Broken Meats: A Harry Stubbs Adventure (3 page)

It was a
matter of record that I owed Arthur. I was not in a position to refuse him.
Besides, paid work was very welcome at that juncture. It bothered me, though,
that it sounded like the sort of thing that a fourteen-year-old might have
carried off just as well. I said as much.

“You’re big
for an errand boy,” said Arthur, winking at me. “But trust me, this is a
heavyweight errand. Call it counterespionage.”

“Your
Chinaman is a subtle fellow,” said Reg. “But we can beat them at that game.”

“If I was
to get Reg to do it, Yang would tumble him in no time,” said Arthur. “But we
thought that with your looks, you won't arouse no suspicion.”

“What do
you want me to do?”

“Be
helpful. Show Yang around. I don’t know… show him how to get on a tram and
whatnot. Get fish-and-chips for him. Take him round the Crystal Palace.” Arthur
waved his hands in an
and so on
gesture. As if Yang were some country
cousin up to London for the day who might be entertained after the usual
fashion. “Meanwhile, stick close. Find out who he’s talking to. See that he's
not doing anything as might prejudice our business interests.”

“Why don’t
we just out with it and ask him what he wants here—make it clear where he
stands and where we stand?”

“No, no,
no,” said Reg. “That won’t do. You can't ask straight questions like that, and
the Chinese don’t answer if you do. Did you know there are no words for 'yes'
and 'no' in Mandarin? You’ve got to do everything with polite circumlocutions.
What the Chinese call ‘face’ is very important. If a man chooses not to tell
you something, you choose not to ask. See?”

“It's a funny
way of doing things,” I objected.

Reg wagged
a finger at me. “’East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall
meet,’” he quoted sagely. I was to find this was his stock explanation for any
puzzling Chinese ways. “It’s the only way to deal with them. And mind your Ps
and Qs—some of them understand English better than you think. Be
circumspect and polite at all times.”

“I suppose
so,” I said.

“And the
sooner we get rid of him, the happier I’ll be. I’ve got enough to worry about.”
Arthur swallowed his tea as though it tasted bad and turned to me. “This
business with Collins, blazing away like the Wild West, getting the police
called in. We can’t be having that sort of harum-scarum behaviour round here.
Ruins it for all of us.”

I told him
about the greatcoat with the bullet holes, but apparently, he already knew
about it. It had been stolen off the back of a tramp called Slingsby an hour
before the shooting, while the man was comatose on cheap gin. Slingsby knew
nothing about the shooting and was equally indignant at the theft and the
bullet holes.

“It’s all
tomfoolery,” said Arthur. “Some people haven’t got the sense to realise that
actions have consequences. I gave Collins notice to pack his bags and clear
out.”

“What about
Sally – what will she do?”

“Already
seen to. I got them to take her in at Virgo Fidelis. She’s a nervous wreck,
poor woman.”

“A nun?
Surely…”

“No,
Stubbsy, not a nun. She’ll be scrubbing floors or something. Doing her
penance.”

“Funny
business, that shooting,” said Reg with a sidelong look at Arthur as if he were
fishing for information.

“Funny, and
very unprofitable at that,” said Arthur darkly. “Why is it always me clearing
up the messes left by other people? Why do I bother?”

Reg and I
tactfully remained silent.

“One funny
thing about it that did occur to me,” Arthur said, brightening a little. “Bill
McCann was always very smart, very well turned out. He wouldn’t be seen dead in
Slingsby’s old greatcoat.”

Chapter Two: The Visitor Arrives

I like to have things cut and dried. The Royal Artillery suited me. When
it comes to lugging shells from one place to another, I’m as good a man as
you’re likely to find and stronger than most. I can follow plain orders to the
letter. When I have to rely on my own initiative, I'm a traveller without a
map.

Arthur and
Reg wanted to promote me to the Intelligence Corps, and I had to live up to it.
After all, I said I wanted a job that required some brainwork, so I could not
complain. It was with no small amount of trepidation that I turned up at the
railway station. I arrived in good time and occupied myself at a bench in the
waiting room, perusing a book of poetry by Mr Robert Browning. Browning had
inspired Sir Ernest Shackleton, and I wanted inspiration.

I could not
concentrate on the fine writing. The hands of the station clock seemed to be
fixed in place; every time I looked up, it was still 2:43.
 
The experience was as bad as going for a
job interview, and a deal worse than stepping into the ring.

My one good
suit was something the worse for wear, having already been turned. It would
pass at a pinch but was hardly smart. My bowler had been dented in a scuffle
with a debtor and had never quite recovered. Nor could any amount of polishing
disguise my scuffed shoes.

