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  Edna moved to defray the tension by taking Kruznetsov back onto the dance floor.

  “Our friend Nicky is a White Russian I expect,” Rowland said under his breath as he watched them embark on a quickstep.

  “I gathered,” Milton replied quietly. “You know, once upon a time I would have said bugger it—his type deserved everything they got in the revolution.”

  “Once?”

  Milton shrugged. “I’m no longer as hostile to the privileged upper classes as I once was.”

  “Why?”

  Milton grinned and nudged Rowland companionably. “Let’s just say my standards have slipped.”

  Rowland laughed.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I still believe in the revolution, I just find myself more able to have some sympathy for the usurped.” He grimaced. “I’ll try and remember not to call him comrade.”

  “I’m not sure it’ll make a difference.” Clyde scowled. “He looks pretty bloody dark.”

  Milton folded his arms. “Well, it’s not as if Ed’s likely to marry the bloke. He’s probably just one of her passing fancies.”

  “Yes.” Rowland’s eyes were still on the dance floor. “It’s not necessary that Count Kruznetsov likes us.”

  Clyde and Milton stood by him sympathetically. Rowland’s torch for Edna was well established, as was her determination to keep the men she loved separate from those she took as lovers. Her reasons were complicated and probably irrational, but her resolve was absolute. Edna Higgins would be known for her art, and not by the name of a husband. It was, to be honest, not an uncommon decision among the free-minded suffragists of the modern age. It was probably more unusual that her passion for an independent life seemed only to strengthen Rowland’s passion for her.

  When Edna and Kruznetsov finally left the dance floor, the sculptress had managed to mollify the Russian. He apologised for any bad temper on his part and ordered champagne for them all. Milton called him Nicky loudly and often and it seemed all was forgiven.

  Alexandra Romanova found Rowland again. “I have a gap in my card. Would you care to dance with me again?”

  “It would be my pleasure.” Rowland took her into his arms for a jazz waltz. She asked him about London, and once he’d corrected her misapprehension that he was English, he told her about Sydney and the grazing property near Yass on which he’d been born.

  Edna waved as she and Kruznetsov whirled past.

  “Is that your wife?” Alexandra enquired. “She is very beautiful.”

  “No, she’s not my wife, but yes, she is very beautiful.”

  “Your wife is not here?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have a wife.” Rowland was somewhat bemused by the question.

  She frowned slightly, then shook her head, laughing. “I am sorry. So many men take a wife and then will not admit to having done so, and do not behave as if they have done so. Especially when they are dancing with another.”

  “I see.” Rowland met her eye. “I’m not married. I give you my word.”

  At the end of the dance, Alexandra declined to take her fee. “No, that time was my gift to you. You may return it by inviting me to the take tea and cakes with you, tomorrow.”

  Rowland smiled. Perhaps this was why she had wanted to establish that he was unmarried. “Would you do me the honour of joining me for tea and cakes tomorrow afternoon, Miss Romanova?”

  “I do believe I’m free at four, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Shall I send a car for you?”

  “No, I’ll call here at the hotel. The Cathay’s tearoom is the best in Shanghai.”

  * * *

  Edna stood at the window of the Chinese Suite filming the awakening Huangpu. The river came gradually to life in the soft light, many thousands of stories floating on its waters. Engrossed in trying to capture the vista on celluloid, the sculptress was humming along before she fully registered that someone was singing “Honeysuckle Rose,” belted out with a gravelly volume of which Fats Waller would have approved. Intrigued, she placed her camera on the window’s wide sill and peered quietly around the moon gate into the dining room. Wing Zau danced as he filled the warming trays on the sideboard in preparation for breakfast. He took the plates from the traymobile and shuffled to the sideboard, crooning “Goodness knows, Honeysuckle Rose” like he was centrestage at the Tivoli.

  When finally he noticed Edna, he froze, the song dying suddenly on his lips, an embarrassed stutter in its place.

  “Oh don’t stop, Mr. Wing.” Edna walked over to take the plate of bacon from his hands and place it in one of the silver dishes. “I love this song.”

