China Edward Rutherfurd (essential reading .txt) 📖

“He’s found five of the sailors guilty.”

“Of murder?”

“Certainly not. Riot and assault. He fined the lot of them. And they’ll be sent back to England to serve time in prison, too. So that’s that.”

Trader wasn’t so sure. But it was no use worrying about that now. He was due to see Marissa in a few hours. He had lunch with Tully and went for a walk on the seashore afterwards. After that, he took a siesta.

—

It was early evening. He had climbed the hill and was just below the high facade of St. Paul’s, and he was thinking that it would be a pleasant thing to turn into the old Jesuit cannon battery for a few minutes and gaze down upon the sea, when he noticed, ahead of him, a pair of figures heading in the same direction—one of whom he could have sworn he knew.

He followed them. And as they stopped beside the first old gun, and the younger turned his head to address his companion, he saw for certain that it was Shi-Rong, the commissioner’s secretary.

Insofar as he could judge, the times they’d met before, he’d rather liked the young mandarin. But what the devil was he doing here? Should he speak to him?

And then it suddenly dawned on him: Shi-Rong might be the spymaster.

He’d vaguely supposed it would be some older man. But Shi-Rong was Lin’s secretary. If he’d proved himself effective, the commissioner might have entrusted him with such a mission. Did that mean he should avoid him? On the contrary. All the more interesting to talk to him. Try to find out what was going on. He went forward. Shi-Rong glanced his way, recognized him.

And at that moment, Trader remembered: the letter. Lin’s letter to Queen Victoria. The letter he’d promised to forward. He’d completely forgotten about it. Only one thing to do. He bowed, smiled.

“Long time no see,” he offered. “I sent Commissioner Lin’s letter to Oxford. Maybe the queen will see it one day.”

Had they understood? He couldn’t be sure. The man with Shi-Rong wasn’t Mr. Singapore. Short and middle-aged, he looked Malay, though his hair was plaited down his back in the Chinese queue. He might speak English. He might not.

“I was very sorry about the death of the man at Hong Kong,” said Trader politely. “The guilty men have all been sent to jail.” He waited. Shi-Rong and his companion looked at each other. “Did you understand?” Trader asked.

Both men bowed to him politely, but there did not seem to be a trace of understanding on their faces, and neither of them made any reply.

And Trader would no doubt have given up and left them had they not, all three, been surprised by a figure hastening towards them. The figure called out to John.

It was Cecil Whiteparish. He looked furious. He rudely ignored the two Chinese and practically made a run at Trader, as though he meant to knock him to the ground.

“What the devil do you want?” cried John in surprise and some alarm.

“I want to talk to you, sir,” shouted his cousin.

“This is hardly the time and place,” snapped John.

“Is it not, sir? I’ll be the judge of that. I sought you at your lodgings. You were not there. So I guessed I might find you up here—no doubt to visit your whore!”

With a supreme effort at self-control, John spoke with icy calm. “This gentleman…”—he indicated Shi-Rong—“is the private secretary of Commissioner Lin, whom I have the honor to know. I was just expressing to him my regret for the unfortunate death of one of his countrymen, and explaining to him that all the men who took part in the affray have just been sent to jail.”

Whatever had caused the missionary’s tirade, surely this would warn his cousin to be civil until they were alone. Trader glanced at Shi-Rong and his companion. Did they understand what Cecil was saying? He hoped they didn’t. But though the two Chinese were impassive, they gave no sign of moving.

“That may be. But I am talking about the foul trade in opium, in which, despite giving promises to the contrary, you and your friends are still engaging at this very moment.”

“No, I am not!” Trader cried. It was true. He might wish he was. But he wasn’t. He glanced at Shi-Rong and his companion. Did his wretched cousin have any idea how dangerous it was to say such things in front of these men? “Our friend here is secretary to the commissioner,” he chided him. “You should not say such things in front of him. Especially when they are entirely untrue.”

“Do you deny that you are shipping cotton out of Manila, and that those cotton ships are secretly filled with opium?” cried Whiteparish.

How the devil had he come by that information? And why in the name of Heaven was he blurting it out?

“I utterly deny it. I deny it before God.”

“Frankly, Cousin John, I don’t believe you. I know it is being done.” Whiteparish looked towards Shi-Rong. “As for our Chinese friends, when I consider the evil that we do to their people and the duplicity of all our dealings with them, I should prefer that we apologize to them instead of continuing to do them injury.”

“You are mad,” said Trader contemptuously.

“You think I’m not a gentleman,” Whiteparish continued bitterly.

“I never said any such thing.”

“You think it. But in the eyes of God, you ‘gentlemen’ are no better than thieves, a stain upon the honor of your country. I would not wish to be one of you. And as for this man…”—he indicated Shi-Rong—“I’d sooner he knew that not all Englishmen are like you. That there are good men in the British Parliament, honest, moral men, who are going to put a stop to your criminal activities very soon.”

Trader glanced at Shi-Rong and his companion. Their faces were blank.

“You’d better learn to speak Chinese, then,” he observed drily, “because they don’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“They won’t even need to. Have you