Tai-Pan (74 page)

“Oh yes, we did. The land is wonderful, and the plans are already drawn. We can’t thank you enough. We were thinking—well, Sousa told us about the separate room for the bath and toilet you designed for your house. We—well, we asked him to build us one.”

Struan offered a cheroot, and lit it. “How long would you have waited, Culum?”

“I don’t understand.”

“For me to come back. The sea might have swallowed me.”

“Not you, Tai-Pan.”

“One day she might—one day she will.” Struan blew out a thread of smoke and watched it float. “If I ever leave again without telling you where I’m going, wait forty days. Nae more. I’m either dead or never coming back.”

“Very well.” Culum wondered what his father was getting at. “Why did you leave like that?”

“Why do you talk to Tess?”

“That’s no answer.”

“What else has happened since I left?”

Culum was desperately trying to understand, but he could not. He had greater respect than before for his father, yet he still felt no filial love. He had talked for hours with Tess and had found an uncanny depth to her. And they had discussed their fathers, trying to fathom the two that they loved and feared and sometimes hated most on earth, yet ran to at the breath of danger. “The frigates returned from Quemoy.”

“And?”

“They laid waste fifty to a hundred junks. Big and small. And three pirate nests ashore. Perhaps they sank Wu Kwok, perhaps they didn’t.”

“I think we’ll know soon enough.”

“The day before yesterday I checked your house in Happy Valley. The watchmen—well, you know no one will stay at night—I’m afraid it was broken into and looted badly.”

Struan wondered if the secret safe had been tampered with. “Is there na any good news?”

“Aristotle Quance escaped from Hong Kong.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Mrs. Quance doesn’t believe it, but everyone—at least almost everyone—saw him on the ship, the same that took Aunt Sarah home. The poor woman believes he’s still in Hong Kong. Did you know about George and Mary Sinclair? They’re going to be married. That’s good, even though Horatio is terribly upset about it. But that’s not all good either. We’ve just heard Mary’s very sick.”

“Malaria?”

“No. A flux of some kind in Macao. It’s very strange. George got a letter yesterday from the mother superior of the Catholic Nursing Order. Poor fellow’s worried to death! You can never trust those Papists.”

“What did the mother superior say?”

“Only that she felt she should inform Mary’s next of kin. And that Mary had said to write to George.”

Struan frowned. “Why the devil did she na go to the Missionary Hospital? And why did she na inform Horatio?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you told Horatio?”

“No.”

“Would Glessing have told him?”

“I doubt it. They seem to hate each other now.”

“You’d better go with the Brocks and find out how she is.”

“I thought you’d want firsthand news, so I sent Vargas’ nephew, Jesus, by lorcha yesterday. Poor George couldn’t get leave of absence from Longstaff, and I wanted to help him as well.”

Struan poured more tea and then looked at Culum with new respect. “Very good.”

“Well, I know she’s almost like your ward.”

“Aye.”

“The only other thing is that the inquiry into the archduke’s accident was held a few days ago. The jury found that it was just an accident.”

“Do you think it was?”

“Of course. Don’t you?”

“Have you visited Zergeyev?”

“At least once a day. He was at the inquiry, of course, and he—he said many nice things about you. How you helped him, saved his life, things like that. Zergeyev attached blame to no one and said that he had informed the tsar to that effect. He said openly that he thought he owed his life to you. Skinner brought out a special edition of the 
Oriental Times
 covering the inquiry. I have it for you.” Culum handed him the paper. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you got a royal commendation from the tsar personally.”

“How is Zergeyev?”

“He’s walking now, but his hip’s very stiff. I think he’s in great pain though he never mentions it. He says he’ll never ride again.”

“But he’s well?”

“As well as a man can be who lives to ride.” Struan went to the sideboard and poured two sherries. The lad’s changed, he thought. Aye, very much changed. I am proud of my son.

Culum accepted the glass and stared at it.

“Health, Culum. You’ve managed very well.”

“Health, Father.” Culum had chosen the word deliberately.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I want to be Tai-Pan of The Noble House. Very much. But I don’t want a dead man’s shoes.”

“I never thought you did,” Struan snapped.

“Yes, but I considered it. And I know in truth I don’t like that idea.”

Struan asked himself how his son could say such a thing, so calmly. “You’ve changed a lot in the last few weeks.”

“I’m learning about myself, perhaps. It’s Tess mostly—and being alone for seven days. I found I’m not ready to be alone yet.”