  “I apologise, Miss Higgins.” Wing looked mortified. “I was just humming, and then I sang a couple of bars, and then…I didn’t intend to become so loud.”

  “I do that all the time.” Edna closed the lid of the warming tray. She collected the teapot from the traymobile and sang, “Every honeybee fills with jealousy, when they see you out with me,” as she poured tea into two of the cups set out on the table. “Sit down and have a cup of tea, Mr. Wing. The others won’t be up for ages.”

  Wing hesitated.

  Edna reached for the sugar bowl. “Please?”

  Wing took the chair beside hers reluctantly, sipping his tea stiffly. Edna peppered him with questions, searching for his opinions about the city. It was not long before Edna’s complete disregard for the proper way of things thawed the manservant’s reserve. They talked about Shanghai and Sydney and the world in between. Wing told the sculptress of his Australian-born cousins who, fearing persecution, had returned to Shanghai when Australia’s immigration laws made it clear the Chinese were not welcome.

  Wing nodded sadly. “As civilised as we have become, it is still skin we see first. The tiger recognises his own kind and devours all others.”

  “Is that an old Chinese saying, Mr. Wing?”

  “Chinese—yes, but not old. I just now made it up.” He smiled. “Still, I’m sure my honourable ancestors would have agreed.”

  Edna laughed.

  Rowland was the first of the Australian men to venture out. He paused by the moon gate, taking in the scene framed within its circular perimeter—Edna and Wing chatting like old friends over tea. At first neither the sculptress nor the valet noticed him, engrossed in their own conversation. “Did you have a good time at the Jazz Club, Miss Higgins?” Wing asked Edna.

  “Oh yes. I danced with a Russian count!”

  Wing clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Every second Russian in Shanghai seems to be a count or a duke, Miss Higgins. I do not mean to be cynical, but I do not wish you to be disappointed.”

  “I shan’t be disappointed, Mr. Wing. I only danced with him.”

  “You must be careful. Wealthy foreigners are often targeted by unscrupulous men with spurious titles.”

  “I’m afraid my wealth is as spurious as their titles, Mr. Wing.” Edna sipped her tea as amused by the valet’s concern as she was by the notion that she was wealthy.

  “Good morning.” Rowland announced his presence.

  Wing Zau stood hastily, guiltily. “Mr. Sinclair, I did not realise you were awake, sir. You didn’t ring—”

  “Sit down, Wing. I really don’t need anyone to help me dress.”

  The butler remained on his feet. “Mr. Isaacs and Mr. Watson Jones…”

  “Can also dress themselves.”

  Wing remained standing. The pause became slightly awkward.

  “Taxi girls—are they all Russian?” Rowland asked suddenly.

  “Many are. Despite their titles, the Russian refugees are penniless.” Wing was clearly relieved to have something asked of him. “As taxi girls, they can earn a living, which, if not respectable, is not shameful.”

  “Nicky didn’t seem penniless,” Edna said, glancing at Rowland. The Russian had been insistently generous.r />
  Wing nodded knowingly. “Russians!” he said, throwing up his hands. “They will spend a month’s wages in a single night. It is as if they have not realised that their circumstances have changed.”

  “I see.” Rowland grimaced, now uncomfortable that he had enjoyed Kruznetsov’s largesse.

  “It is difficult for the refugees.” Wing was warming to his subject. “The better jobs are reserved for the expatriate population, the labouring jobs for the Chinese. It is not so bad in Shanghai because there are rich people here who need guards and music teachers, but north of the wall I have heard that many Russians have starved to death.”

  “Oh how dreadful,” Edna said. “Those poor people.”

  The look on her face seemed to startle Wing. “I apologise, Miss Higgins. I should not speak of such things. I apologise.”

  “Nonsense. We want to know.” She turned to Rowland. “Maybe we could help somehow…some of them at least.”

  “Oh, you cannot venture north of the wall, Miss Higgins. The Japanese control most of Manchuria now. It is not safe.”

