Broken Meats: A Harry Stubbs Adventure (4 page)

Writing it
down now, I see how few words Yang actually spoke. Yet I felt that I was
starting to understand him a little.

It was
difficult to explain this to Arthur as he cross-questioned me in the Hollybush
Public House that evening. It was late, but Arthur’s working day had only just
begun, and we were interrupted by a steady stream of messengers and telephone
calls, relayed from the bar. There was a consignment to be disposed of, and it
had to be done quickly.

Arthur was
at least satisfied that I was doing my job and had established some rapport with
Yang. Reg was on hand to provide advice on Chinese matters, but Arthur was more
concerned with the English people whom Yang had contacted.

“Spiritualists,”
said Arthur. “That’s a rum business. Plenty of room for trickery and relieving
folk of their money. Or he may only be going there to put you off the scent. If
he invited you to join in, it can’t be secret.”

“What about
that house the other side of Dulwich though?”

“Oh, that’s
old Willie Whatley’s house,” said Arthur as though it was common knowledge.
“They’re an odd breed, the Whatleys—part Gypsy. His father was a
fortune-teller, years ago, and a horse doctor, quite well-known. There’s only
Whatley and his daughter left. He still sells a few charms to old women.”

“What does
Yang want with them?”

“We’ll find
out. We’ve got pretty close tabs on Mr Yang. I can tell you every piece of post
he’s received, the visitors he’s had at the hotel, what he’s been eating.”

“Really?” I
could not believe that Arthur would really have this level of surveillance.

“Plain
boiled rice and boiled chicken, I am reliably informed.” Arthur patted my arm.
“You’re just one cog in this observational apparatus, Stubbsy.”

“I wonder
if he’s brought the cat to eat,” said Reg thoughtfully. “They do that, you
know, in South China.”

“My
information is that he requested fish for the cat,” said Arthur. “And left
strict instructions about it not being disturbed by the chambermaids. He talks
to it in Chinese. Also, he lets it out at night. I don’t believe that cat is on
the menu. Probably has it to keep the English mice from nesting in his
expensive handkerchiefs.”

“It’s not
civilised, is it, taking an animal into an hotel?” Reg muttered.

“You often
see ladies in these hotels with their little Pekingese,” I said. “If a Chinese
dog, why not a Chinese cat?”

“That’s
different,” said Reg. “Also, one thing I should warn you about, Harry. I hear
you carried Yang’s luggage yesterday.”

“What of
it?”

“In the
Middle Kingdom, servants don’t carry luggage. It’s degrading. They always get a
street porter to carry things. Yang must think you’re very low.” He seemed to
find this amusing.

“You might
have mentioned that before,” said Arthur. “But I want to know what he’s doing
here. What is it he’s looking for?”

I tried to
explain to them how Yang’s survey had made me feel uncomfortable. It was like
when the dentist used that sharp probe, poking around to find tender spots.
Yang was looking for tender spots in our neighbourhood. I remembered how Reg
had described Chinese doctors sticking pins in people. I wondered if Yang had
something like that in mind.

“What’s
geomancy?”

“It’s just
something they do,” said Reg. “Yang is a Fang-Shi, or pretending to be
one—a sort of Taoist magician. Taoism is a hodgepodge of folklore and
superstition. These Fang-Shi go about selling mineral potions and horoscopes to
people who believe in that sort of thing.”

“Why did he
get hot under the collar when I mentioned the Boxers?”

“Did you?”
Reg gave a low chuckle. “You shouldn’t have brought that up! That whole
rebellion was stirred up by Taoist priests. They don’t like
foreign devils
being in China.”

“Can they
really break bricks…?”

“Of course
not,” said Reg. “It’s just a trick. Breaking a brick with your hand is a
physical impossibility. You, of all people, ought to know that.”

I tried to
explain how Yang was moving on a plane of his own. He was not seeing the
Norwood that I knew but another place, where there were spiritualist circles
and fortune-tellers. He was looking at the subtle currents of wind and water.