“Does Gorth share your opinion of dead men’s shoes?”

“I can’t answer for Gorth, Tai-Pan. Only for myself. I know that you’re mostly right, that I love Tess, that you’re going against everything you believe to help me.”

Again Struan remembered Sarah’s words.

He sipped his drink contemplatively.

Roger Blore was in his early twenties, his face as taut as his eyes. His clothes were expensive but threadbare, and his short frame spare and fatless. He had dark blond hair, and his blue eyes were deeply fatigued.

“Please sit down, Mr. Blore,” Struan said. “Now, what’s all the mystery? And why must you see me alone?”

Blore remained standing. “You’re Dirk Lochlin Struan, sir?”

Struan was surprised. Very few people knew his middle name. “Aye. And who might you be?” Neither the man’s face nor his name meant anything to Struan. But his accent was cultured—Eton or Harrow or Charterhouse.

“May I see your left foot, sir?” the youth asked politely.

“God’s death! You insolent puppy! Come to the point or get out!”

“You’re perfectly correct to be irritated, Mr. Struan. The odds that you’re the Tai-Pan are fifty to one on. A hundred to one on. But I must be sure you’re who you say you are.”

“Why?”

“Because I have information for Dirk Lochlin Struan, Tai-Pan of The Noble House, whose left foot is half shot away—information of the greatest importance.”

“From whom?”

“My father.”

“I dinna ken your name or your father and I’ve a long memory for names, by God!”

“My name’s not Roger Blore, sir. That’s just a pseudonym—for safety. My father’s in Parliament. I’m almost sure you’re the Tai-Pan. But before I pass the information, I have to be absolutely sure.”

Struan pulled the dirk out of his right boot and lifted the left boot. “Take it off,” he said dangerously. “And if the information’s na ’of the greatest importance, I’ll carve my initials on your forehead.”

“Then I suppose I stake my life. A life for a life.”

He pulled the boot off, sighed with relief, and sat weakly. “My name’s Richard Crosse. My father’s Sir Charles Crosse, member of Parliament for Chalfont St. Giles.”

Struan had met Sir Charles twice, some years ago. At that time Sir Charles was a small country squire with no means, a vehement supporter of free trade and of the importance of Asian trade, and well liked in Parliament. Over the years Struan had supported him financially and had never regretted the investment. It must be about the ratification, he thought eagerly. “Why did you na say so in the first place?”

Crosse rubbed his eyes tiredly. “May I have a drink, please?”

“Grog, brandy, sherry—help yoursel’.”

“Thank you, sir.” Crosse poured himself some brandy. “Thanks. Sorry, but I’m—well, a little tired. Father told me to be very careful—to use a pseudonym. To speak only to you—or if you were dead, to Robb Struan.” He undid his shirt and worked open a pouch that was strapped around his waist. “He sent you this.” He handed Struan a soiled, heavily sealed envelope and sat down.

Struan took the envelope. It was addressed to him, dated London, April 29th. Abruptly he looked up and his voice grated. “You’re a liar! It’s impossible for you to have got here so quickly. That’s only sixty days ago.”

“Yes it is, sir,” Crosse said breezily. “I’ve done the impossible.” He laughed nervously. “Father will almost never forgive me.”

“No one’s ever made the journey in sixty days. What’s your game?”

“I left on Tuesday the 29th of April. Stagecoach London to Dover. I caught the mail ship to Calais by a nose. Stage to Paris and another to Marseilles. The French mail to Alexandria, by a hair. Overland to Suez through the good offices of Mehemet AM—whom Father met once—and then the Bombay mail by a whisker. I rotted in Bombay for three days and then had a fabulous stroke of luck. I bought passage on an opium clipper for Calcutta. Then—”

“What clipper?”

“Flying Witch,
 belonging to Brock and Sons.”

“Go on,” Struan said, his eyebrows soaring.

“Then an East Indiaman to Singapore. The 
Bombay Prince.
 Then bad luck, no ship scheduled for Hong Kong for weeks. Then huge luck. I talked myself onto a Russian ship—that one,” Crosse said, pointing out the stern windows. “She was the most dangerous gamble of all, but it was my last chance. I gave the captain every last guinea I had. In advance. I thought they’d be sure to cut my throat and throw me overboard once out to sea, but it was my last chance. Fifty-nine days, sir, actually—London to Hong Kong.”

Struan got up and poured another drink for Crosse and took a large one for himself. Aye, it’s possible, he thought. Na probable but possible. “Do you know what’s in the letter?”

