All the Tears in China

by Sulari Gentill

  “Good evening, Mr. Blanshard. What an unexpected pleasure.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Sinclair, I’m not here for tea and tiddlywinks!”

  Rowland eased himself into a chair. He rubbed the back of his neck. “What can I do for you, Mr. Blanshard?” he asked wearily.

  Edna telephoned Dr. Rubenstein, ignoring Rowland’s protests.

  “Suppose you start by telling me why you look like you’ve been run over by a flaming rickshaw,” Blanshard said, rolling his eyes as Edna asked the physician to attend.

  Rowland recounted the fracas at the nightclub.

  Blanshard leaned forward in his seat. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure of what?” “Sure that your present condition is the result of an altercation over Miss Higgins’ honour.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Kung—that chap who calls himself an abbot, was once Mr. Trebitsch-Lincoln, Member for Darlington in County Durham. He has at various times been wanted by His Majesty’s government for international espionage. Before his current incarnation as Buddhist holy man, he was working with Fascist sympathisers in Europe until he betrayed them too. I noticed you were speaking to him.”

  “He’s a spy?”

  “He likes to think so… but more of a mercenary whose allegiances are for sale.”

  Rowland told Blanshard the essence of their conversation with Kung and of the shadow he saw in the alley. “I was a little groggy, but I’m sure it was him.”

  “Who exactly was this fellow who propositioned Miss Higgins?”

  Rowland shrugged. “I think he was already in the restaurant when we arrived. I don’t know who the chap was—some drunken buffoon who thought he could take liberties.”

  “How big was he?” Milton asked, looking Rowland over.

  “He had friends.”

  Blanshard shook his head. “For pity’s sake, boy, was it truly necessary to start a brawl? This is Shanghai. You have to expect a certain lack of inhibition.”

  “It was his lack of manners to which I objected.”

  “Blast it, Sinclair, you can’t go about swinging first, particularly now! I would have thought what happened in Germany…”

  Edna returned to the drawing room with a tray of tea and one of Harjeet’s coffee cakes. She handed Rowland the compress she’d made up in the kitchen, and poured him the first cup of tea. “Couldn’t this wait till morning, Mr. Blanshard?”

  “No, unfortunately I don’t think it can. Time is our enemy.”

  Clyde’s groan was audible.

  “Where’s Wing?” Rowland asked, noticing his absence for the first time.

  “He took the night off—visiting relatives or some such thing.”

  “He won’t be back till the morning, but he laid out your pyjamas and a fresh suit before he went.” Clyde was obviously amused by Wing’s continuing efforts.

  “Who is this Wing fellow?” Blanshard demanded.

  “Rowly retained him as a translator and guide,” Milton replied. “As far as we can tell, he lays out Rowly’s clothes for his own entertainment.”

  “Wing? An Oriental, then? Where did you find him?”

  “He was the butler provided to us by the Cathay.”

  “Good of Sassoon to send him with you.” Blanshard scowled. “Though a security guard might have been more useful. Is he trustworthy?”

  “Yes,” Edna said definitely.

  Rowland agreed. Wing might be a Communist in hiding, but that probably made him more trustworthy than less.

  Milton moved the cup of tea Edna had made for Rowland aside, and set down a glass of gin instead.

  “What exactly are you doing in Shanghai, Mr. Blanshard?” Rowland winced as he reached for the glass of gin. Now that they’d stopped moving, the parts of his body that had taken the worst of it were beginning to ache. Nothing, however, that a good night’s rest would not address if he could just get Blanshard to leave.

  “I’m taking in the sights, Mr. Sinclair.” Blanshard regarded Rowland thoughtfully. “What made you turn down the Japanese? From what I understand their offer was generous.”

  “You turned them down?” Clyde said, surprised. “I thought Wilfred said—”

  Rowland did not ask how Blanshard knew what the Japanese had offered. The man was a spy after all. “The Japanese are working with the Nazis.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  Rowland told him about the German diplomats who’d graced their table.

  “This is Shanghai,” Blanshard said carefully.

