Broken Meats: A Harry Stubbs Adventure (7 page)

I had an
awful premonition of my own future. How far astray would I go from the broad,
high road of normal life?

“But the
blackest magic of all was that of Jack the Ripper.” Powell proudly placed in
front of me a piece clipped from the
Pall
Mall Gazette
: “The Whitechapel Demon's Nationality: and Why He Committed
the Murder” by “One Who Thinks He Knows.”

Neither
Yang nor I spoke, and Powell took this as licence to proceed, warming to his
theme and speaking faster.

“D’Onston
wrote this article and several others like it. He was the first to note that
the murders were committed precise distances apart in a particular alignment.
The murders were not committed by a homicidal maniac but by a perfectly sane
and rational man: a magician following a recipe laid down by Eliphas Levi for
raising the powers of Hell which required certain parts from a number of
whores.”

“Mass murder
is not the act of a sane and rational man,” I protested.

“It is when
that man believes that he is on a higher plane, above good and evil,” Powell
countered. “Like artists and scientists, magicians don't care about the petty
concerns that bother the rest of us. Humans are insects to them.”

“You
believe that D’Onston knew about Jack the Ripper?” said Yang.

Powell
leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, rapid murmur. “Yes, yes—look
at the evidence! The timing, just after he had access to the Theosophist’s
library. D’Onston was at a hospital in Whitechapel when each of the murders was
committed. He showed his friends how it was done without getting bloodied! He
tried to persuade others that a Dr Davies—who didn’t even
exist!—was responsible. He wrote to the papers and persuaded another man
to try and claim a reward from the police, giving him misleading clues… he was
everywhere inside the investigation! They arrested him, but they couldn’t make
it stick—”

“Indeed,
but what happened afterwards?” Yang asked, interrupting Powell’s flow.

Powell
shrugged. “There was an odd interlude when he set up a business with Mabel
Collins in Baker Street selling a rejuvenating cream. Made from a secret
formula! But… he was disillusioned with the occult after that. He started
following Victoria Woodhull, the evangelist, and spent his last years on an
original translation of the New Testament from original Greek and Latin
Christian manuscripts. He held on to the occult way of thinking though. His
notes on Holy Communion… consuming flesh and blood and gaining eternal life… I
suppose we all dote on mortality close to the end.”

“He’s dead
then,” I said.

“Oh, yes. I
can tell you for sure that Robert D'Onston Stephenson is dead. I have a copy
somewhere here of the death certificate. ‘Congestive heart failure’ in 1912. A
pity. I would like to ask him a few questions!”

Yang leaned
forward in his chair. “You are certain he is dead?”

“Quite
certain. I visited the grave.”

“Indeed.”
Yang seemed to relax. “Roslyn D’Onston is dead.”

The pause
lengthened, and Powell looked from Yang to me.

“In that
case,” said Yang, “just one question remains. Could you kindly give us the
address of the grave? It would be most interesting to visit it.”

Powell
looked puzzled then utterly horrified.

“We merely
wish…” I started, thinking Yang had somehow offended him with the question.

Powell had
turned completely ashen. His eyes rolled, and he made a dreadful sound like
nothing I had ever heard. It was a long exhalation ending with a broken gurgle.
It was, I now know, what is called a death rattle as the last air leaves a
man’s lungs. When he fell backwards into his chair, Powell the tramp-scholar
was quite dead. I knew it before Yang put two fingers to the man’s throat to
feel for a pulse.

The thought
must have occurred to Yang and me at the same time. Powell had been looking at
something behind us when he died. We stood as one and hurried back through the
library. There was no fleeing figure for us to pursue down Westow Street. If
there had been anyone whose glance had been death to Powell, they could have
stepped quietly into one of the many alcoves in the library and pretended to
browse the shelves. Yang and I looked down the aisles as we passed, but there
were no familiar faces.

By unspoken
agreement, we left the library and continued without a word until we were back
in the car. Yang took out his cigarette case, placed a cigarette between his
lips, and as an afterthought, offered me one. I declined.

“I may now
explain some of my purpose here. In Shanghai, there used to be an occultist,
once an associate of Roslyn D’Onston, who fled from Europe. He made himself an
enemy of the Si Fan. It was necessary for him to be killed.”

Yang drew
smoke and released it contemplatively.