“No, sir. At least I know only the part that refers to me.”

“And what’s that?”

“Father says that I’m a wastrel, a ne’er-do-well, gambler and horse-mad,” Crosse said with disarming frankness. “That there’s a debtor’s warrant out for my arrest from Newgate Prison. That he commends me to your generosity and hopes you’ll be able to find a use for my ‘talents’—anything to keep me out of England and away from him for the rest of his life. And he sets forth the stakes of the wager.”

“What wager?”

“I arrived yesterday, sir. June 28th. Your son and many others are witnesses. Perhaps you should read the letter, sir. I can assure you my father’d never wager with me unless it was news of the ‘utmost importance.’ ”

Struan re-examined the seals and broke them. The letter read: “Westminister, 11 o’clock the evening of April 28th, ‘41. My dear Mr. Struan: I have just become secretly privy to a dispatch the Foreign Secretary, Lord Cunnington, sent yesterday to the Hon. William Longstaff, Her Majesty’s plenipotentiary in Asia. The dispatch read in part: ‘You have disobeyed and neglected my directives and appear to consider them so much flatulence. You obviously seem determined to settle the affairs of Her Majesty’s Government at your whim. You impertinently disregard instructions that five or six mainland Chinese ports are to be made accessible to British trading interests, and that full and diplomatic channels be permanently established therein; that this be done expeditiously, preferably by negotiation, but if negotiation be impossible, by use of the Force sent for this explicit purpose and at considerable cost. Instead you settle for a miserable rock with hardly a house on it, for an entirely unacceptable treaty, and at the same time—if naval and army dispatches are to be believed—continually misuse Her Majesty’s Forces under your command. In no way can Hong Kong ever become the market emporium for Asia—any more than Macao has become one. The Treaty of Chuenpi is totally repudiated. Your successor, Sir Clyde Whalen, will be arriving imminently, my dear Sir. Perhaps you would be kind enough to hand over your duties to your deputy, Mr. C. Monsey, on receipt of this dispatch, and leave Asia forthwith on a frigate which is hereby detached for this duty. Report to my office at your earliest convenience.’

“I am at my wits’ end . . .”

Impossible! Impossible that they could make such a god-rotting-fornicating-stupid-Christforsaken-unbelievable mistake! Struan thought. He read on: “I’m at my wits’ end. There’s nothing I can do until the information is presented officially in the House. I daren’t use this secret information openly. Cunnington would have my head and I’d be damned out of politics. Even putting it on paper to you in this fashion is giving my enemies—and who in politics has only a few?—an opportunity to destroy me and, with me, all those who support free trade and the position you’ve so zealously fought for all these years. I pray God my son puts it into your hands alone. (He knows nothing of the private contents of this letter, by the way.)

“As you know, the Foreign Secretary is an imperious man, a law unto himself, the bulwark of our Whig party. His attitude in the dispatch is perfectly clear. I’m afraid that Hong Kong is a dead issue. And unless the Government is defeated and Sir Robert Peel’s Conservatives come into power—an impossibility, I would say, in the foreseeable future—Hong Kong is likely to remain a dead issue.

“The news of the failure of your bank spread through the inner circles in the City—greatly assisted by your rivals, headed by young Morgan Brock. ‘In great confidence’ Morgan Brock judiciously dropped seeds of distrust, along with the information that the Brocks now own most, if not all, of your outstanding paper, and this has immeasurably hurt your influence here. And, too, a letter from Mr. Tyler Brock and certain other traders arrived, almost simultaneously with Longstaff’s ‘Treaty of Chuenpi’ dispatch, in violent opposition to the Hong Kong settlement and to Longstaff’s conduct of hostilities. The letter was addressed to the Prime Minister, the Foreign Secretary, with copies to their enemies—of which, as you know, there are many.

“Knowing that you may have put the remainder of your resources, if any, into your cherished island, I write to give you the opportunity to extricate yourself and save something from the disaster. It may be that you have made some form of settlement with Brock—I pray you have— though if the arrogant Morgan Brock is to be believed, the only settlement that will please them is the obliteration of your house. (I have good reason to believe that Morgan Brock and a group of Continental banking interests— French and Russian, it is further rumored—started the sudden run on the bank. The Continental group proposed the ploy when news somehow leaked out about Mr. Robb Struan’s planned international structure. They broke your bank in return for fifty percent of a similar plan which Morgan Brock is now trying to effect.)