  “It was not a chance encounter,” Rowland replied. “Nor a mere public civility. The Germans were aware of the Japanese offer.”

  Blanshard sighed. “So I am to understand that you will not deal with anyone who has a sympathetic or friendly association with the Germans.”

  “With the Nazis,” Rowland corrected. “No, I will not.” He undid his bow tie and unfastened the button of his bloodied collar. “Look, Blanshard, the truth is I wasn’t authorised to accept the Japanese offer anyway. Wil wanted me to mark time until he has the chance to deal with the issue himself. I just got sick of playing games.”

  “Were you authorised to refuse the offer?”

  “Not specifically, but Wilfred will agree with my reasons,” he said, not really sure that would be the case.

  “I see.” Blanshard’s tone was sceptical. “Look, Rowland,” he continued more gently. “I know you have good reason to distrust the Germans, but business deals are not made in isolation. There were many other deals relying on the Sinclairs being willing to do business with the Japanese despite talk of an embargo… deals which may, in fact, have prevented the embargo ever being imposed. There are a great many people with substantial fortunes at risk.”

  “Are you suggesting I accept the Japanese offer?”

  “No. That matter is ultimately between you and Wilfred. However, I do need you to understand the danger in which you’ve put yourself and your companions. This is Shanghai. Business dealings here are not always polite. Coercion, extortion, and retribution are as commonplace as drinks before dinner.” Blanshard drained his tumbler of whisky. “It’s my recommendation that you all go home immediately.”

  Rowland glanced at his companions. “Regrettably, Mr. Blanshard, the murder of Alexandra Romanova means that I, at least, cannot leave.”

  “And I suppose Miss Higgins and the gentlemen won’t leave without you.”

  “That’s right,” Milton replied.

  Blanshard rubbed his chin and directed Milton to top up his whisky. “Tell me about this murdered taxi girl.”

  Rowland detailed what they knew about Alexandra.

  Blanshard stood and moved to the window. “I’ll see what I can find out.” He moved the curtain aside and peered out. “How did you get home?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said you sent your driver home. How did you get from the restaurant in the alley to here? I expect you know that both taxis and rickshaws are dangerous for various reasons.”

  Edna told Alastair Blanshard about the timely arrival of Du Yuesheng. “He had his driver take us home.”

  Blanshard looked at Rowland incredulously. “You told Shanghai’s preeminent gangster where you were staying?”

  “No. We had the chauffeur deliver us to the Cathay, for what it was worth. But considering you found us, I expect Master Du will be able to do so too.”

  “Right then!” Blanshard put down his glass, frustrated. “May I implore you to jolly well do whatever necessary to get out from whatever suspicion you’re under, and then leave Shanghai before you get yourselves killed!”

  The first creak was loud enough to stir Rowland. He lay abed, unsure what exactly had woken him. It was still very dark, no hint of dawn, and his sleep had been exhausted without dreams to jolt him into consciousness. It had been midnight before Rubinstein left after inserting a precautionary stitch and reassuring Edna that Rowland was not seriously hurt. It was still too dark to make out the
face of his watch but Rowland doubted that he had been asleep long. Certainly not long enough. A second creak and he was out of bed, wincing as he was reminded sharply of the battering his body had taken a few hours before. Even so, he didn’t pause, stepping into the hallway to investigate the noise.

  Edna jumped, clamping her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream. A candle wobbled precariously in the holder she held in the other.

  “Ed.” He whispered in case Clyde and Milton had not already woken. “What are you doing?”

  “I heard a sound downstairs.” She peered down the stairwell. “I was going to look before I woke any of you—to make sure I wasn’t imagining things.”

  Rowland shook his head. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll go down and check.”

  “I’m not letting you go alone—”

  “You need to stay here and wake Clyde and Milt if it happens that there is an intruder,” he said quietly but firmly.

  “Rowly—”

  “It’s probably nothing.” The familiar scent of her rose perfume lingered between them in the darkness. “That fool Blanshard’s just made you a bit jittery with his dire warnings.”

