Rowland motioned him outside the door. Though he had spent most of the night watching over Edna, the depth of his anger pushed all weariness aside. Quietly he told Clyde what had happened.
Clyde’s wrath moved Rowland’s anew. “He did what?” Clyde was aghast. “I’ll tear his arm off!”
“You may have to wait your turn,” Rowland murmured darkly. He told Clyde about the flowers left on the doorstep.
“Do you think that bastard’s in Shanghai?” Clyde asked.
“I wouldn’t have thought he’d have means for the fare, but who knows? He might have followed us here.”
Edna peered into the hallway. “Oh, there you are. What are you both doing out here?”
“Rowly was just telling me what happened last night.”
Edna smiled. “He spent the night in a chair; we don’t have to get married.”
Clyde responded by embracing her. “For pity’s sake, Ed, why didn’t you tell us?”
“Because I would have been lonely with the three of you in gaol.”
The enduring mumbles of conversation finally woke Milton, who stumbled out of his bedroom and demanded to know why they were having a meeting in the hallway.
With a little coaxing, Edna told him everything she’d told Rowland the night before. In the light of day, the flowers seemed less threatening, the likelihood that they were from Middleton more remote. But, still, the extent of Bertram Middleton’s behaviour elicited much the same reaction from Milton as it had in Rowland and Clyde. There was hurt as well as anger in the poet’s voice. “How could you not tell us, Ed? Didn’t you know we’d—”
“I’m sorry.” Edna’s voice cracked. “I thought he’d stop. I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to think about it. None of you ever liked him and I felt so, so stupid.”
Rowland put his arm around Edna. “Look, it’s done, Milt. We know now. Let’s work out what we’re going to do.”
Clyde sighed. “I’m going to brew coffee.”
“I’m going to kill Middleton,” Milton snarled.
Rowland nodded. “Both good plans. The coffee first, perhaps.”
Edna shook her head firmly. “You sleep for a couple of hours, Rowly. We’ll wake you for breakfast when Harjeet gets here.”
Clyde and Milton consumed two pots of coffee while discussing what they would do. Edna drank tea. Despite their mutual anger, the men tempered their language and kept talk of Middleton in check for Edna’s sake. For her part, the sculptress was not unduly concerned by the threats they’d made on Middleton’s life, certain that neither of these men was a murderer, regardless of the provocation and despite what they said.
She was less unsettled than she’d been the evening before, less sure that the bouquet had been left by Bertram Middleton and a little shy that she had been so distressed. But only Rowland had seen that, and he was asleep. From Clyde and Milton, the sculptress kept the depth of the vulnerability that had seized her in the middle of the night.
The three of them examined the bouquet without success for any clue as to who might have sent it.
“They’re probably from Nicky,” Edna said finally.
“We should try and find out if Middleton is in Shanghai.” Milton tossed the dismembered bouquet into the fireplace. “If he is, we can deal with him directly.”
Harjeet arrived, letting herself in with the key Rowland had given her. She was, as usual, full of news and exclamation and seemed within moments of her arrival to fill the house with the aroma of baking. Rowland woke to the sound of her voice scolding Ranjit for something or other. The couple of hours of sleep had cleared his head. He washed, dressed and shaved quickly. He was still a little tender but determined now to deal with the matter of Bertram Middleton immediately. Downstairs, Rowland spoke to Harjeet about Blanshard’s warning, allowing her the opportunity to leave his employ and whatever risk that entailed. She shooed him out of her kitchen lest his nonsense make her cakes fall. Ranjit, if anything, seemed excited.
“So, from whom exactly do you expect this threat, sir? We should be ready for the enemy! Perhaps I could fortify the entrances.”
“I doubt anyone will lay siege to the house, Mr. Singh.”
“One should be prepared, sir.”
Rowland sighed. “Mr. Blanshard seems to believe that the threat is widespread.” In the light of day he was inclined to dismiss Blanshard’s dire warnings as hysterical. But the thought of Edna gave him pause. “Someone left a bouquet of flowers on the doorstep last night.”
