“And I tell you again, Inspector, he is upstairs. Harjeet has told him you’re here and he’ll be down directly.”
“Inspector.” Rowland stepped into the room and offered Randolph his hand. He nodded to the four constables who stood behind the chief inspector. “I do apologise for the delay,” he said without giving any reason for it.
Randolph accepted the handshake coolly.
“What can I do for you, Inspector?”
“We have received, via your solicitors, a certain phonographic disc containing a voice recording by the late Miss Romanova.” Randolph returned his hands to their customary position behind his back. “Can I ask you, Mr. Sinclair, why you didn’t turn that particular evidence into the police immediately?”
“I didn’t receive the disc until the day after Miss Romanova died, and I didn’t think to listen to it till later,” Rowland said carefully. “I took it to my solicitors the following morning.”
“And the reason you didn’t bring it to us directly?”
“That was on my advice.” Milton entered the room in an immaculate cream linen suit and emerald cravat. The poet’s long black hair glistened, still wet. “The recording collaborated Mr. Sinclair’s statement that Miss Romanova did not keep her appointment with him. I thought it prudent that Mr. Sinclair’s solicitors were made aware of the recording and had a chance to listen to it, before it was surrendered to the police.”
Randolph’s moustache bristled. “I see.” He took a breath. “Can I ask what happened to your head, Mr. Sinclair?”
“Sergei Romanov took a swing at me with his violin,” Rowland said evenly.
“Why?”
“He was upset about his sister’s death, and under the impression I had something to do with it. An impression you seem to have given him.”
Randolph’s face registered nothing in the way of chagrin. “And what did you do when he hit you with his violin?”
“As you might expect, Inspector, I tried to defend myself. Fortunately, Messrs Isaacs and Watson Jones were present to restrain Mr. Romanov. Once he’d calmed down, he seemed to accept that I had not murdered his sister.”
“Why would he accept that?”
Milton intervened. “Perhaps because he knew that there were other people who actually had a reason to want his sister dead.”
“What people?”
Milton recounted what Kuznetsov had told them. “According to the good count, there were several people who were swindled by Alexandra when she was claiming to be the Grand Duchess Anastasia.”
Randolph frowned, but for a moment he seemed less hostile. “If this is true, then Sergei Romanov had as much to fear for his part.”
“I expect he did.”
Randolph turned back to Rowland. “Are you aware, Mr. Sinclair, that there was a fire at Mr. Romanov’s residence this morning?”
“Yes, I am. We called on Mr. Romanov this morning. The building was on fire when we got there.”
The thaw in Randolph’s manner disappeared. Rowland continued regardless. “We tried to force the door in case he was still inside but there was an explosion of some sort.”
Randolph looked from Rowland to Milton. “You both look very well for men who’ve survived not only a fire but an explosion.”
“The explosion was strong enough to blow the door off its hinges on top of us. It seems to have shielded Mr. Isaacs and me. Mr. Watson Jones was less lucky.”
“Where is he?”
“Upstairs. The doctor ordered bed rest.”
Randolph despatched one of his constables to verify that was the case.
“Inspector Randolph,” Edna said calmly. “I’m sure if you speak to the firemen who responded to the blaze they will be able to confirm what Rowly’s told you. There was a crowd of people outside the butchery who saw Mr. Sinclair, Mr. Watson Jones and Mr. Isaacs trying to break down the door.”
“Be assured that we will be doing just that.”
A pounding on the front door announced the arrival of Gilbert Carmel, who discreetly adopted the pretext that he was there to speak to Rowland on an unrelated business matter. Indeed he’d brought a sheaf of papers “for execution” and expressed surprise at finding Chief Inspector Randolph there.
“Miss Romanova’s residence has burned down,” Rowland said. “Her brother is missing, feared dead.”
“And the inspector came to let you know—how very thoughtful!” Carmel turned to Randolph. “Naturally, you know that my client is very eager to see the young lady’s killer brought to account and is willing to do—nay, has done—everything within his power to assist.”