I thought I
would have the advantage of Mr Yang, and so I did. I spotted him from the other
side of the concourse, not because he was Chinese but because of his
distinctive attire. If I had half expected a robed figure off a Willow Pattern
plate, surrounded by cranes and pagodas, the image was dispelled at once.

Mr Yang was
clad in an immaculate cream linen suit, with cream leather shoes and spats,
topped off with a Derby hat in the same shade. The effect was set off by a
pale-blue shirt and a dark-blue tie, and gold gleamed from his tiepin. He stood
with one hand in his jacket pocket and a light overcoat over the other arm. A
neatly trimmed goatee completed the look; he was posed as perfectly as a
fashion plate. If you could say a man was beautiful, then Yang looked
beautiful. Not foppish, but sharp as a new razor. And he held himself at a
distance, as far above everyone else as a statue on a plinth.

Yang looked
through the gawking people as though they were no more than wraiths of steam
that swam around him. And in spite of the smoke and soot from the train, there
was no trace of smut on him. The elements themselves seemed to respect him.

Yang was no
more than a bantamweight, and maybe not even that, but he had the presence of a
man six feet tall. He stood with the certainty of a high official surrounded by
invisible attendants ready to drag off for execution anyone who crossed his
path.

His eyes
took focus, and he looked in my direction as I approached. Those eyes! I almost
stopped in my tracks. He seemed to have a third eyelid, like a bird, so that
his gaze became suddenly penetrating. That look was disconcerting even for an
instant.

“Mr Yang, I
presume,” I said, raising my hat. “I’m Harry Stubbs. Welcome to Norwood.
Captain Hall sends his compliments.”

“So I
understand,” he said without offering a hand. There was no smile, no more
warmth than if I were a bus he had been waiting for.

“Allow me
to show you to your hotel.” His steamer trunks would arrive on the next train,
and he only had light luggage with him: two suitcases, a valise, and a round
wicker basket. I gathered them up.

“Are there
no porters here?” he asked.

I suspected
that the porters might not give a Chinese gentleman's luggage quite the respect
that was due. I did not want Yang to get a bad impression of England. “No need,
sir. These don’t weigh anything.”

I lifted
the cases high to illustrate my point. Something shifted in the wicker basket,
and two green eyes looked out at me through a lattice—hard, feline eyes,
like matched emeralds. They blinked once, as if in warning, but there was no
meow. I lowered the basket carefully.

It was a
scant two hundred yards to the Tulse Hill Hotel from the station. I pointed out
the local landmarks, which Mr Yang barely acknowledged. He was not excited to
be in the beating heart of the Empire, our great metropolis from which the
world is ruled. The streets full of motorcars and buses and the bright modern
shop fronts with their plate-glass windows seemed beneath his notice. London
may not have been very exotic after Shanghai’s streets, which I imagined to be
crowded with coolies and mandarins, but it was by far the greater city. Yang
might have been walking through a mud village for all the attention he paid.

He stopped
in front of the hotel, looking left and right and then upwards. “The sky is
good,” was all he said.

I looked
up, too. The sky was almost clear with faint ripples of high cloud that put me
in mind of fish bones.

The
reception desk sat between two potted palms. A spotty young man with a starched
collar stood behind it. I took charge of the checking in, not that there was
any need. Mr Yang's English was certainly up to scratch, and he understood the
procedure. There was, however, a problem.

“Animals
are not permitted in the rooms,” the desk clerk said, seeing the cat in its
wicker basket. The collar gave him a lofty air. He did not approve of either Mr
Yang or me.

“An
exception may be made in this instance,” I said. “The room was booked by Mr
Arthur Renville. Mr Yang is his honoured guest.”

“I don’t
know Arthur Renville from Adam,” said the clerk. “Animals are not permitted in
the rooms.”

“I had
better speak to the manager then,” I said rather warmly. The manager would
certainly know Arthur, and he would put the clerk right.

“There is
no need,” said Mr Yang.

“Animals
are not permitted,” repeated the clerk.

Mr Yang
looked coolly at him. The clerk turned his back, pretending to be reading
entries in a ledger. Yang’s eyes were still fixed on him.

“It’s no
use your standing there,” the clerk said without looking round. “It’s in the
hotel rules. You’ll have to find somewhere else or leave that thing outside.”

The seconds
passed like treacle dripping. I wanted to call for the manager, but Yang raised
a hand to halt me, still looking at the back of the clerk’s head. I swear the
cat was looking at the clerk, too. The man fingered his stiff collar
unconsciously. I was about to repeat my request to talk to the manager when the
clerk turned around.