  Rowland frowned. Having invaded Manchuria almost four years ago, the Japanese had been consolidating and expanding their control of northeast China. International condemnation seemed to have had no effect. Japan had left the League of Nations and continued on its own course. News of Japanese atrocities and the plight of the White Russians, as well as the Chinese, in Manchuria had been widely reported in Australia, sparking a kind of removed outrage and occasional fits of fundraising. He shared Edna’s impulse to help, but he wasn’t sure how exactly they could, on a large scale at least. “I believe the Red Cross is active in Manchuria. I’ll see what I can find out,” he said in the end, hoping that it would be something.

  “I fear that Manchuria is beyond even the magnanimity of the West,” Wing said quietly.

  Chapter Eight

  The Little Things

  Nearly every man will tell you that if he had in hand all the time he has spent in waiting for unpunctual ladies, he might conquer the world. And he will complain that it is precisely the unpunctual ladies who are transformed into dangerous furies if they themselves are kept waiting for the tenth of a second; for they astoundingly assume that the other partner or partners to the rendezvous will stand already booted and spurred in advance until the moment of their glorious appearance. Unpunctuality (by no means the monopoly of women) has the air of being a trifle; but it is possibly more prolific than anything else in social friction, and social friction is the arch enemy of happiness.

  —Advocate, 26 April 1934

  * * *

  When Alexandra Romanova failed to keep her appointment with Rowland Sinclair, he was a little disappointed but not unduly concerned. He had, after all, only met the young lady the previous evening, and perhaps in the sober light of day, she had simply reconsidered pursuing their acquaintance.

  He’d left his companions exploring the French Concession, where they’d all spent the afternoon at the Russian Theatre, returning alone to the Cathay. At five o’clock he concluded that Alexandra was more than just late, and gave up. Doubting that he would be able to find his companions in order to rejoin them for the evening, he decided he would spend the time attending to correspondence, including two telegrams received from Oaklea. He had yet to report back to Wilfred of his meeting with Petty and Blanshard, and he had promised his mother and his nephew that he would write when he’d reached Shanghai. He stopped in the gift shop to purchase postcards and proceeded up to the suite.

  Rowland let himself in. They’d told Wing Zau not to expect them back till after dinner, and so he anticipated he would have the suite to himself.

  He removed his coat, hanging it with his hat on the rack in the marble vestibule. It was not yet completely dark. The suite’s expansive windows allowed in enough twilight to make the room navigable. Rowland might have searched for a light switch had he not been intrigued by the view of the Huangpu in half light. The water seemed purple, and the junks glowed softly as they came into shore. He loosened his tie as he crossed the room to the window. The sky was streaked with crimson—Rowland presumed the sun was setting on the other side of the building. He looked down at the play of shadow and life spread out below him. One seemed always to look west at sunset, and yet there was a less spectacular but equal beauty on the eastern horizon where darkness began. He gazed out of the window for several minutes idly wondering if he should try to paint landscapes again. Rowland put the thought firmly aside; he had never painted landscapes well.

  When finally he was able to drag himself away from the view, it had become almost completely dark. He fumbled for the switch on the standard lamp by the secretaire.

  It was only then, in that limited light, he noticed the figure lying on the chaise longue at the back of the room. A figure stretched out gracefully in slumber.

  Rowland knew immediately that she was too still. Even so, he called her name before seizing her wrist to check for a pulse. There was none. He tried to revive her regardless, loosening the scarf around her neck. His hands came away sticky with blood “Miss Romanova, Alexandra.” Nothing. She was cold. With the scarf pulled away, her throat gaped open, slashed almost to the bone.

  Rowland moved back, horrified. He comprehended that the taxi girl was dead, but nothing else seemed to make any sense. Pulling himself together, he picked up the telephone and rang the reception desk.

  “Yes, hello…I’m afraid… Look, a young woman’s been killed in my suite. Would you mind calling the police?”

  “I do beg your pardon, sir?”

  Rowland repeated himself, realising even as he did so that he must sound mad or drunk or both. Right then, he wanted to be drunk.