“What has he done to assist?” Randolph almost snarled.
“Why, he had me deliver that phonographic disc your men had failed to discover in your investigations at the Cathay Hotel. The recording, as you know, corroborates my client’s statement that he did not see Miss Romanova that afternoon and is also evidence that there was another man with her that day.” Carmel smiled again. “That’s a fair bit of assistance, I’d say!”
For several moments there was silence as Carmel and Randolph locked eyes. Rowland glanced at Milton, unsure if he should say something himself. The poet grimaced.
“As much as I appreciate your client’s assistance,” Randolph said finally, “I ask you, Mr. Carmel, to advise him of the dangers of interfering with an ongoing investigation by the local constabulary.”
“Thank you for the suggestion, Inspector. I shall of course do so at the first available opportunity.”
Randolph and his men departed shortly thereafter. Carmel took a seat and perched a pair of spectacles on his nose. “Well then, gentlemen and lady, perhaps you should tell me precisely what’s happened since last we met.”
“In that case, Mr. Carmel,” Edna said, “you should stay to luncheon. We have rather a lot to tell you.”
Carmel took the watch from his fob pocket and studied it. “As it happens, it’s just gone tiffin time and far be it from me to allow my clients to go hungry.”
So Gilbert Carmel joined them for lunch, during the course of which they told him of what they had learned through Count Kuznetsov and Sergei Romanov. The solicitor took notes, posed the occasional question and complimented Harjeet on the piquancy of her roast duck.
“Well,” he said in the end. “Your introduction to Shanghai has certainly been less than ideal. Please allow me to extend my apologies on behalf of this great city. Chief Inspector Randolph is not the easiest man with whom to have dealings, but I have not yet abandoned hope of winning him over.”
Rowland also mentioned his meeting with Andrew Petty and the invitation to the banquet hosted by the Japanese wool brokers.
Carmel nodded. “That is how business is done here. I’m surprised no one has banqueted you already. The Japanese will be especially keen to secure your wool stocks.”
“Why?” Rowland asked. He gathered it was well known in wool trading circles that the Sinclairs had a substantial quantity of wool stockpiled, but they weren’t the only producers in Australia.
“Your brother is an influential man, Rowland. I expect the Japanese wool buyers feel that dealing directly with him would see other Australian producers follow suit, allowing them to procure enough wool to withstand any possible trade embargo which might be imposed by the League of Nations.”
Rowland glanced at Wing. “I see.”
“But I presume Wilfred has already briefed you on his intentions in that respect,” Carmel said without giving away whether or not he knew what those intentions were.
“Yes.”
“And Carmel and Smith remains at your service.”
“Thank you, Mr. Carmel.”
Carmel tapped his head thoughtfully. “As a precaution, avoid speaking with the inspector unless I’m present. I’ll notify my secretary that your calls are to be taken immediately and at all times.” He smiled. “Just in case Inspector Randolph proves inured to our obvious charms.”
With Clyde immobilised, they stayed in
that afternoon. Edna set up a film set in the drawing room, and Rowland and Milton helped Clyde down the stairs into the dining room so that they could play cards in between takes.
“What exactly is this film about?” Clyde grumbled. Edna seemed to be filming a series of unrelated scenes calling on each of them to play villains, heroes, ghosts, servants, conspirators, drunks and even romantic leads. “It doesn’t seem to have any kind of plot.”
“It doesn’t, not yet—I’m filming as many interesting scenes as I can think of, first,” the sculptress replied. “And then I’ll patch them together into a story… like a collage.”
“That’s very avant-garde, Ed.” Rowland sat up from the floor after the fistfight Edna had just had him and Milton simulate. They’d flipped a coin to decide which of them would lose.
Edna handed the camera to Wing Zau, instructing him to film while she fainted into Rowland’s arms.
“Why does Rowly get to catch you?” Milton asked.
“Because he will catch me.” Edna directed Rowland into position.
“Won’t the uncertainty add a little something to your performance?” Milton grinned wickedly.