“Very well
then, I suppose.” He opened the register without looking at Mr Yang. “Of
course, there will be an additional charge for your… animal.”

“Of
course.” Mr Yang did not take the pen but left me to fill in the register. As I
wrote out the details, his hand rested on the desk, and I noted one oddity
about his manicure. The nails were perfect, except the nail on his little
finger, which
 
was long and curved
as a talon, extending past the end of his ring finger.

The bellboy
had been riveted throughout the performance. He kept looking from Yang to me
and back as he escorted us to a room and stood in the doorway.

The Tulse
Hill Hotel is your typical railway hotel, the same as the rest of them up and
down the country. These places are occupied mainly by commercial travellers and
incline towards the functional. Many of the rooms are little more than hutches
for single men kept away from home by their business, an unhappy breed who sit
on wooden chairs at the regulation writing desks, adding up their sales for the
day or arranging their samples.

This was
one of the better rooms. It was a good size with a high ceiling and a sense of
open space. There was a bay window, blue-and-white-striped wallpaper, and a
thick carpet underfoot. The bed and the armchairs looked comfortable enough.

“It’s a
good room,” I assured Yang. He nodded slightly. I tossed the gawping bellboy a
tanner, which he snatched with one hand, and sent him off before arranging
Yang’s luggage.

Yang
remained in place, as motionless as he had been in the station. I wanted to
suggest his calling for a cup of tea and relaxing for a bit but was uncertain
how to comport myself. The cat, a big tabby, stirred in its basket and uttered
a low sound.

Yang looked
at his wristwatch, a fine square Dunhill—or a Chinese copy of one. “It
will be convenient for you to meet me in the lobby at nine o'clock tomorrow morning,
Mr Stubbs.” His tone indicated that this was an order.

“That will
be quite convenient, sir.”

“And Mr
Stubbs, it is not customary for Europeans to call Chinese 'sir.’”

“I never
knew that. How should I address you properly?”

He seemed
puzzled at the question. “It does not matter,” he said after a minute. I could
not tell whether he was appeased or offended. “Tomorrow at nine o'clock.”

“Thank
you.” I left him standing in the hotel room, immobile as a statue. Yang gave
nothing away except what he wished. For the time being, I had seen enough.

Chapter Three: A Tour of Norwood

There was a fine motorcar outside the hotel the next morning, a black
six-cylinder Daimler, fresh from the showroom, waxed and polished to a shine. I
paused to admire it a moment before going inside and finding a new clerk at the
desk.

“Mr Stubbs,
isn’t it? I believe we have a mutual acquaintance in Mr Renville.” His name was
Walker, and he gave a wink to signify we were both on the same job of watching
Yang. “There’s a gentleman from the motor-rental company waiting over there who
needs you to sign some papers.”

The rental
agent asked if Mr Yang would be requiring a chauffeur. I don’t drive myself,
but I could think of a dozen of Arthur’s circle who would take on the job, so I
sent the agent on his way.

Yang
appeared at nine o’clock on the dot, dressed in an off-white suit no less smart
than his previous outfit. I mentioned the matter of the chauffeur.

“We do not
need a driver. I will drive; you will provide navigation.” Yang passed me an
odd piece of thick brown paper, about three inches square. There was an address
in block letters on one side and Chinese writing on the other. “You know this
place?”

“Certainly.
It’s over the other side of Dulwich.”

We sat in
the car, which smelled of fresh leather and oiled wood, while Yang familiarised
himself with the controls. He lightly touched the handles and levers in turn
and stroked the steering wheel. I did not dare to offer help, and when Yang
pushed the starter button, the powerful engine roared to life.

“It’s a
good car,” I said.

“I drive a
Daimler in Shanghai,” said Yang, flicking the indicator. “Now, what direction?”

Yang drove
well, coping with the busy traffic without difficulty. I had imagined Shanghai
as a place of rickshaws and oxcarts and carriages but began to think that I may
have been mistaken. I resolved to ask Reg about it.

I found the
address easily enough even though it was out of the way. The road was a rutted
lane, and the house stood by itself, almost concealed in the trees and
surrounded by an overgrown garden. It was a ramshackle construction, built in
several stages over a long period. It looked at least half-derelict. The roof
slates were askew, but the windows were intact. A thin stream of smoke rose
from the chimney.