Singh frowned. “There were no flowers when I departed for home.”
“No, they would have been left much later than that. After Miss Higgins and I returned.”
“That Russian fellow—”
“Perhaps… but maybe not.”
“Wing Zau?”
“Possible, I suppose, but I very much doubt it.”
“Does Miss Higgins not like flowers?”
“She’d prefer to know who left them.”
Singh nodded thoughtfully. “I shall keep a watch, Mr. Sinclair.”
They decided over a late breakfast to renew their efforts to find out what happened to Sergei Romanov. It was Ranjit who suggested that Romanov might have started the fire himself to mask an escape of sorts.
Edna was dubious but Clyde agreed. “If Kuznetsov is right, then perhaps Alexandra’s murder was the result of a falling out between crooks. Perhaps he was afraid his partner in crime would leave him for Rowly.”
Inwardly, Rowland wanted to reject the idea out of hand. But Clyde and Milton had always accused him of being too easily manipulated by women in distress, too ready to believe in them. The failing had nearly seen him married a few months before, so perhaps they were right. “It’s possible,” he conceded eventually.
“Romanov may well have died in the fire, whoever lit it,” Milton pointed out. “We’d better establish if they discovered any human remains before we start searching for him.”
“How are we going to do that?” Edna asked sadly. “We’re not his family—we can’t demand the information.”
Rowland glanced at his wristwatch. It was still early. “I’ll ask Mickey Hahn,” he said. “Surely the newspapers will be able to find out if the fire resulted in any loss of life.”
“I’ll come with you.” Edna stood. “Mickey’s apartment is only a block or so from here. If we hurry, we can catch her before work.”
Milton nodded. “You two do that. Clyde and I are going to send a telegram.”
“To whom?”
“The Sydney Morning Herald. It should be fairly easy to find out if Bertram Middleton has taken up his post.”
“He will have,” Edna said quietly. “I’m quite sure the flowers were from Nicky.”
“Let’s make sure,” Rowland replied.
So the Australians parted ways. Clyde and Milton took Singh and the Buick as Emily Hahn’s flat was almost no distance to walk.
A Chinese boy answered the door. “Nóng zŏ,” Edna said haltingly, continuing in Chinese pidgin. “Catchee Missy Hahn?”
“Who you, Missy?”
“Mr. Rowland Sinclair and Miss Edna Higgins.”
“You waitee. Yes?”
“Can do.”
The boy disappeared and then returned to the door to admit them. Mickey Hahn’s flat was small and airless. The sitting room contained two worn couches with a low table between them. An opium pipe and a book on the works of Sappho had been left on the table. Mr. Mills sat on the sideboard, eating an orange and watching them with dark beady eyes. It was a few minutes before Mickey herself emerged in pyjamas and a Chinese silk dressing-gown. “Rowland, Edna, hello! What a wonderful surprise!” She turned back to the boy and snapped, “Catchee tea, chop chop!”
The boy nodded vigorously and ran from the room. Mickey admonished Mr. Mills for making the sideboard sticky with orange juice and offered Rowland and Edna seats. “You must excuse me my slothfulness… I’m afraid I was quite late home last night.” She closed her
eyes and smiled dreamily. “Xunmei took me to a dingy little place on the banks of the Huangpu—more authentically China than all the ballrooms in Shanghai. Of course, now I’ll be frightfully late for work.”
“We won’t keep you long,” Rowland promised.
She waved away any concern. “They don’t seem as bothered about punching the clock, here,” she said. “I’ll still have time to get my stories out before I meet with Victor for drinks.”
The boy brought in a tray of tea which he set down beside the opium pipe.
“What can I do for you, Rowland? Before you say anything, you should probably know that Bernadine and I have fallen out so I cannot intercede with her, if that’s what you want.”