I had a
shrewd idea that there was more to the pond on Beulah Hill, and perhaps the
Home and Hospital for Incurables, than met the eye. Yang was on a religious
mission, or a superstitious one. This was not any ordinary business to do with
opium dens and gangsters; of that I was sure—even though Yang looked
somewhat like a gangster himself. His suit was not so well cut that I had
failed to spot the automatic pistol tucked into the side of his belt.

Chapter Four: The Séance

The days followed a pattern. Each day, Yang would have a timetable of
appointments that we would drive to, or I would be called on to guide him in a
walking tour. We visited the Crystal Palace three times, inside and out. I
mentioned the National Cat Show there, but he would not be drawn out on the
subject of cats. Our perambulations took in West Norwood Cemetery and the
lakes.

Yang often
spent afternoons in his room. One day, when the rain was unremitting and
forecast to stay that way, he sent me away as soon as I turned up in the
morning. He did not like English rain.

Our walks
were interrupted by queer little rituals. He sometimes stopped by a building
and asked me to explain it. Once, he sat down cross-legged on a flagstone,
having dusted it clean with his handkerchief, and took out a little bundle of
twigs no bigger than matchsticks. He divided them into two piles and started
counting them off by fours. Having completed the calculation, he repeated the
process of combining, dividing, and counting by fours several times.

A woman
with a shopping basket stopped to ask me what the Chinese gentleman was doing.

“I believe
it is known as geomancy,” I said. “It’s an ancient Chinese art of divination.”

“Oh,” she
said, not approvingly.

On other
occasions, Yang took out a small brass pendulum and gravely observed its motion
without comment, or ignited a cone of rice paper with his lighter and watched
it rise into the air like a balloon before it dissolved into fine ash. He did
not comment on the results of these operations, and his face betrayed nothing.

He was also
given to occasional bouts of philosophy. Once a butterfly alighted on Yang’s
sleeve, confused perhaps by the half inch of bright yellow shirt cuff. For a
moment I thought he might grab the insect, but he watched until it flew off.

“Once I
dreamed I was a butterfly,” he said meditatively. “When I woke I did not know
if I was a man who had dreamed I was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming I was
a man.”

This
sounded very much like a literary quotation. I was lost for a reply, until I
was rescued by the Immortal Bard. And my English teacher, who beat the words
into me.

“’We are
such stuff as dreams are made on,’” I said. “’Our little life is rounded with a
sleep.’”

“Indeed,”
said Yang.

For my
part, I tagged along and answered what questions he had. Years of making deliveries
on a bicycle had given me a pretty fair knowledge of the geography of the
neighbourhood, though in the field of history I am somewhat deficient.

I made
efforts not to look too shabby. I could not match Yang’s standards of
appearance, but I bought some fresh collars and new ties and took extra care
with my shaving and grooming.

Once, as we
drove past my father’s shop, Yang asked sharply, “That shop is important to
you?”

The sign
read Stubbs Family Butchers as clear as day. Yang could hardly have failed to
make a connection with the names. But I am not ashamed of what I am. I have
never pretended to be anything more than the son of a butcher.

“This is my
father's shop. My family has been here for generations.”

“So, a
butcher.” Yang considered this. “Does your father chop meat with a cleaver?”

“That is
part and parcel of the trade, yes.”

“How often
does he replace the cleaver?”

“Never,” I
said, well remembering the big, square-bladed chopper moving briskly up and
down over a carcass. “A good butcher never damages the blade by trying to slice
through bone. He cuts through the joints, and the cleaver never wears out. My
father has had the same one for years.”

“Indeed!”
Yang said, nodding briskly. “The same in China. Your father is a wise man! Many
ministers are not so wise!”

I could not
detect mockery in his tone. Yang seemed as impressed as if my father had been a
general or a bank manager. I do not know why a butcher who cut meat should be
revered. It must have been another peculiarity of the Chinese view of things.