“The
occultist was suffocated to prevent his soul from escaping his body. His
remains were placed inside a brass urn, which was sealed and kept under guard.
One year later, nothing remained in the brass urn but maggots. The maggots were
separated into seven portions and taken away to be fed to the fish of Seven
Rivers.”

I imagined
the fish slipping away, disappearing like smoke into the endless water of the
rivers.

“In this
way, we were assured that no trace was left of the body. No tomb, burial
site—not even ashes. We did this because it is believed that a sorcerer
may return if such precautions are not taken.”

“A very
thorough job,” I said. I could have asked what they did with the bones. Bone
meal fed to the fish, I shouldn’t wonder

“The dead
man received a letter in cipher in Shanghai a few weeks ago. It was signed with
the name of Roslyn D’Onston. The return address was Maycot in Norwood. We had
believed D’Onston to be dead; it is necessary to discover whether this is the
case.”

“Could I
enquire about the contents of the letter?”

Yang gave
me a sidelong look. I wondered if I was being impertinent, and perhaps it was
not my place to ask, but he answered just the same.

“He asked
questions about a certain occult process, seeking confirmation for the correct
element for a successful outcome—a question of blood.
 
In addition… to curry favour with the
sorcerer, D’Onston confessed to a crime against the Si Fan which was previously
only suspected.”

“The letter
cannot really have been from D’Onston. It must have been one of the others.
Powell was convinced D’Onston was dead, and he had taken pains to check the
fact.”

As I said
it, though, I was uncomfortably aware that Powell’s own death looked much like
the result of the evil eye that he attributed to D’Onston.

Yang
contemplated the cloud of smoke slowly turning on itself and dispersing.
“Indeed.”

Chapter Six: A Banquet and a Battle

The next morning, Yang produced a slip with an address in the East End.

“A Chinese
establishment,” I said.

“There are
formalities to be observed,” said Yang. I was sufficiently attuned now to
recognise his tone as one of resignation. He conveyed his meaning not so much
by what he said as by what he did not say, if that makes any sense. “A visit is
required to pay my respects to a family of importance.”

He smoothed
his goatee thoughtfully. “It would be beneficial if you were to accompany me.
It will increase your experience of the life of the Chinese people. You may
also have the opportunity to eat Chinese food.”

“I don’t
know if I’m up to a social engagement.” I was conscious of my appearance. I did
not feel ready to meet any family of importance, English or Chinese. They would
stare at my shabby suit and missing ear.

Yang barked
a laugh. “All foreigners are ugly giants with big noses and strange clothes to
the Chinese. Do not be concerned. You will not be in any way different to other
English to them.”

Yang
flicked an invisible speck off his lapel, straightened his cuffs, and rang the
doorbell.

A
middle-aged Chinese woman in a plain blue smock ushered us in. She showed us
through to a dim chamber decorated in the Oriental style with wooden screens
worked with cranes and lotuses, bamboo matting, and low tables of dark wood.

Three men,
also Chinese, were waiting for us, sitting cross-legged on the floor. They were
dressed in what I imagined to be traditional fashion—wearing silk smocks,
their hair in long pigtails—and looked as grave as a row of carved
Buddhas.

Yang
removed his hat and sat down in the same style; I did likewise with some small
difficulty. A servant placed steaming cups of tea in front of each of us.

“The tea is
merely symbolic,” Yang murmured. “Do not drink it.”

The three
men started firing questions at Yang. Their tone seemed hostile at first, but
perhaps the harsh, staccato nature of the language made it sound more so. Yang
replied at some length in exactly the same tone. None of them touched their
teacups, which presently stopped steaming.

This went
on for some time, and I was studying the pattern on the nearest screen,
admiring the workmanship—it was a good cedarwood piece and crafted to the
last degree of detail—when one of the men suddenly addressed me in
English. “It is true you are assisting Yang here?”

“As far as
possible, yes.”

“You saw a
man die yesterday?”

“I'm afraid
I did.”

“Will you
describe the occasion?” he asked.

I
endeavoured to tell them how the unfortunate Powell had died, providing as much
circumstantial detail as possible—even though they must only have been
seeking to corroborate what Yang had already told them.

“Thank
you,” said the second man when I had finished. “A friend of Yang is a friend of
ours. We are grateful for your assistance.”