  “Please, send someone up immediately.”

  Within minutes the Cathay’s manager arrived at the suite to ascertain the precise nature of the problem—he clearly expected it was alcohol or some kind of prank. Wealthy men often had juvenile senses of humour. He walked in, looked from Rowland to the body and then backed slowly out of the suite.

  Rowland sat down to wait. There was nothing else he could do. He thought about trying to wipe the blood from his hands, but it seemed an indecent thing to do in the presence of Alexandra Romanova’s body. Her eyes were open, China blue, and seemed fixed in death upon him. The scarf he’d removed from her throat was on the floor. Without thinking he picked it up. The silk was soaked in blood and the stylised lions of the Cathay’s crest embroidered upon it seemed stained a darker red.

  The police did not take long to arrive. It was only when he heard the scrabble and click of the key in the lock that Rowland realised that the manager had locked him in.

  The members of the Shanghai Municipal Police Force who attended the incident at the Cathay were officers of the Foreign Branch. Chief Inspector Randolph took charge of the scene, directing his men to secure it immediately.

  “Am I to understand you discovered the young lady’s body, Mr. Sinclair?” Randolph clasped his hands behind his back as he spoke in a fashion that was distinctly military.

  “Yes.”

  Randolph’s eyes dropped to Rowland’s hands, the blood-stained cuffs of his shirt, the soaked scarf still in his hands. He signalled a man to take the scarf as evidence.

  “I wasn’t certain she was dead at first,” Rowland said. “I thought…” He shook his head.

  “Was the deceased known to you, sir?”

  “Her name is Alexandra Romanova. I met her for the first time last night.”

  “Where?”

  “The Jazz Club downstairs.”

  “And the nature of your relationship?”

  “We danced.”

  “I see.” Randolph rocked back on his heels. “I assume you were hopeful of becoming better acquainted, and so you brought her up to your suite.”

  Rowland stared at him. “Absolutely not. I left Miss Romanova at T
he Jazz Club.”

  “So you found her disagreeable?”

  “I found her charming. I invited her to have tea with me this afternoon, but she didn’t keep the appointment.”

  “I imagine you were offended and very angry that she didn’t arrive as agreed?”

  “Not at all. It was merely tea.”

  “Can you tell me what she’s doing in your suite, Mr. Sinclair?”

  Rowland shook his head. “Perhaps she misunderstood where we were to meet… I really don’t know.”

  “Did you let her in, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “No.”

  “Was there anyone else in the suite when you discovered Miss Romanova’s body?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “Chief Inspector—” A young policeman interrupted. “There are two gentlemen and a young lady outside who insist this is their suite.”

  Rowland nodded. “Miss Higgins and Messrs. Isaacs and Watson Jones.”

  “Detain them, but do not let them in. I’ll speak to them in a few minutes—I have a few questions for Mr. Sinclair first.”

  “Would you please let them know I’m all right?” Rowland asked the constable, or whatever it was the lower ranks were called in the Shanghai Police Force.

  “Why would your friends believe otherwise, Mr. Sinclair?” Randolph’s eyes narrowed.

  Rowland sighed. “I don’t know that they would, Chief Inspector. I just don’t want them to worry.”

  Randolph glanced at Alexandra Romanova’s lifeless body on the chaise. “Clearly, it is not you they should worry about.”

  * * *

  It was, in fact, another two hours before the chief inspector finished questioning Rowland Sinclair. He conducted the interrogation on site rather than taking the Australian into the station. It was more a convenience than a courtesy. If the murder weapon had been discovered in the suite, he might have arrested Rowland. There were razors of course, as one would expect with three men in residence, but each was clean and stowed neatly in the bathroom beside the shaving mirror. Sinclair might have cleaned his implement—true—but a man cold enough to calmly wash the murder weapon and return it to its place would surely think to also change his bloody clothes. Randolph was a cautious man. One did not arrest a man wealthy enough to take a suite at the Cathay over the death of a penniless taxi girl unless one was very sure.