Gai-Jin (142 page)

Then charging up the steps. Noticing Angelique huddled in the corner of the quarterdeck, wrapped in blankets, the First Mate nearby but rushing past them, praying it was not true but a nightmare, then going below.

The stateroom was bathed in light. Malcolm lay in the bunk on his back. Eyes closed, calm in death, no cares, sheets drawn up to his chin, it suddenly hitting Jamie that his friend was as he had never seen him, exquisitely at peace.

“It were … it were Chen,” Strongbow was saying in a flood, distraught, “his servant Chen, Jamie, he’d come to wake him ten, fifteen minutes ago, he’s the one that found him, Jamie, he found him—you can unbolt the door from the outside like most sea cabins—and he did and they were sleeping, he thought. She was but Malcolm weren’t and he shook him and saw and near died himself and ran out and fetched me and by that time, she was awake. She was awake and shrieking, poor thing, desperate, shrieking enough to put your teeth on edge so I took her out and told the First Mate to look after her and came back but there were no mistake, poor laddie, he’s just as you see him ’cepting I closed his eyes but look … look here …”

Trembling, Strongbow pulled the sheet away. Malcolm was naked. The lower part of his body rested in a pool of blood. The blood was dried and caked now, the mattress soaked. “He … he must have hemorrhaged, only God knows why but I suppose …”

“Christ Jesus,” Jamie had said, and lurched for a chair and cursed and cursed and cursed again, numb. Malcolm? “What the hell do I do now?” he asked himself helplessly.

The voice of God ricocheted around the cabin answering him: “You pack it in ice and send it home!”

Frightened, he leapt to his feet. Strongbow was staring at him perplexed and, all at once, Jamie realized it was the Captain who had answered him, unaware that he himself had spoken the question aloud. “Is that all you can bloody say, for Christ’s sake?” he shouted.

“Sorry, Jamie, didn’t mean … I didn’t mean to be …” Strongbow wiped his forehead. “What do you want me to do?”

After another age, ears still pounding, head scourged, he muttered, “I don’t know.”

“Normally we—we would bury him at sea, can’t keep … You could bury him ashore … What do you want me to do?”

Jamie’s mind seemed to be in slow motion. Then he noticed Ah Tok squatting near the bunk, tiny, now an old crone, rocking on her heels, mouth moving but no sound coming out. “Ah Tok, you go upside, nothing here, heya?”

She paid no heed. Just rocked back and forth, mouthing, and did not answer. He tried again but it was no use. To Strongbow he said, “You’d just better wait. You wait for Babcott or Hoag.”

Aloft again to kneel beside Angelique, in the still dark, not yet dawn. But she would not answer him, however tenderly he talked to her, saying how sorry he was, how very sorry, trying to succor her. Momentarily she looked up, without recognition, great blue eyes in the whiteness of her face, then huddled back in the blankets, staring sightlessly at the deck.

“I’m going ashore, Angelique, ashore. You understand? It’s … it’s best to tell Sir William, you understand?” He saw her nod dully and touched her as a father would. At the gangway he said to Strongbow, “Put the flag at half mast, all hands to stay aboard, your sailing orders are cancelled. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Best…best not to touch anything till Babcott or Hoag arrive.”

Going back to the shore he had been violently sick and now he saw Norbert and Gornt in front of him. Gornt was shocked, Norbert’s eyes glittered and, through his misery, he heard him say, “Malcolm’s dead? How dead, for Christ’s sake?”

“I don’t know,” he said, choked. “We—we—we’ve sent for Babcott but it looks like he hemorrhaged. I’ve got to tell Sir William.” He turned to leave but Norbert’s jeering laughter stopped him.

“You mean the young bugger died fucking? Died on the job? I come to kill the bugger but he’s done fucked his way through the Pearly Gates? Old Man Brock will laugh fit to b—”

Blind with rage McFay lashed out, his right fist smashing into Norbert’s face, sending him reeling, and missed with a violent left uppercut, overbalanced, and fell to his knees. Norbert had twisted like a cat and leapt to his feet, bellowing with fury, face bloody, nose ugly, and kicked violently for Jamie’s head. The toe of his boot caught Jamie’s collar and that deflected and deadened the impact slightly or it would have broken his neck instead of sending him tumbling. Norbert wiped the blood off his face as he rushed forward and again kicked savagely. But this time Jamie was ready and he twisted aside before Norbert could reach him and scrambled to his feet, his fists bunched, his left arm momentarily useless.