“It isn’t.” Rowland took the cup of tea she handed him, wondering if it was the attentions of Shao Xunmei that had come between Mickey and the society doyenne. “We were hoping you might make an enquiry for us.” He told her about the fire at the Chinese butchery above which Sergei Romanov lived. “Do you suppose you might be able to find out if he actually died in that fire?”
“The butchery on Nanjing Road?”
“Yes.”
“Well I don’t need to find out. I know. I covered the story for the North China Daily News.” She took a sip of tea and sighed contently. “They didn’t find any remains. In fact, they now suspect that Mr. Romanov set the fire.”
“Well, that’s good news,” Edna said. “Not about him being suspected of arson of course—just that he’s alive.”
“It’s rather unlikely that you’ll find him, though,” Mickey warned. “People disappear in Shanghai all the time. It’s a good place in which to vanish.”
Rowland finished his tea. “We should allow you to get ready for work.”
“Did Bert find you?” she asked suddenly.
“Bert?”
“Middle-something. He’s just started as a foreign correspondent with the paper. He’s from your part of the world—only been in Shanghai for a few days.”
Startled, Rowland glanced at Edna. She choked on her tea and then hastily put the cup and saucer down.
“He seemed a bit homesick, so I gave him your details. Thought the company of fellow Australians might cheer him up. He was so pleased, I thought he’d call on you straight away.”
Edna smiled tightly. “He may have come by when we were out.”
“Oh that’s a shame. But I’m sure he’ll try again.”
They walked back, arm in arm, but silent. Rowland was, if truth be told, staggered by Bertram Middleton’s gall. Though they had never progressed beyond an acquaintanceship, he’d known the journalist almost as long as he’d known Edna. Rowland was aware that he found it hard to be fair to any man who sought the sculptress’ heart, but he had never liked Middleton. Still, he had not believed the writer capable of threatening Edna, let alone pursuing her to China.
“What do you think?” he asked as they walked into the house.
She shrugged. “I’m glad that it turns out I’m not being hysterical. I’ve never thought of myself as prone to hysteria.”
“You’re not,” he said firmly.
Edna kicked off her shoes and curled into one of the armchairs in the drawing room. Rowland glanced out of the window at Kiangse Road before he sat down. “Middleton’s here, and now—thanks to Mickey—he knows where we’re staying.”
“Yes.” Edna pulled off her gloves distractedly. “Mickey wasn’t to know.”
“As soon as Clyde and Milt get back to stay with you, I’m going to go have a word with Middleton. I promise you he won’t come near you again.”
Edna was quiet. Simmering. Suddenly she pulled her gloves back on. “There’s no need to wait.”
“I’m not leaving you here alone.”
“No, you’re not. I’m coming with you.”
“What? No.”
Her eyes flashed angrily. “Rowly, I am not in any way, shape or form afraid of Bertram Middleton. I will not be afraid of Bertram Middleton. We’ll simply call in at the North China Daily News now and tell him that he is not welcome on our doorstep. That this grand gesture of his is futile and that he should go home and finish writing his stupid boring novel!”
“Ed…”
She took his hand. “I know you want to protect me. You and Clyde and Milt. But I can protect myself. And I think Bertie needs to know that I’m making this decision, not you.”
Rowland shook his head. “I don’t really care what Middleton needs.”
“I can’t believe he followed me to China—how dare he!” Her face was hard now, her words vehement. “I want him to know that I hate him, Rowly, and that it’s nothing to do with you.” She slipped her shoes back on. “Step lively, we’re going to have to walk to the Bund.”
29
COURTSHIP
… Although we live in a “modern” age, and courtship is short and swift, and usually ends with an indifferent “will you marry me?”—an adherence to the beauties of the “old-fashioned” mode of courtship would, I think, make life far more interesting and enjoyable.
Why not make your courtship delightful and happy by being tactful and original, and thereby create impressions which will linger long?
