Crane scrawled a neutrally worded summons and put Stephen’s address on it, a room in a small boarding house north of Aldgate. He had never set foot there himself, probably never would, for fear of discovery, but he couldn’t imagine a note would bring Stephen’s life crashing down around his ears, and if it might, then that just made the Rackham situation all the more urgent. He had no other way to get in touch with his elusive lover, and so he put the whole business firmly to the back of his mind, locked up, and headed out to find a hansom and some distraction.
Merrick would be in Limehouse, most likely, and if he wasn’t then Chinese friends would be, but Crane would have to trawl the pubs and gambling dens to track anyone down and, alone and too well dressed, that was not a risk he was prepared to take. Most of his English friends were school or social acquaintances and would doubtless be entertaining themselves at the sort of elegant evening event he abhorred, so, for the lack of anything better to do, he headed off for the Far Eastern Mercantile club, known as the Traders.
Chapter Two
The Traders was frequented by travellers, businessmen, a smattering of explorers and scholars: anyone who had travelled further East than India and wanted to talk about it. It was not busy, but there was a small group of old China hands that he knew, so Crane joined them, pulling up a deep leather armchair to savour a very decent whisky and listen to “Town” Cryer’s latest news.
Town, whose real first name Crane had long forgotten, finished an account of a piece of triple dealing involving Macau import-export law to a general murmur of approbation, and turned to Crane, who contributed an amusing anecdote about his purchase of a minority holding in Sheng’s.
“Oh, jolly good, Vaudrey!” said Shaycott, a Java man. “Crane, I mean. You always tell a good story. You should come more often, we haven’t seen you here in an age.”
“I’ve been cursed busy with family matters.” Crane acknowledged the sympathetic nods. “What news, Town? Bring me up to date.”
“Well,” said Town thoughtfully. “I suppose you heard about Merton?”
Crane’s lip lifted in a twitch of distaste. “What about him? Got on a boat, I hope?”
“His last voyage.” Shaycott intoned the words. “Dead, just last week.”
A youngish, tanned fellow, slightly the worse for drink, murmured, “Oh, dear, poor chap. I, er, should we…?” He started to raise his glass.
“I’m not drinking to Merton,” said Humphris flatly. He was another Shanghai trader, one of the few Crane liked rather than tolerated through habit.
“I’ll drink to his passing,” Crane added. “Accident, or did an outraged parent finally catch up with him?”
“Accident, cleaning his gun.” Town gave a meaningful cough.
“Not just a swine but a coward.” Humphris spoke contemptuously, and then looked at Crane with sudden horror, very obviously recalling that his father and brother had both killed themselves. “Good God, Vaudrey, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Not at all.” Crane waved it away. “And in any case, I agree with you.”
“Still, I beg your pardon.” Humphris cast about for a change of subject. “Oh, have you heard about Willetts? You know, the copra dealer. Did you see in the papers?”
“No, what?”
“Murdered.”
“Good God.” Crane sat up. “Are you serious? Is there an arrest?”
“No, none. He was found in Poplar, by the river. Stabbed, apparently. A footpad.”
“The devil. Poor fellow.”
“Willetts and Merton, within a fortnight.” Shaycott kept up the portentous tone.
“Yes, the subscription book here is going to start looking thin at this rate,” Crane agreed heartlessly, and Town added, “The Curse of the Traders.”
“Don’t joke about that, you fellows. I’ve heard some things in my time—” Shaycott ignored the susurrus of irritation this kind of remark always produced, and launched into a tale. It was one of the deceased Willetts’ stories, a lengthy yarn involving rats the size of dogs, but Crane had heard it several times before and found Shaycott dull even telling the best of tales. He drifted off into a reverie, wondering whether Stephen might be curled up in his bed when he returned home, and what he would do if he was. His attention was only recalled when Humphris waved a copy of The Times in his face.
“Look sharp, Vaudrey! I was asking if you’ve seen this? The Engagements column?”
“Oddly enough, I haven’t read it today. Are we to wish you happy, Monk?”
“Monk” Humphris, who was as confirmed a bachelor as Crane, although in his case because of a natural preference for celibacy, made a rude gesture. “Not me, you fool. Leonora Hart is getting married.”
“The devil she is!”
“Oh, you hadn’t heard?” said Town. “I had wind of it some time back. The chap’s smitten, by all accounts.”
Crane grabbed the newspaper and scrutinised it. “Eadweard Blaydon? How do you even say that?”
“It’s pronounced Edward. Politician. Member of Parliament. He’s a reformer. Rooting out corruption. End the sale of honours and the benefits of clergy and the pernicious practices of bribery. An honest mandarin.”