For a second they squared off, pain obliterated by hatred, Gornt trying to stop them but at the same instant the two men charged, amok, brushing him aside like a leaf. Fists, feet, gouging, street fighting, knees into the
groin, nails clawing, tearing cloth or hair anything to crush the other—the enmity of years exploding with surpassing ferocity. They were the same height but Jamie was thirty pounds lighter, Norbert tougher and more vicious. His knife appeared in his hand. Both Jamie and Gornt called out as he lunged, missed, recovered, slashed again and drew blood this time, Jamie awkward and losing and tortured by the damaged shoulder. With a victorious battle cry Norbert thrust forward, to maim but not to kill, but the same moment Jamie’s fist crashed into the bridge of his nose, smashing it this time, and Norbert went down whimpering and stayed down, on his hands and knees, sightless with pain, beaten.

Jamie stood over him panting, Gornt expecting him to finish the other man with a kick to the groin and another to the head, then perhaps to use the heel of his boot to mash his face forever. That’s what he would have done—not gentlemanly to pull a knife or jeer at the death of another man, even an enemy, he thought with satisfaction at McFay’s victory.

But Malcolm’s death had not pleased him at all. It was the one option he had not planned for, not today. Now his scheme would have to be revised, and quickly. In God’s name, how? Could this brawl be used, he wondered, sifting possibilities while waiting to see what Jamie would do next.

Now that he had won, Jamie’s rage dissipated. His chest was heaving. Bile and blood filled his mouth. He spat it out. For years he had wanted to humble Norbert and now he had, and had his measure once and for all time—and had taken revenge for Malcolm who had been provoked deliberately.

“Norbert, you bastard,” he croaked, astonished how bad his voice sounded and how awful he felt. “You say any—anything against my tai-pan, anything, by God, or laugh about him again behind his back, I’ll smash you to pieces.”

Roughly he stumbled past Gornt, hardly seeing him, to go to the jetty. Ten or fifteen yards away his foot caught in a rut and he fell cursing, and remained there on his hands and knees, oblivious of the others, spent.

Norbert was coming around, spitting blood, his nose ruined, a mass of hurt, sick with rage that he had been beaten. And petrified. Old Man Brock won’t forgive you, his brain was screaming, you’ll lose your bonus and the stipend he promised, you’ll be the laughingstock of Asia, beaten and pulped and marked forever by that son of a bitch Jamie who’s nowhere near your size, a Struan bastard …

He felt himself helped to stand. Unsteadily he forced his eyes open. Gasping for air and confused, his face and head on fire, eyes puffed and mostly closed, he saw McFay groping to his feet a few paces away with his back towards him, Gornt half in front of him, still carrying the double-barrelled duelling pistol.

Half mad with pain, a tangle of thoughts rushed at him: Can’t miss at this distance, Gornt’s the only witness, at the inquest we’ll say, “McFay went for the gun, Sir William, we’d been fighting, yes, a struggle, yes, but he’d hit me first, didn’t he, Edward, tell the God’s truth, then terrible, Your Honor, terrible it was, somehow the gun went off, poor Jamie …”

Norbert grabbed the pistol and raised it.

“Jamie!” Gornt called out in warning.

McFay turned, startled, gaped at the pointed gun as Norbert jeered and pulled the trigger, but Gornt was ready and with another warning shout deflected the shot upwards and now, with his back towards McFay, covered the pistol with his body, holding it in both hands with surprising strength, simulating a momentary struggle with Norbert for possession. And all the time he stared into Norbert’s eyes who saw, appalled, only death. He twisted the muzzle into Norbert’s chest and squeezed the second trigger. Norbert died instantly. Then, pretending to be aghast, Gornt let the body fall. It had taken a few seconds.

“Christ Almighty,” Jamie gasped. Appalled, he stumbled over and sank to his knees beside the body.

“My God, suh, I didn’t know what to do. Oh, my God, suh, Mr. Greyforth, he was going to shoot you in the back and all I did … oh, my God, Mr. McFay … you saw him yourself, didn’t you? I shouted a warning but … he was going to shoot you in the back … isn’t there anything we can do? He was going to kill you …” Easy to convince McFay, who blearily staggered away to fetch help.

Once safely alone, Gornt exhaled. Pleased with himself. Delighted he had, in that instant, foreseen what Norbert would do and had gambled his life on it.

“When you’re gambling, timing and execution must be perfect,” was one of his stepfather’s litanies when teaching him the art of cards. “Sometimes there comes a chance, young Eddie, a gift from the Fates. They give you something special, you take it and make a killing. You win the big pot, you can’t fail if they’ve really offered it, their timing’s perfect. But don’t be fooled by the Devil—he’ll screw you to the cross, his deal’s like the other but different, you’ll recognize the difference once it comes your way …”

Gornt smiled crookedly. His stepfather hadn’t meant a killing literally though it had come to pass that way for him. His gift from the Fates was Norbert.