One day,
Yang produced a slip of paper with Captain Hall’s address and said that he
would visit the Captain to convey his uncle’s good wishes. I mentioned to Yang
that it was normal practice, in England, to give notice before a visit and that
perhaps it would be in order to send a note first.

Yang
smoothed his beard with one hand. “Indeed.” He drove on.

From my
viewpoint, sitting in the car, I saw Mrs Hall open the door and her look of
surprise and dismay at the well-dressed Chinese gentleman on her doorstep.
Afterwards, I could see Yang clearly in the Hall’s front room. He was standing
with his back to the window and had not taken off his hat or his coat. It did
not look like an especially comfortable or relaxed encounter for the Halls.

Yang emerged
again after a few minutes with a face stonier than ever. The Halls closed the
door quickly behind him. I learned later from Arthur that Yang had stalked in
and started making comments about Hall’s health that sounded like veiled
threats. However, before Yang had gotten very far, the parrot started
screeching at him in Mandarin. That old parrot was a character; he was as
travelled as Captain Hall and well-known for his powers of swearing in many
languages. Something he said drove Yang off sharpish, to Captain Hall’s great
relief.

A second
visit to Whatley was no more successful. This time, Yang stayed in the car and
sent me to knock on the door. To my surprise, a woman opened it, looking at me
through an opening only as wide as the chain would allow.

“There’s
nothing for you here.” She was in a dirty housecoat; hair fell lankly about her
shoulders, framing an unhealthy, pale complexion. “We can’t help him find what
he’s looking for.”

“Mr Yang
would like to talk with Mr Whatley, please,” I said.

She raised
a hand in a defensive gesture as though she thought I would spit at her. “We
don’t talk with the likes of him.” She shut the door. I heard a key rattle and
bolts being shot.

I conveyed
this to Yang, who merely nodded. Nothing seemed to surprise him.

Not long
afterwards, on Yang’s instruction, I parked the car a quarter mile from the
Theosophist Circle. Yang went first, and I followed ten minutes afterwards. I
checked the notice board in the garden and confirmed the time of the
séance and that it was open to all. The Circle encouraged visitors to
come and see for themselves, being a church like any other and always eager to
increase the congregation.

The maid
took my coat and hat and directed me to the crowded sitting room, where a dozen
people were already gathered. The hostess greeted me at once. I had always been
self-conscious in these situations, and with half an ear missing after recent
events, I felt even more freakish in polite company.

She was a
lady of advanced years. From a distance, her bobbed auburn hair led to some
confusion about her age, but I soon concluded that it was a wig.

“Everything’s
on first-name terms here,” she told me and insisted that I call her Lavinia.
The clothes hung loosely on her fleshless limbs, but she carried her years lightly
and was quick and sharp as a bird for all that. She wore an amethyst necklace
and a great many rings and bangles, and she turned about rapidly like a hen
looking over her brood.

Lavinia was
a widow. For some years, her passion had been gardening, but she had been
forced to give it up on account of rheumatism. She had moved away from her big
house with the big garden, which she could no longer bear to look at, and
bought Maycot. The place had, for some reason, revived her interest in
spiritualism, which she had toyed with forty years previously.

“Ours is a
pure Theosophy,” she told me. “Not the debased nonsense of that Blavatsky
woman. We are, I should say, Paracelsian. You know Paracelsus?”

“Only from
Mr Robert Browning’s work.” I had greatly enjoyed his epic poem
Paracelsus,
about the old alchemist’s quest for truth, though some passages were a little
disturbing. “I believe it was written near here, by a curious coincidence.”

“There are
no coincidences,” she told me gravely. “Excuse me, I have to attend a rather
special guest. Do have yourself a cup of tea. And you’ll want to read this.”
She pushed a pamphlet entitled
What Is Theosophy?
into my hands and was
gone.

I pretended
to read the pamphlet while looking around the room. It was a decent place though
somewhat spoiled by some ill-advised artwork of the primitive school. I
suspected the paintings were by some local amateur and represented theosophical
themes. The reproduction furniture was of good quality, and the carpet was
plush beneath my feet. Above me, the chandelier—a garish affair with a
thousand scales of purple glass—spoke of money.