The theme of this article comes from the “Centenary, Life, and Times of Daniel O’Connell,” published in 1875. This work says in part:
“Certain observations of O’Connell on the manner in which courtship should be carried on serve at once to illustrate the profound astuteness of his mental constitution, and the mode in which he doubtless conducted his own courtship. ‘It is injudicious on the part of a lover,’ he said, ‘to offer marriage at an early period of his courtship. By this precipitation he loses the advantage which female curiosity must otherwise afford him, and in sapping his way to her heart discards a powerful auxiliary. He may be tender and assiduous, but should not declare himself until the lady’s curiosity is awakened and piqued as to his intentions. In this way he awakes in her heart a certain interest concerning him which he may forfeit the moment he proposes.’…”
Sydney Morning Herald,
1 November 1934
Edna spoke to the receptionist on the ground floor of the North China Daily News building. She gave her name and requested a meeting with Mr. Middleton.
The young woman made a terse phone call via the switchboard, and then directed Edna and Rowland to the elevator.
“First floor, desk at the back,” she said, her attention already elsewhere.
When the elevator doors opened, Rowland and Edna emerged into what looked like a disordered typing pool, rows of desks clouded in a smog of cigarette smoke from the midst of which typewriters hammered a torrential rhythm. They passed an empty desk—the brass name block identified it as Emily Hahn’s—and made their way to the desk in the final row.
Bertram Middleton’s smile faded as he saw that Edna was not alone.
He opened his arms to embrace her, dropping them only when she stopped out of reach. “I say, did you get my flowers?”
“I did.” Edna kept her voice low. “I came to tell you not to leave any more.”
“I know I should have stayed to give them to you myself but—”
“No, you shouldn’t have come at all.”
Middleton’s voice became cold. “I sold everything I had, threw in my job to come here, to be with you.”
“And I told you I didn’t want to see you again! Neither here, nor in Sydney. Stay away, Bertie.”
“You don’t mean that!” Middleton’s voice rose. “It’s pre-wedding jitters, that’s all. Every bride gets cold feet.”
Heads began to turn. The tap of typewriters stopped.
“We’re not getting married, Bertie.”
“I won’t take no for an answer, sweetheart.”
Rowland had had enough. He reached over the desk and grabbed the journalist by the collar. “Yes, you will.”
“You can’t scare me off, Sinclair!”
“Come near her again and I’ll kill you.”
<
br /> Middleton flailed and two of his colleagues jumped into the fray, but Rowland was truly incensed now.
“Rowly!” Edna placed her hand on his arm. “We’ve made our point. Let him go.”
Rowland took a breath and released his grip. Middleton fell back, cursing Rowland and threatening to press charges.
Perhaps such altercations were not uncommon at the North China Daily News, for the other journalists returned to their desks and their cigarettes without a word, and the typewriters resumed tapping once again. Edna took Rowland’s hand as they left.
“I’m sorry I lost my rag, Ed.”
She smiled. “That’s right. You threatened to kill him.”
“I did.”
“I suspect he believed you.”
“Good.”
Clyde and Milton were back at the Kiangse Road house when Edna and Rowland returned. They had discovered that Bertram Middleton was no longer at the Sydney Morning Herald, but that discovery had of course been superseded by Mickey Hahn’s revelations that morning. Milton was somewhat put out that they had confronted the journalist without him, and disappointed that Rowland had not taken the opportunity to “knock his block off once and for all”.
It was Edna who demanded they change the subject. “I have no intention of ever thinking about Bertram Middleton again. We need to focus on finding out who killed Alexandra and how we’re going to find Sergei.”
“Are we sure he’s not dead?” Clyde asked.
Rowland told them what they’d learned from Mickey Hahn; that Romanov might well have died, but not in the fire.
“So how are we going to find him?”
“Would Mr. Carmel be able to help, Rowly?” Edna asked. “Lawyers have to locate lost heirs, witnesses to crimes and such—he might at least know where to start.”
“We probably should let him know about recent developments anyway,” Clyde added.
Harjeet came in with a plate of the syrupy cake she’d been baking that morning, insisting they try it. Clyde, Edna and Milton complied enthusiastically, while Rowland telephoned Carmel and Smith.
All the Tears in China Page 24
