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By the following morning, I was no wiser regarding the visit of the night before. I was at once annoyed and puzzled by the behaviour of Miss Mbute. Was she there at Sir Bristow’s instruction, I asked myself, or was there some other motivation for her burglary? It all seemed most irregular.
As far as I could tell, nothing was missing. My guests had not been disturbed. There was only the problem of the broken window which was soon resolved by a local glazier who was good enough to replace the panes with those of wire set glass to deter any future intrusion. The only evidence of Miss Mbute’s visit was the disarray in which she had left the Tusker files on my desk. My assumption was that she, in some way infatuated with my charges after their encounter at Greenwich, was keen to learn more of the Tusker girls. It was, of course, quite unacceptable behaviour and I resolved to complain to Sir Bristow at the first opportunity.
My considerations were interrupted by an unexpected arrival in the street outside. In the busy streets of Highgate, one can expect to see most forms of transport from the small steam cycles that have proved so popular in the city of late to the Stanley taxi cabs and the injected steam coupes favoured by those seeking more convenience in their travelling. The vehicle outside my rooms on this occasion was one quite unlike any I had seen before. It most closely resembled a motorised cabin, a veritable house on wheels, as long as my own house was wide.
The strangeness of the vehicle was echoed by the strangeness of its occupants.
As someone whose own style of dress is considered eccentric, I suppose I should not comment on the appearance of others but the two visitors that were calling on me were of distinctive appearance.
The first to step down from the mobile house was a woman. As is sadly so often the case these days, she affected male garb, dressing in a dark, man’s suit in pinstriped cloth. A flat leather cap sat atop slicked-back blonde hair. Dark glasses covered her eyes. Thin, red tinged lips outlined a wide mouth. She held in front of her with gloved hands a black, highly-polished leather brief case. It appeared to be chained to her wrist.
She stood motionless on the curb-side, staring straight ahead for a short time, before a second visitor joined her. Whereas the woman was tall and thin, the man that joined her was little more than half her height and almost twice her girth. He, too, wore a dark pinstriped suit and almost in parody of the city gentleman carried a rolled umbrella and a bowler hat. From his features, his long thin moustache and equally thin beard, I judged him to be of Chinese origin.
The Chinese gentleman rapped on my door with the head of his umbrella. Amanda and Estelle had yet to reach the stage whereby they could be expected to greet visitors, so I opened the door myself.
“Theophilus Chang,” my visitor announced. The woman standing behind him was looking first up and then down the street outside. “I would like to have a conversation with you regarding the wards of Harwell Tusker. You are, I believe, responsible for their preparation to meet the requirements of the Institute of Practicing Engineers.”
I am always open to conversation although I am sensitive of my clients’ confidences. I also found myself wondering if this unannounced visitation and the events of the night before were in some way connected. I invited the two of them in. If nothing else it would give the two girls practice in their new roles as house maids.
I rang the bell to summon the two. They duly appeared, waiting politely for whatever might be asked of them, presenting a bizarre presence in their identical uniforms and face masks. Chang elected in favour of tea. The woman wordlessly demurred. The twins left. “Your premises are modest.” Chang’s statement seemed neither a criticism nor a compliment. He made no comment on the girls.
“They are sufficient for my purpose,” I responded watching as Chang looked around my study, his eyes apparently unable to move independently of his head as he took in each feature of the room from the tome-filled shelves to the single Whistler landscape painting over the fireplace.
“Very well,” Chang said, apparently satisfied by his examination. “To business. How is your work progressing in the matter of Miss Estelle and Miss Amanda Tusker? Are you confident that you can meet the expectations of Sir Bristow?”
I am usually only too happy to discuss my work and my methods but I have always felt that my clients and those that I work with deserve the utmost discretion from me. Besides, I could not see what possible benefit there would be in my discussing my work for the Institute and for Harwell Tusker with Theophilus Chang. I told him so.
My rather blunt response was punctuated by the return of my two girls. Amanda was carrying a tray of tea things. She was followed by Estelle with some napkins.
“And which of the twins is which?”Theophilus asked looking up, bemused by the two girls’ almost identical appearance in their uniforms. “Perhaps, Miss Amanda," he speculated, accurately. "I wonder if the reports I have do you justice?” Chang stroked his beard as he contemplated the girl that was serving his tea.