The sculptress ignored him. “Now, Rowly, look towards the door… no, the window—that’ll work better. Try to look frightened.”
“Frightened? By something at the window?”
“Well, at least alarmed—no, you can’t just raise an eyebrow. There’s something monstrous at the window. Ready, Mr. Wing? Right. Action!”
As it turned out, Rowland did not struggle to feign an expression of alarm—that came naturally when Edna screamed. He was, in fact, so startled that he nearly forgot to catch her as she fell backwards into his arms and it was the relief on his face when he realised the scream was part of the pretence, that compromised the take.
Milton roared with laughter. “I reckon a ‘thank God she’s finally shut up’ expression is entirely appropriate, Ed.”
“Sorry, Ed,” Rowland said. “I had no idea what you were doing.”
“I was acting,” Edna declared, exasperated.
“We can try it again.”
“I think we’d better.” Edna moved them both back into position. “Ready, Mr. Wing? Action.”
This time Edna’s scream was more a gasp of surprise and a gleeful squeal.
Rowland wasn’t sure what to do—was she still planning to faint?
“I could swear I saw a monkey.” Edna ran to the window.
“Is this part of the scene?”
“No. I really saw a monkey.”
A knock on the red door.
“That’ll be the police again, wanting to know why Ed’s screaming,” Clyde muttered.
Rowland answered the door.
“Rowland! Hello… I’m finally keeping my promise to visit.” Mickey Hahn stood on the doorstep in poised splendour. The deep indigo of her long, tailored skirt was offset by an orange bolero jacket and cloche. A kid-gloved hand held a thin gold chain on the end of which was Mr. Mills attired in a matching indigo jacket and orange fez.
“A pleasure to see you again, Mickey.”
She accepted his invitation to come in, proceeding into the drawing room and taking a seat. The monkey, too, found himself an armchair. Mickey introduced Mr. Mills as if he were an old acquaintance with whom she’d stepped out that day.
Edna was delighted. She had been, if truth be told, disappointed that at their last meeting, Emily Hahn had been sans monkey.
Milton offered the journalist a drink and, since it would have been rude to allow her to partake alone, mixed cocktails for them all.
“What on earth are you all up to?” Mickey noted the film camera and the furniture cleared to make room.
“Ed’s making a film.” Rowland and Milton returned the couch to its original place while Wing helped Clyde into the drawing room.
“Gracious! What happened to Clyde?”
For a moment there was silence as they all waited for Rowland to take the lead.
“Are you enquiring as a journalist?” he asked carefully.
“Oooh… is it something that would interest a journalist?” Her eyes glistened.
Rowland said nothing.
Mickey sighed. “Oh, very well then. Off the record. What happened?”
They told her.
“Have you heard any mutterings about people impersonating members of the Russian royal family in Shanghai, Mickey?” Edna reached out gently towards Mr. Mills.
“Be careful—he bites,” Mickey warned. “I’ve not been in Shanghai much longer than you. I’ll ask at the News… maybe someone covered the story. Victor will be appalled to learn there was a fraudster working in his hotel.”
“We don’t know that she was,” Rowland said.
“A fraudster or the Grand Duchess Anastasia?” Mickey’s tone was sharp. She regarded him curiously.
“Either… We only have Count Kuznetsov’s word that she was the same girl who defrauded his mother. He might very well have been mistaken.”
“Could she have possibly been telling the truth?” Clyde asked. “About being a princess?”
“It’s possible, I suppose,” Mickey mused. “Anastasia would have been in her thirties now. Did Alexandra look that old?”
Rowland shrugged. “She may have been. But there is Sergei. He said she was his little sister. The grand duchess didn’t have an older brother, only a younger one.”
“You’re right,” Mickey said. “If she was as innocent as you seem to want to believe she was, it is more likely that this chap—the count—is mistaken or lying.” She frowned. “Still, what a story—even without the murder! The sole surviving heir to the Russian throne working as a taxi girl in Shanghai!”
