of small lamps lit the dimness. On either side of the room was a row of board bunks, erected about two feet from the floor and covered with matting. At the head of each bunk was a wooden headrest, and every bed was filled.
Granville’s eyes swept the room. Each smoker reclined on his side, head cradled on the headrest, as though lacking the energy to sit upright. Most held a long pipe with a bowl on one end over a spirit lamp, seemingly inhaling the
fumes. Some held a long needle with a small brown blob on the end that Granville assumed was opium, and they were cooking it over the lamps.
As he watched, one man’s ball of opium caught fire. It was quickly blown out, then the man caught the opium on the edge of the pipe and stretched it into long, gooey strings, holding those over the flame. Another smoker, having cooked the drug to his satisfaction, was using the needle to poke the opium into the bowl of his pipe. He then lay back with a grunt of satisfaction and began to draw smoke into his lungs.
Granville coughed, then coughed again, as the opium smoke seemed to crawl into his lungs and crouch there. He surveyed the room again, eyes moving quickly from one side to the other. Bertie was in one corner, talking to a short, thin man who was wringing his hands together. Trent was beside him, eyes huge, but safe enough. Nearly all of the occupants of the bunks were Chinese and all were men, with one exception. She lay on a bunk at the far end of the room, wearing a bright yellow gown that seemed to vibrate in the dim light, and holding an opium pipe to her lips.
Granville shot a look at the owner of the den, but he was still focused on Bertie. Hoping Trent would stay where he was, Granville crossed the uneven floor toward where the woman lay. As he got closer, he could see that she had dark hair. Was this Lizzie? Closer yet, and he could make out the languid expression on her face. His gaze was drawn in horror to the bunk beside hers, where the corpse of a thin, haggard Chinese man lay sprawled. She seemed entirely unaware of her neighbor’s plight.
Only as Granville moved close enough to touch the pair could he see the slow, shallow breathing of the man he’d taken for dead. Turning his attention to the woman, he received another shock; he recognized her. Despite the slackness of her features, this was unmistakably Gracie, whom he’d last seen at 21 Dupont Street. “Gracie, is that you?”
