Tom Bradby - The Master Of Rain

Field felt his face reddening.

“I’m sorry, truly. None of my business. It’s just… so easy to get out of touch. That is the one trouble of being away. It’s hard to bridge the miles that separate us.” He cleared his throat. “The letter from your mother was a little odd, in fact.”

Field frowned.

“Said she was worried you would take advantage of our position and… you know, I’m only mentioning it because it’s a load of bloody nonsense. You’re family, so of course, we’ll help you in any way we can.”

“I can assure you…”

“Don’t be silly, man.” Field could see there was steel in his uncle’s eyes. “You’re thousands of miles from home in a strange city. Of course, it’s an absolute pleasure for us to have a link… I only mention it because it worried me. I’ve never held, as I said, with this marrying-beneath-yourself business-your father was a fine man and I’m just concerned it may have got to her in a way I’d not envisaged.”

“There’s no need to worry. She’s fine.”

Geoffrey patted his shoulder, smiling again. “Said they’d wanted you to be a missionary.”

Field smiled back. “I don’t think there was much danger of that.”

“Thank God we’ve got you out here.”

A man in a white linen suit appeared through the swinging doors and made his way toward them. He moved with an easy, athletic gait. He ran a hand through his blond hair.

“Geoffrey.”

Field saw that his uncle’s smile of welcome was wary. “Charles. This is Richard Field, my sister’s boy. Richard, Charles Lewis, taipan of Fraser’s, Shanghai’s biggest trading company.”

Lewis’s handshake was firm, a smile breaking the handsome solemnity of his face. He was about Field’s height, but there the similarities ended. Lewis, from his slicked-back hair to his finely polished leather shoes, was every inch the son of privilege, confidently shouldered.

“Richard’s just come out, joined the police force.”

“The police,” Lewis said with gentle, mocking admiration. “Excellent. Not in the Traffic Branch, I hope.”

Field hesitated. Granger was always warning them not to tell anyone in the city what they did, but as members of the Municipal Council, both of these men were responsible for governing and overseeing the municipal police force. “No,” he said.

“One of Macleod’s men?”

“I work with Patrick Granger.”

“Ah.” Charles Lewis raised his eyebrows. “You look like you’ve been pounding the streets all day.”

Field smiled thinly. “There was a murder,” he said. He realized immediately he’d been trying to show off, and regretted it.

“The Russian woman,” Lewis said. “I was just reading about her in the Evening Post.”

“Lena Orlov.”

Perhaps it was Field’s imagination, but he got the impression Lewis had known Lena Orlov, or at least recognized the name.

“Handcuffed to the bed. Kinky.” Lewis took his hands from his pockets. “What are we doing?”

Geoffrey Donaldson looked at his watch and turned to Field. “We had better get along to meet Penelope.” He put his glass down on the bar, facing Lewis again. “You’re very welcome to come along,” he said without enthusiasm.

Lewis smiled. “Never say no to dinner with Penelope.”

Charles Lewis led the way out. Field held back to wait for Geoffrey. In the lobby Lewis took his trilby from the porter and walked straight through the doors. Geoffrey grabbed Field’s arm. “He’s all right,” he said. “Charlie’s all right.”

“Yes,” Field said. “Of course.”

Outside, Lewis’s chauffeur had already brought up his new black Buick and they climbed into the back before setting off down the Bund, past the brightly lit monoliths. The dome of the Hong Kong Shanghai Bank was ghostly against the night sky. They turned left into Nanking Road and Field looked out of the window in silence at the streets and shops still bustling with life.

The country club on Bubbling Well Road was similarly grand, a wide circular stone entrance giving way to an airy stone-floored lobby with plants in large silver pots. There was a reception area on the left, but Lewis led them straight through to a veranda that overlooked a small fountain and several acres of flat, well-tended lawn. A group dressed in white was playing bowls in the corner, close to the wall; another group, nearer, croquet.

It was growing dark. An Indian waiter in a starched white and gold uniform was hanging lanterns all along the terrace and placing joss sticks and spraying paraffin beneath each table to ward off mosquitoes.

Penelope Donaldson was waiting for them at the far end, one long leg crossed over the other, both resting on a wicker and glass coffee table. As she turned toward them, Field saw immediately that she was pretty, with bobbed, jet-black hair. Her skirt was short, her mouth small. She wore, Field thought, a lot of makeup.

“Charlie!” she said, standing and putting her arms around his neck, kissing him on the mouth. “What a treat.”

“Penelope,” Geoffrey said a little stiffly, “this is Richard Field, my-I suppose our-nephew.”

She stepped forward and offered a slender hand, her smile warmer and more engaging than Field was for some reason expecting. “We’ll get along fine,” she said, “just as long as you don’t call me ‘Auntie.’ ”

Field smiled back at her.

“The boy’s in the police force,” Lewis said.

“Good Lord,” she responded with the same mock admiration.

“Working on that Russian woman found handcuffed to the bed.”

“How exciting,” she said, ignoring Geoffrey’s frown. “It’s sexual?”

They were all looking at Field, who was wondering what the Evening Post had written about the story-sensational nonsense, probably-or from where they had received such detailed information. “In a sense, yes.”

“What do you mean?” Penelope asked.

Field wasn’t sure it was a good idea to get into this. “The consensus seems to be that it is a crime of a broadly sexual nature.”

“Perhaps he couldn’t find keys to the handcuffs,” Lewis said. Penelope laughed. Geoffrey looked embarrassed.

Lewis turned his hat in his hand as he contemplated Field. Field thought him the most supremely arrogant man he’d ever met. He was handsome, and he knew it, and was clearly totally comfortable at the apex of Shanghai society. Slowly, he turned away, toward Penelope. “You weren’t at the Claymores last night.”

Geoffrey interrupted by signaling for a waiter, another Indian, this time all in white, without any brocade. The three men opted for gin, Penelope for “a slow comfortable screw.”

She laughed as she said it, embarrassing her husband. Field could see from the menu in front of him that the cocktail was called simply “The Screw.”

“How are you finding Shanghai?” she asked him when the waiter had gone.

Field sat up straight. “Hot.”

“Got yourself a girl?”

“Penelope…”

“What?”

“Give the chap a break. He’s only been here five minutes.”

“I’m sure he has. Probably found a Russian already. They’re a bargain. Grateful, too, I gather, unlike us lot.”

The waiter arrived with a large silver tray, the drinks, and two bowls of peanuts. He set them down carefully, bowed once stiffly, and retreated.

“Come on, then, Richard… is that what we should call you?”

“Most people just know me as ‘Field.’ ”

“We can’t call you that! It’s far too impersonal.”

“Delusions of grandeur,” Lewis said.

“Richard,” Geoffrey instructed his wife.

“All right-Richard. You must have a girl. Handsome chap like you.”

Field blushed. She was smiling at him. She leaned forward, the strap of her black dress falling off her shoulder to reveal a small, firm breast and nipple, only just visible in the half-light. She followed the direction of his gaze but made no move to pick the strap up.