“You wouldn’t—”
“I said it was off the record, didn’t I?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Anyway, I’ve come with a purpose.” Mickey dug into her bag and fished out an envelope which she handed to Edna. “My dear friend Bernadine would like the four of you to attend her salon. You must come, they are simply the most fabulous occasions in Shanghai.”
“But we haven’t even been introduced.”
“Bernadine finds such social conventions tiresome. I’ve told her all about my new Australian friends and she is simply desperate that you accept her invitation. Do say you’ll come!”
Edna opened the envelope and extracted an exquisitely illuminated card. “Oh, it’s for this evening.” She handed the invitation to Milton who glanced at it and passed it on to Clyde. He studied the summons to an evening of culture and poetry, and the look on his face reminded Rowland that his friend was not well.
“I’m not sure Clyde’s up to—” Rowland began.
“I’m afraid I’m not,” Clyde agreed quickly. “But that’s no reason for you all to stay by my bedside… I’m not dying.”
“Perhaps if we found you some crutches or a walking stick,” Milton began, his lips twitching into a smile.
“No. I suspect I’ve already overdone it just getting out of bed.” Clyde was definite. “Wing will keep me company, won’t you, mate?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Bernardine will be sorely disappointed that you cannot attend, Mr. Jones,” Mickey said. “But considering the severity of the injury you sustained in such a heroic manner, she will understand… and she will of course have your companions to console her.”
“Not to mention an evening of poetry and culture.” Clyde was clearly a man reprieved.
Milton shook his head sadly. “But words are things, and a small drop of ink, falling like dew upon a thought produces that which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.”
“More likely to make me drink,” Clyde muttered. “Who was he robbing that time, Rowly?”
“Byron, I believe.”
21
CHINESE VERSE.
“The Jade Mountain” is a Chinese anthology, edited by Mr. Witter Bynner and Mr. Klang Kang-Hu, and is the result of ten years’ collaboration.
It consists of 300 poems of the T’ang Dynasty, A.D. 618–906—the golden age of Chinese poetry. Mr. Bynner has done the translations from the texts of Mr. Klang Kang-Hu, and each editor contributes an introduction. Mr. Bynner thinks that, of English poets, Wordsworth has the closest affinity with Chinese poets. He resembles them in his simplicity, in his sense of spiritual kinship with nature and his capacity for discerning beauty in the common-place. But Mr. Bynner holds that Chinese poetry cleaves even nearer to nature than his.
Sydney Morning Herald, 28 June 1930
Bernardine Szold-Fritz’s banquet was to take place at a Chinese restaurant in Yangtzepoo, beyond the Soochow Creek which marked the border of the international settlement. The waterway was only a few hundred yards from the terrace on Kiangse Road and was spanned by the impressive double arches of the Garden Bridge.
Their hostess sent a car to collect them, a gleaming white Packard with a smartly uniformed chauffeur.
Rowland offered Edna his hand as she descended the narrow staircase in a shimmering grey gown which clung to the curves of her figure and highlighted the burnished copper tresses she’d gathered into a loose knot at the base of her neck. The wrap hanging loosely over her elbows was sheer and embroidered with peacocks, her only jewellery a silver locket embellished with seed pearls. She smiled as she took Rowland’s hand. The sculptress was not oblivious to the way in which he looked at her. It was perhaps simply that he had always regarded her thus, that she was not alarmed by the intensity of his admiration. She would not have tortured him for the world if she had known she was doing so.
“You look pretty, Ed,” he said softly.
Her brow furrowed just slightly. “I do hope this is appropriate for dinner over here. I wish I’d thought to ask Mickey. We might be completely at odds with Shanghai fashion.”
“I’m sure they’ll make allowances.” Rowland’s eyes lingered on the graceful line of Edna’s neck. He could capture it in a portrait from behind, a composition which had her glancing over her shoulder.
She recognised the look on his face and laughed. “You’re painting me!”
“I wish I was.” He glanced at his watch. “I wonder if it would be too late to send our regrets.”
All the Tears in China Page 17