Yang
indicated for me to remain in the car. He crossed the road and knocked on the
door. We waited for a good three minutes. I saw a face at an upstairs window.
It appeared so briefly that I couldn't tell whether it was a man or a woman.
Nobody answered the door. At length, Yang came back across the muddy road and,
taking out a silver fountain pen and business card, used the bonnet of the car
for a writing table. He was close enough for me to see that he did not write
but just drew a simple, looping design. Then he posted it in the letterbox.

As he
stepped back into the car, I noted that, except for the soles of his shoes,
there was not one speck of mud on him. He walked with the grace of a cat,
treading lightly. Heel and toe touched at the same moment, as though Yang had
been trained to walk silently and did it without thinking.

“We will
return here later.” Yang passed me another slip with an address on it. “Here is
the next address.”

“Certainly,
but this lane’s a dead end. You’ll have to drive in reverse the way we came.”

Instead,
Yang turned the wheel sharply, going forward and then back, changing the heavy
gears with little effort. In a few seconds, he'd turned the big Daimler around
in less space than I would have thought possible. Yang was not a man whom you
could tell what to do.

“Which
direction next?” he asked as he started back down the lane.

The second
address was a very different affair. This was a comfortable suburban villa near
Crown Point, set on a street with a dozen other buildings like it. There was
nothing to distinguish the house except for a discreet wooden notice board next
to the garden gate.

“’Upper
Norwood Theosophist Circle, ’” I read.

“That is
correct. Please remain here.”

I watched
again as Yang went and knocked on the door. This time, a maid answered his
knock. A minute later, a grey-haired man came to the door, and he and Yang
conversed for a few minutes. I strained to read any of the messages posted on
the board and wondered what a Theosophist Circle was.

“We will
return here in a few days,” Yang announced as he opened the car door. “I have
been invited to attend a séance.”

“What,
calling up spirits and table rapping and all that?”

“I believe
so.”

“I
understand you’re here on a religious mission,” I offered. Reg would be
pleased, I thought. It was not a direct question but close enough to the point.

“Indeed,”
said Yang. “My purpose is not unconnected with the Theosophist Circle.”

“I’d love
to see one of those séances for myself,” I said without really thinking.
“You see them on the stage and in the pictures, but a real séance must
be something else.”

Yang
hesitated for the smallest fraction of a second. And yet, in hindsight, I
believe that in that moment he conceived an entirely new plan of action, one
that included me as an accomplice. He had weighed me up, judging my strengths
and weaknesses, what sort of tool I would make, and how I could be used. And he
put his plan into effect.

“You will
attend, also. It will be more convenient for you not to be associated with me
at this point, you understand.”

I did not
understand at all, but I pretended that I did. “Certainly. I suppose you have
attended many of these occasions in Shanghai?”

“Never,” he
said. “I will now inspect this area on foot. Direct me to a parking space for
the Daimler.”

I guided
him to the dairy yard, which had plenty of room outside. With no deliveries due
until the next morning, they would not mind us parking there. I had Yang wait a
minute while I collared a small boy to act as a guardian. It would not do for
such a fine vehicle to be molested.

Yang set
off in a circuit with the Theosophist house roughly in the middle. It was a
reconnaissance, but of what sort I found it hard to say. He seemed to give
equal weight to everything; the buildings, the trees, the clouds all seemed to
attract his attention in turn. I tried to see the place as he was seeing it,
but there was nothing worthy of attention as far as I could tell. Except for
the two of us, of course—the small Chinese gentleman in white with his
oversized English guide in black.

We
attracted curious looks from passers-by. If Yang had been dressed more quietly,
he would not have attracted attention, but his fancy suit, multiplied by his
being Chinese, set minds to working and tongues wagging. Fortunately, we did
not encounter any groups of schoolboys, who would not have let such a peculiar
pair pass without loud comment and perhaps some experimenting on the effect of
throwing mud at that immaculate suit.

We stopped
by the Great Pond on Beulah Hill while Yang took a cigarette from a slim silver
case and fitted it to an amber holder. Instead of matches, he had a silver
lighter with the same Oriental pattern as the case, and lit up with a single
flick.

“A pond at
the top of a hill is unusual,” said Yang.

“I believe
the cattlemen used to water their herds here when they brought them to market.”
This information came from my father, learned from his father who remembered
when cattle were driven into Norwood from the fields of Surrey.

“How does
the pond remain full? No streams feed it here on the hill.”

“Perhaps
there’s a spring. There’s lots of underground water… the old Beulah Spa is just
up the road there.”

Yang shook
his head fractionally but said nothing. He took out an old copper coin with a
square hole punched through it, held in his palm a second, and then tossed the
coin, spinning, into the water. Yang watched the ripples as if reading words on
the water, and only when they had faded to nothing did he set off again.