The three
of them looked so much alike that I assumed they were brothers. The
conversation switched back to Chinese. I resumed my study of the screen until
suddenly the others were standing up.

“We have
completed our explanations, and they have been accepted,” said Yang. “There
will follow some refreshment.”

I followed
them into a larger, better-lit room with silk cushions. There was a whole
Chinese family of a dozen or more gathered there, from little children to a
wizened old grandmother, and tables spread with covered dishes of all shapes
and sizes. They waited for the men to sit down before taking their places. I
was the subject of much scrutiny. They may not have seen many people of my size
and bulk; I towered over the largest of the men. I did not meet their eyes but
looked around, taking in colourful details of decoration and clothing. The
women wore the tiniest slippers—I had never seen such small feet.

It was
early for lunch, but everyone set to with a good appetite. This presented a
challenge to me. The only cutlery was a pair of chopsticks, slender wooden rods
that they deftly held together in one hand, picking morsels of food as easily
as if they were using a fork or a pair of tongs. But after some
experimentation, I could still not see the trick of it. So I could only watch
as the others chattered around me, picking up this item and that without any
effort. They must have noticed my difficulty but were too polite to offer
assistance.

Yang ate
sparingly, and though the three brothers were relaxed and at their ease, joking
casually among themselves, he sat with stiff formality, nibbling at his food
without enthusiasm. I was resigned to not eating when a small girl, perhaps six
years old, noticed my difficulty. With the utmost seriousness, she left off
tending to her infant brother and came over to show me the correct use of
chopsticks.

“Like this,
see?” she kept saying.

Unfortunately,
I could still not get the knack of it after repeated demonstrations. Everything
I tried to pick up fell back into the dish or onto the table. Undeterred, she
held my fingers in place with both her hands and helped me steer a piece of
meat into my mouth.

The little
girl was as pleased as if she had been feeding buns to an elephant at the zoo.
One of the grandmothers cackled with laughter at the sight while the child's
mother and aunts clapped. Two small boys joined in excitedly, not used to such
entertainment at mealtime. We repeated the maneuver, and to the entertainment
of all, I sampled every dish on the table this way.

“Try this
one!”

During this
process I introduced myself. She told me that her name was Chun Hua. “That’s my
Chinese name,” she added offhandedly. “In English I’m Spring Flower. I can
write it in English and Chinese.”

Various
increasingly awkward foodstuffs were pushed forward as challenges to our
combined skill. The rice was glutinous and easier than you would expect;
slivers of some pale vegetable needed to be gripped firmly; crunchy nuggets had
to be handled more gently, or they popped up into the air, occasioning laughter
in the audience. Each success was met with applause for the little girl and her
performing beast.

I cannot
describe the flavours, which were pungent and savoury. I recognised pork and
chicken in the meats and some offal as well. Most of it was entirely strange to
me. Perhaps others would have been put off by the bowl of deep-fried chickens'
feet, but as a butcher’s boy, I was less delicate than most. Even the rice was
mixed with bits of seafood. The mushrooms I knew but not the other
vegetables—some crisp as cucumber, others melting like well-cooked
asparagus, and all seasoned in unexpected ways.

Yang’s
fixed expression signified disapproval. And yet, as the performance continued,
he seemed to soften. He even smiled as a crisply fried prawn, spicy with hot
pepper, reached my mouth on the third attempt, to a fresh round of applause.

I never
mastered the use of chopsticks without assistance, but my little helper didn't
tire of the experience of aiding a grown-up. She wanted to help me lift a
teacup to my lips and was disappointed that I was capable of drinking without
assistance. When I managed to assure her that I had eaten enough, she bowed politely
and returned to her mother’s side.

I parted
with the Chinese family on the most cordial of terms in spite of the lack of
common language, and there was much bowing and smiling, which I imitated.

“I hope my
behaviour was acceptable,” I said soon as we were out of earshot.

“They are
exceptionally well-bred. You could never offend them,” he said coldly.

Yang would
have left it at that, but I wanted to find out more. “It was a most interesting
experience, as you promised. I enjoyed having a traditional Chinese meal. They
seem a nice family.”

“They are a
traditional family of old China,” he said with such unmistakable contempt that
I looked up. “In Shanghai, we do not wear our hair in a queue and wear old
clothes. We do not sit on the floor—and English guests are offered a
knife and fork.”