Mr Yang was
the special guest that Lavinia was attending to, aided by a plump young woman
and a man with wispy hair whose back was to me. These were the bigwigs, I
decided. The others were all over sixty, the majority of them women, standing
in pairs or threesomes with little animation. While I was evaluating them and
realising how I stood out, a tall, elderly gentlemen in tweeds took me by the
elbow.

“Harry,
isn’t it?” he said. “I’m Victor.”

I thought
he was a retired military man, though he had actually been in the Indian Civil
Service for many years and had retired as provincial governor somewhere in
Uttar Pradesh, which, if you are unfamiliar with Indian geography, is near the
Himalayan Mountains. His manner was one of forced cordiality. “Can I just have
a small word with you?”

I found
myself in the kitchen, backed against the wall, with Victor bearing down on me.
The maid hastily piled teacups on the tray and fled the room.

“I like to
think I’m a pretty fair judge of character,” Victor said, coming directly to
the point. “We don’t see too many new faces around here. Those we get are
seeking consolation and wishing to contact a departed one, or sometimes we get
someone who’s just come to gawk and scoff. But I don’t think you’re a grieving
relative or a scoffer. You look very much like a bailiff’s man to me. What the
devil are you doing here?”

I
swallowed, taken aback by his tone. Victor was tall, and he carried himself
with considerable authority. His gaze was as intimidating as a magistrate’s. He
had spent years dealing with petitioners in India and was inured to
soft-soaping and wheedling.

I
hesitated.

“Out with
it, man,” Victor snapped.

For one
moment, the idea of making a run for it flashed into my mind. My lips were
moving, though, even before I knew what I was going to say. I did not stop to
think through the tangled situation or consider telling him about Yang and
Arthur Renville.

“I've
always been a down-to-earth sort,” I started. “I've paid more attention to the
football results than the great questions of the human soul. But lately, I've
seen some things that have made me wonder about everything.”

“Have you
indeed,” Victor said with heavy emphasis on the last word.

I did not
know where to start or what to say about what I had witnessed in the Shackleton
affair. I’m sure my confusion showed. Victor’s eyes bored into me.

“Look.” I
opened my shirt and drew out a fine chain. On it hung the ring that was too
dainty for my sausage fingers, the ring set with a five-pointed green stone.

Victor’s
expression changed from hostility to baffled wonderment as he held the ring in
the light and examined it. “Good Lord! It’s real… do you know what this is?
Where did you get it?”

“The story
is quite a convoluted one. The ring did not come without a price.”

“I’ve only
seen one like it once before,” he said, fascinated by the stone. “It was on the
hand of an old Swami I met in curious circumstances…”

“I should
be happy to tell you about it on another occasion.”

“I should
like to hear that story very much,” he said, looking at me with new
appreciation. Evidently, the ring was enough to persuade him that my intentions
were honest. “I bet that story is a corker. Well, well, well. Nothing personal,
Harry, but we don’t often meet fellow seekers. I’m afraid I was rattled by
something else and… anyway, we’d better get back to the throng.”

We returned
to the sitting room, where a cup of tea was pressed into my hand, and with
Victor, I joined a group that included Lavinia and Yang.

“I used to
take an interest in gardening,” Lavinia was telling Yang. “And this is much the
same, you know. A garden must be nurtured to reach its potential, not allowed
to run riot. Theosophy must be guided towards its goal of uniting esoteric
wisdom of every type with science. Left alone, it degenerates into a jungle.”

“Madame
Blavatsky,” added Victor, “our illustrious standard-bearer and former occupant
of this house, was a bit of a one for those kinds of weeds. To be fair, she did
bring the Vedas to the attention of the West, but—”

“That woman
did no end of harm to Theosophy,” said Lavinia. “She knew nothing of science
and precious little of the esoteric. She commandeered Theosophy and sailed it
away from its true ends.”