We stopped
again outside the gates of the vast, brick-built blocks of the Home and
Hospital for Incurables. Yang looked the structure up and down as though he was
thinking of buying it. I told him how it was a hospital for people with a
chronic sickness such as consumption and palsy or for unfortunates who had been
born deformed and the like. And because it said 1894 on the wall, I could tell
him when it was built.

“Why is it
here?”

“Well.” I
scratched my chin. “I suppose it’s because it’s such a healthy locality. Up
here on the hill, out of the smoke of the city and all that. No pea soupers
here.”

“Indeed.”
Yang stood politely aside as two nurses pushed patients in wheelchairs past us.
One of the patients stared at him rather rudely from his chair but looked away
as soon as Yang returned his gaze. “Many people have died here,” Yang observed.
I shrugged. We moved on.

We stopped
again at the bottom of Crown Dale, where Yang cocked his head and seemed to
listen. Big crows were hopping around in the park opposite, and I wondered if
he was eavesdropping on them, but he moved on without comment.

Nothing
seemed to quite please him. It was as though England was lacking some important
quality that he'd expected to find.

Close to
the summit of Central Hill, Yang took out a paper packet and extracted a pinch
of white powder, which he tossed into the air. A delivery boy pushing his
bicycle up the hill stopped to look while Yang repeated the gesture before
replacing the packet in an inner pocket.

Yang was
obviously amused by my perplexity, which seemed to cheer him no end. “In English,
you call it geomancy.”

I didn’t
call anything “geomancy” and doubted that was even an English word.

“We study
the movement of wind and water and the more subtle currents that affect human
life.”

“Oh, I
see,” I said.

Yang
smoothed his goatee with one hand. “It is a superstition. We Chinese are a very
superstitious people, after all.”

“I would
never suggest such a thing. As for subtle currents—well, I saw how you
stared down that hotel clerk.”

“Ah, you
think I have hypnotic skills?” He sounded amused. “All petty officials like to
show their power. I did not contest with the clerk. I gave him the freedom to
show he could use his power by denying me the room. Then, I allowed him to
consider the consequences of his actions. Like all petty officials, he preferred
to concede rather than be overruled by his superior later.”

I recalled
what Reg had said about the importance of not losing face. Perhaps it was not
an exclusively Chinese concern.

“We say ‘To
control a horse, you put it in a large field,’” said Yang.

“Is that a
saying of Confucius?”

Yang
laughed, a double bark. “Ha! Ha! It is a saying of the sage Lao-Tzu.”

I was
pleased that he was finally talking but stumped on how to carry on the
conversation. I ploughed on with the first thing that occurred to me. “I don’t
know much about Chinese philosophy. But you know what does interest me? The
Fists of Harmony, the Boxers. They can break a brick with one punch, using
mental energy. My friend saw one of them at a Chinese Circus. Bang, bang, bang,
bricks broken right in half, one after the other. I’d like to know how they do
that.”

Yang walked
on several paces in silence. “The Boxers,” he said at last. “The Boxers thought
their magic would protect them against the Westerners’ bullets. It failed. They
thoughts spirits would aid them. They did not. China is still paying
reparations for the Boxer Rebellion after thirty years. Four hundred million
pieces of silver.”

“I didn’t
mean—”

Yang’s
raised hand silenced me, the curved fingernail before my face. “It is more profitable
to study guns than magic Fists of Righteous Harmony.”

“I’m a
boxer myself,” I said, trying to explain. “I mean, a pugilist, you know.” I
mimed a boxing stance. “That’s the only reason I’m interested.”

“Indeed,”
he said.

It seemed I
had touched a raw nerve. To get away from the subject and to fill the silence,
again I seized on the first thing that came into my mind. “Sometimes bullets
don’t work, as a matter of fact.” I told him the story about the shooting
outside the pub and how Collins had emptied his pistol without any effect. It
was the most exciting thing that had happened recently, and people were still
talking about it. “Have you ever heard anything like it?”

“Hah. An
English ghost story” was all Yang would say.

We walked
on until the towers of the Crystal Palace came in sight, followed by the
majestic building itself. That did impress him and rightly so; there was
nothing like it in the world. But he seemed to appreciate the siting more than
the majestic structure itself.

We talked
little during the rest of the perambulation. We stopped at the bottom of Gypsy
Hill, and he asked about the grassy space. From somewhere in my memory, I
dredged up that it had been a plague pit, which seemed to satisfy him.