  Reluctantly, she handed him the candle. He made his way down the stairs and tested the back door first. It was secure. The kitchen seemed undisturbed, the dining room too. Rowland walked through the ground floor checking every room. There was nothing. It was as he was about to check the front door that he heard something. It took him a couple of seconds to realise it came from outside the door. He relaxed—probably a stray dog… or a cat. There seemed an inordinate number of cats in Shanghai. He released the bolts on the red door and swung it open. Kiangse Road was not silent, even at this time. A few rickshaws, two or three parked cars, a group of men gathered about a lit brazier in the space between the buildings directly across the road, but there was no dog or cat. There was, however, something on the doorstep.

  Rowland picked up the bouquet, scanning for any sign of who might have left it. No one.

  He frowned, bringing the flowers in and re-bolting the door. Edna had, by then, come down.

  “Rowly, Ed… is that you?” Clyde peered down from the top of the stairs. “Is something wrong?”

  “No. Ed thought she heard something.”

  Clyde grunted drowsily. “Bloody Blanshard!”

  “Go back to bed, Clyde,” Edna said. “It was nothing.”

  Another grunt and Clyde did as she suggested.

  “What’s that?” Edna asked Rowland.

  “Flowers, orchids I believe.” He handed them to her.

  “Who are they for?”

  “You, I expect. People don’t generally leave flowers for men—even in China.”

  “There’s no card,” she said, almost to herself.

  “It’s probably Kuznetsov getting overexcited again.”

  Edna bit her lip. “Maybe.” She didn’t sound at all certain.

  “Should we put these in water?”

  “No.” She placed the bouquet onto the hall table. “I’ll throw them out in the morning.”

  Rowland was a little surprised by the vehemence of her reply. “Are you all right, Ed?”

  “Yes. I just don’t think they’re from Nicky.”

  “Why?”

  She shivered.

  “Come on, you’re cold.”

  Edna did not return to the attic where she had been sleeping but followed Rowland into the bedroom he normally shared with Wing. That in itself did not alarm Rowland in any way. It was the sculptress’ habit to visit the men with whom she lived with at odd times of the night, seized with enthusiasm for an idea, or rage against some inequity, or simply because she could not sleep.

  “You get under the covers,” Rowland instructed, concerned that she was still shivering. It was not a cold evening. He left the candle on the dresser, pulled a chair up to the bed and sat down, waiting for her to confess what was troubling her.

  “I know who sent the flowers.” She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms about them. “I think—no, I’m sure it was Bertie.”

  “Middleton? We left him in Sydney.”

  “I know.” She took a deep breath. “Last year, after what he did, I told him I never wanted to see him again.” She looked up at Rowland. “He was so angry, Rowly.”

  Rowland tensed. “What did he do?”

  The sculptress looked panicked for a moment. She forced out the words. “He came to the house. I told him to leave and he refused.”

  Rowland waited as she lowered her gaze.

  “He wouldn’t let me leave,” she whispered. “He said I belonged to him, he wouldn’t let me go… and that he’d see you off. And then when you were stabbed, I thought…”

  “That wasn’t—”

  “I know, but for a while I thought he might have… He promised he’d never let me go, that he’d see me dead first.” She closed her eyes. “I’d never seen that side of him. He smashed the clay sculpture I’d been working on. Rowly, he was so angry.” She shook her head. “I thought he was going to… He scared me.”

  “I’ll kill him.” Rowland’s eyes darkened, almost black in the flickering candlelight. “I will kill the—” He took Edna’s hand, words lost for a moment in fury. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “Milt was recovering from that horrible accident—he still wasn’t able to even walk—and you’d just been stabbed, Rowly. And you were getting married. It seemed so trivial. I didn’t want you, any of you, worrying about me.” She spoke quickly.

  Rowland remembered then how winded and fragile she had seemed when she’d thought him heartbroken over the rejection of Jemima Roche. He had been too focused on getting Egon Kisch to Melbourne, perhaps he had wanted it to be about him… he hadn’t asked. God, he hadn’t been there, nor Clyde. And Milton had been laid up… He was livid with Middleton and now furious at himself. He should have known there was something wrong, he should have asked.