For Amanda, I knew this to be a test. Something as close as this was to her masturbatory fantasies was, no doubt, emotionally disturbing. I could imagine that, behind her doll-like mask, her face had coloured to a deep crimson. She seemed in danger of fainting as she passed Chang his cup. Amanda composed herself, poured my own tea and then curtsied to leave. Estelle, feeling herself under scrutiny from Chang’s thin-lipped, female, associate, was equally anxious to leave.
“Mr Chang,” I began. “I have no wish to be inhospitable. If you have some project of your own with which I could assist? Your associate, perhaps?” I nodded mischievously towards the impassive, thin-lipped woman beside him. It was intended more as a taunt than a serious suggestion but it drew an amused response from Chang.
“Ha! Ms Mace, what do you say to that? Trained in feminine ways? Equipped to serve?” Chang laughed.
His companion said nothing and scowled.
“No sense of humour, I fear. A faithful associate but a humourless one. Your suggestion might amuse me but it is not my purpose today. No, that is much simpler. Ms Mace.” Chang gestured to the case that the woman was carrying. She lifted it up and placed it on my desk. She unlocked the cuff holding the case to her wrist, freeing it, and clicked the combination lock on each of the case’s two brass catches. The lid sprang open to reveal the case was packed with neat bundles of Chinese currency in note and coin.
“Two point five million Chinese Yuan” Chang announced. “A substantial sum and in a currency that you will find accepted even in areas where the British pound is not welcomed.”
What he said was true. The upsurge of the Chinese economy as the latest Imperial dynasty had embraced the potential of their enormous internal market had created a currency that was as strong as our own. The yuan now far outstripped the American Peso and the European Frankmark. I did not, however, see what it had to do with me. “A substantial sum, indeed, Mr Chang,” I responded. “I wonder that you feel able to carry it about with you. Or, perhaps Ms Mace is possessed of other dangerous powers beyond her withering scowl?”
“Capital! Capital!” exclaimed Chang, much amused by the discomfort of his companion. “But please do not antagonise Ms Mace. She would as soon as not pin you to the floor and break your neck.”
She picked a single ten thousand yuan coin from the case and bent it almost double between the fingers of her right hand. She tossed it to fall on my desk where it rocked erratically before coming to rest. As a demonstration of controlled violence it was most impressive. For Estelle, standing beside her sister in the doorway of the room, it represented the embodiment of her own fantasies as the woman returned her infatuated gaze with a cool dispassionate stare.
There was one other aspect of the demonstration that I found fascinating. As Ms Mace had flicked the coin onto my disk, I caught sight of a golden chain bracelet on her wrist. The chain carried a single gold Chinese character hanging from it. I had seen such a character before. It had been hanging from a chain about the dark, smooth-skinned neck of Ngoya Mbute.
“Two point five million. In exchange for which you will consign the Tusker sisters to my care. It is more than you will receive in ten years under your agreement with the Institute, even at your own most optimistic predictions. And it is cash in hand here and now and without the involvement of your Department of Her Majesty's Revenue and Excise Collection. Beyond that, you need not concern yourself.”
It did not take me long to decide what I should do about his offer. I dislike bribery and even if the girls had not been the wards of an old friend and trusted client, I could not have brought myself to accept. “I think not, Mr Chang. There would be the matter of the girls’ guardian, Mr Harwell Tusker, quite beside the question of my obligations to Sir Bristow and the Institute. Thank you for your offer but, no.”
“You are quite determined?"
"I am, Sir, I am."
Chang shook his head, evidently disappointed. He nodded to Ms Mace who lowered the lid of the case, fastened the catches and span the combination locks. She re-attached the case’s chain to her wrist. A flicker of a ‘told you so’ expression crossed her face. “In which case, Sir, I will bid you good day and leave you to your work. Please let me wish you every success. I shall indeed think of you should a future commission present itself. Although I fear Ms Mace would not make a suitable subject.” A scowl from Chang’s companion confirmed that she was of the same opinion.
Estelle and Amanda backed away from the two as Chang got to his feet and left with his companion. The steam-powered mobile house pulled away in the road outside. I was glad to see the backs of Theophilus Chang and Ms Mace.
© Freddie Clegg 2012
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