Not a bad effort, he reflected, and a nicely judged theft, enough to be worthwhile for the factor, and quite tolerable for Crane as part of a very competently handled bit of business. He nodded, pleased. The man would work out well.
He reached for the next bill, and there was a loud rapping at the door.
That was tiresome, since he was the only person in the building at eight in the evening, so he ignored it. There was another, more persistent knocking. Then a call, through the iron-barred but open casement.
“Vaudrey! Vaudrey! Crane, I mean.” The visitor peered through the window. “There you are. Nong hao.”
“Nong hao, Rackham,” said Crane, and went to let him in.
Theo Rackham had been something of a friend in China, as another Englishman who preferred local society to expatriates. Rackham was himself a practitioner of magic, though not a powerful one, and it was he who had introduced Crane to Stephen Day a few months ago.
“This is an unexpected pleasure. How are you?”
Rackham didn’t answer immediately. He was wandering about the room, peering at the maps tacked on the plastered walls. “This is your office? I must say, I’d have thought you’d have somewhere rather better than this.” He sounded almost affronted.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s in Limehouse.”
“I like Limehouse,” Crane said. “So do you.”
“I don’t like it. Nobody could. Filthy place.”
Crane raised an eyebrow but didn’t bother to ask.
“Grubby den of thieves and bullies and madmen,” Rackham went on. “If I were rich I wouldn’t set foot in this cursed part of town.”
Then where would you get your opium? Crane enquired mentally. He had noted Rackham’s slightly dilated pupils, but since that was a sign of a practitioner using his powers, as well as an opium fiend, and since, in truth, he didn’t care, he hadn’t passed judgement.
Rackham seemed to be nursing a grudge. “You’re rich. Why don’t you act like it? Why aren’t you at grand parties in the West End instead of slaving away in the Limehouse docks?”
“I do act like it, on occasion. This coat wasn’t cut on the Commercial Road. But my business is here, not the City, and certainly not in the West End.”
“I don’t see why you have a business at all. You don’t need any more money.” There was a definite note of accusation in Rackham’s voice.
Crane shrugged. “Frankly, my dear chap, I’m bored, and I would not be less bored in the West End. I need something to do, and trading is what I’m good at.”
“Why don’t you go back to China, then?” Rackham demanded. “If you’re so bored with England, why are you still here?”
“Legal business. My father left his affairs in the devil of a state. It’s taking forever to resolve, and now I’ve got distant cousins popping up out of the woodwork demanding their cut. Why do you care?”
“I don’t.” Rackham scuffed a worn leather toe against the skirting board. “I suppose there’s been no recurrence of your troubles?”
“You mean the matter in spring? No. That’s all resolved.”
“Day dealt with it.”
“He did.” Crane had been afflicted by a curse that had killed his father and brother, and Rackham had put him in touch with Stephen Day, a justiciar, whose job was to deal with magical malpractice. Crane and Stephen had come very close to being murdered themselves before Stephen had ended the matter with a spectacular display of ruthless power. Five people had died that day, and since Crane had no idea if that was general knowledge or something Stephen wanted kept quiet, he simply added, “He was highly efficient.”
Rackham snorted. “Efficient. Yes, you could say he’s that.”
“He saved my life on three occasions over the space of a week,” Crane said. “I’d go so far as to call him competent.”
“You like him, don’t you?”
“Day? He’s a pleasant enough chap. Why?”
Rackham concentrated on straightening some papers against the corner of Crane’s desk. “Well. You were with him at Sheng’s last week.”
“I was,” Crane agreed. “Did you know I’ve taken a thirty percent share there? You must come with me again sometime. Tonight, unless you’ve anything on?”
Rackham, who never turned down free meals, didn’t respond to that. “What did Day make of Sheng’s food?”
Crane repressed a grin at the memory of Stephen’s first encounter with Szechuan pepper. “I think he was rather startled. It didn’t stop him eating. I’ve never met anyone who eats so much.”
“Have you had many meals with him?”
“I’ve bought him a couple of dinners as thanks. Is there a reason you ask? Because really, my dear fellow, if you’re after any particular information, you know him better than I do.”
“I know he’s like you,” Rackham said.