Perfect timing, perfect killing, perfect alibi.

Norbert had to be sent onward for many reasons. One was because Norbert might have been able to deflect part of the Brock disaster, turning it back against Struan’s. Another that Old Man Brock had ordered Norbert
to kill Struan any way he could, another—the most important—that Norbert was common with no manners, no finesse, no sense of honor, and not a gentleman.

Flies were already swarming around and on the corpse. Gornt moved away and lit a cheroot. His eyes searched No Man’s Land, looking through the mist. Still no alien eyes, no one stirring. Dawn barely breaking the overcast. While he waited he removed the blanks from the other pistol, Malcolm’s pistol, that Norbert had insisted on. He smiled to himself. He would have switched them, giving Norbert the duds, if Norbert had decided to fight the duel, instead of cancelling as agreed.

What a bastard Norbert was, he thought. Good riddance. But I’m sorry about Malcolm. Never mind, now I’ll go to Hong Kong and make my deal with his mother—safer and better. Norbert was right, she’s the real tai-pan. I barter what I would have given Malcolm, real means and evidence to destroy Brock and Sons—to crush Morgan, the devil incarnate.

Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. But not with me. Not me, Edward Gornt, Morgan’s son. Ah, Father, if you only knew how glorious revenge will be, how correct patricide is! In payment for “I’ll marry the slut if …”

It’s ironic, Morgan, you’ve spent your life trying to ruin your only sister and her family—your father the same with his only daughter—and I’m your only son, and nemesis, protecting her to ruin you.

Safer dealing with Tess than Malcolm, better. She’ll deliver Rothwell’s in Shanghai, and underwrite the Victoria Bank loans I’ll need, and get me a seat on the Board. No, not that, rightly she’d consider that a threat, the seat will come later. Meanwhile, next on the list, Cooper-Tillman.

Meanwhile, what to do? Off to Hong Kong soon as possible. Curious, Norbert’s gone, and Malcolm. Strange.

Dying on the job? I wonder. What a way to go!

By removing Malcolm the Fates dealt me another prize. Angelique. She’s free and rich now, Noble House rich. Six months would be perfect, time enough for mourning, and me to get organized. By then Tess Struan will be glad to have her out of Hong Kong, and out of her hair. And married. Say she’s pregnant? I’ll worry about that, if. Makes no difference either way, I’ll get the Noble House quicker than already planned.

His low laugh mixed with the hum of the flies.

“Dr. Babcott’s outside, Sir William,” Tyrer said.

“Send him in, for God’s sake! George, ’morning, what the hell happened to the poor fellow—terrible news! What about Angelique, how is she, did you hear about Norbert? Miserable bastard tried to shoot Jamie in the back couple of hours ago!”

“Yes, yes, we heard.” Babcott was unshaven and clearly upset. “Hoag’s taken Angelique to the French Legation, we all came ashore together—she wouldn’t go back to Struan’s.”

“I can understand that, don’t blame her, how is she?”

“In shock, of course. We’ve given her sedatives. Dreadfully sorry for her—she’s had a rotten time here, the Tokaidō, then that bloody ronin thug and now this. Rotten luck, the worst luck. She’s hurting badly.”

“Oh. Will it…will it turn her mind?”

“Hope not. You never know. She’s young and strong but … you never know. By all that’s holy I hope not.” The two men were gravely concerned. “Such a shame for both of them. Rotten business, feel so damned useless.”

Sir William nodded. “Must confess I was bloody angry about their marriage, but then, when I heard this morning, well, I would have given anything for it not to have happened.” His face hardened. “Did you see Norbert’s body?”

“No, Hoag will do that once he’s settled Angelique. I thought I’d better come straight here and report.”

“Quite right. Now, what happened to Malcolm?”

In spite of his anguish, Babcott became clinical. “Hemorrhage. An artery or vein ruptured or burst. In the night, while he was asleep, without any pain or contortions or he would have awakened her, life seeped out of him. I’ll do an autopsy, have to for the death certificate.”

“All right, if that’s what you recommend.” Sir William turned his mind off that macabre business, finding it distasteful, not liking, either, to be close to the doctor, any doctor, their clothes always bloodstained here and there, and always the faint odor of chemicals and carbolic surrounding them, however clean they were in themselves. “Poor young Struan. Terrible. He just bled to death?”