“Some
people like their colourful traditions.”

“Colourful
traditions like killing female children? In China, we find many daughters die
of a scorpion sting while they are in the cradle. Chun Hua is lucky there are
few scorpions in England! But they are not binding her feet; maybe even the old
dragon learns at last.”

I held my
tongue.

“Now, I
have a further formality to complete with others who may be less sympathetic.
Please direct us to this address. This visit I will conduct on my own.”

I was not
so familiar with this part of London, and we stopped twice to ask directions
but found our way easily enough. Yang left me sitting in the car while he
disappeared into an ordinary-looking, big house. I was content enough to digest
my lunch and reflect on the exotic dining experience.

After half
an hour, I began to wonder how long Yang would be. He had given no indication,
but some inner barometer warned me that something was awry. When he said that
these people were less sympathetic, I suspected he might have been understating
the case. I decided to stretch my legs and walk past the house a couple of
times. It was a four-storey villa with steps leading up to the front door. On
my second pass, I saw a grey object by the basement windows beside the stairs.
It was Yang’s hat.

Another man
might have worked his way round the back and clambered over the garden wall. I
wasn't a great one for clambering or shinnying up drainpipes or any other
cat-burglar tricks. Instead, I took the frontal approach.

A Chinese
man in an English shirt and waistcoat opened the door. He did not look
friendly.

“I beg your
pardon,” I said, “but I'm looking for Mr Yang.”

“Never
heard of him,” he said in an East End accent. He jerked his head. “Now, get
lost.”

That was
uncalled for. I did not care for his language and was about to tell him so when
there was an unmistakable cry of pain from within the house. It sounded like
Yang.

The rude
man glanced back over his shoulder at the noise. He knew the game was up, and
he started to draw a weapon from behind him. That was not a wise move. By the
time he had pulled out what looked like a jointed wooden cosh, I had one hand
around his forearm and the other gripping a fistful of his shirtfront. Without
pausing to formulate a plan, I hauled him bodily out of the door and threw him
towards the pavement. While he was still stumbling down the stairs, I stepped
smartly through the door and had it bolted behind me before he reached the
ground.

The cry
appeared to have come from above. I moved swiftly through the hall and up the
stairs two at a time, stepping as lightly as I could. From the landing I saw Mr
Yang through an open doorway. He was in a chair, facing me. His hands were
bound behind him; his face was bruised. His shirt had been torn open at the
neck.

A man with
his back to me turned partly and
 
rapped out a question in Chinese. He was holding a sharpened piece of
bamboo the size of a pencil in one hand. As he turned, I saw he was also
Chinese and had a livid scar down one cheek.

I
registered another person in the room, sitting in the far corner. A card table
had been pushed against the wall to make more space, and a number of objects
were arranged on it—more bamboo skewers, a crumpled cloth, Yang’s
cigarette case, and a compact automatic pistol.

This was no
time for questions. I stepped in and gave the scarred man a straight right
between the eyes. The blow knocked him on to the table, which tipped over.

The man in
the corner was getting to his feet—not that quickly, because he was a
very fat man, but not as slowly as all that. He was not just fat; he was big
all round, practically a giant by Chinese standards, and there were powerful
muscles underneath the rolls of flab. He had a scarf around his waist instead
of a belt, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up, showing thick forearms covered
in
 
oriental tattoos.

His eyes
were almost closed. For a moment, I thought that it was because his face was so
fat, then I realised that he could not see. I relaxed for an instant, and the
blind man, hearing my sigh, half-smiled. Then he lowered his head and charged
right at me. I threw a quick left, which simply glanced off his shoulder, and
then we were grappling.

Clinches
are a part of the art of boxing, and you have to know how to use them to your
advantage. But wrestling is another matter.

The fat man
had a grip like a steel clamp, and I felt my ribcage grinding. That grip would
have crushed the life out of most of his opponents but not one of my physique.
My arms were free, and I was able to jab at his head and neck with sharp, quick
punches. He let go with a grunt and stepped back.

Yang was
still sitting in the chair, dazed. The scarred man was getting to his feet,
grabbing a handful of pointed bamboos, until I clubbed him heavily over the back
of the neck with the side of my fist.