  “I wasn’t really hurt and there were more important things going on than Bertram Middleton. I should have realised he was…” Edna swallowed. “I’ve known him for years, Rowly. I didn’t ever think he could—”

  Rowland put his arms around her and held her fiercely. But as angry as he was, he knew that rage was not what the sculptress needed from him. He waited for her to speak again.

  “He turned up when I went into the city the next day. I looked up and there he was. He begged me to forgive him.”

  “Did you?” he asked hoarsely.

  She shook her head. “He wrote to me almost every day, sent me gifts—I sent everything back.” Rowland could feel tears, hot and wet against his chest, and he felt her breath against his heart when she spoke. “He began putting his letters in envelopes with no return address, so I’d open them before I knew they were his. Sometimes they’d contain a handkerchief or some small thing I’d misplaced. He turned up at odd times when I was out… he always seemed to know where I was. And he’d leave flowers on the doorstep with no card.”

  Inwardly, Rowland cursed. He recalled Mary Brown speaking to him about flowers left at the threshold of Woodlands House, complaining that it was untidy and highly improper. He had not thought much of it—there were many men who brought Edna flowers and his housekeeper was wont to think everything, bar church, improper. “You didn’t say a word.”

  “I felt safe,” she said. “I thought he’d stop eventually and I felt bad that I’d hurt him. But now… here. What if he’s here, Rowly?”

  “If Middleton’s here, it’ll be easier for me to have a few words with him.” There was flint in Rowland’s voice.

  “I’m being silly,” she said, wiping her face with her sleeve. “It’s a bunch of flowers not a basket of snakes. Bertie would not have come all the way to China—not with a new job at the Sydney Morning Herald.”

  Rowland took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “You’re not being silly. I’m glad you finally told me.”

  Edna smiled wanly. “Mr. Blanshard’s warnings hav
e made me jumpy. It was probably Nicky leaving flowers. He probably just forgot to leave a card.”

  Rowland thought the count too formally mannered to leave flowers on a doorstep, let alone without a calling card, but on that he said nothing.

  She pulled out of his arms, wiping the wet patch on his shirt with his handkerchief. “I’m sorry, Rowly. I should clear out of your bed and let you sleep.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not going to sleep. You take this bed.”

  Even in the dying candlelight Rowland could see a flash of unguarded relief in her face, suppressed quickly. She was frightened, no matter what she said. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I’m staying right here,” he said. “The chair’s perfectly comfortable.”

  “Oh, Rowly, you can’t sleep in a chair.”

  “I’m not going to sleep, Ed.”

  “It’s still hours till morning.”

  “I need to think.” He smiled and kissed her hand. “Milt and Clyde are in the next room—if you listen carefully you can hear Clyde snoring—and I’m right here. You sleep. We’ll deal with all this in the morning.”

  28

  WOMEN AND OPIUM.

  Many women in China, who are addicted to the opium habit, are now receiving special treatment at the Lester Hospital, Shanghai, and hopes are entertained for their recovery. In nearly every case where women have applied for admission in order to break the habit, there has been a satisfactory care. The medical officer at the hospital, Dr. A. W. Towers, points out, however, that “they” bear pain and discomfort extremely badly and often, though we get them over the difficult habit of taking the drug, there remains a serious danger of relapse unless something can be done to strengthen moral fibre.

  Newcastle Morning Herald and Miners’ Advocate,

  4 May 1936

  Rowland answered the tap at the bedroom door before any subsequent taps could awaken Edna.

  “Clyde,” he whispered. “Good morning.”

  Clyde glanced first at his friend before his eye was caught by the sculptress stirring in Rowland’s bed. His brow rose more hopefully than askance. Had Rowland finally convinced Edna to love him? Had she finally realised how much Rowland Sinclair adored her? If so, Clyde was not so Catholic or pragmatic that he would not celebrate the breakthrough with all of his heart.