Snake Bite

CHAPTER EIGHT

‘I’m too late!’ Sherlock said. The full weight of the run to and from the shack suddenly descended on him: he felt weak and exhausted and defeated.

Cameron shook his head. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he said sombrely. ‘Wu Chung died about ten minutes after you left. The healer came out and told us that he had “joined his illustrious ancestors”, which is what the Chinese people say when someone has died. You wouldn’t even have been at the garden when it happened. There’s nothing you could have done. You could have flown the entire way there and back and it still wouldn’t have made a difference.’

Sherlock could hear Cameron speaking, but it sounded as if his friend’s words were coming from a long way away, through thick cotton wool. He found that the enormity of the cook’s death was more than he could deal with. He hadn’t really prepared himself for the fact that it might actually happen. That Wu Chung might suddenly… not be there any more.

He felt strange. Disconnected. He felt as if he was floating slightly above the ground, and that the world was tilting gradually sideways.

He leaned over, put his hands on his knees and took slow breaths, trying to steady himself.

He had seen death before, of course. Even back when he had just left Deepdene School for Boys and moved to Farnham he had seen a dead body in the woods outside his aunt and uncle’s manor house, and later he had seen men die on the Napoleonic fort that Baron Maupertuis was using as a base. He had seen Duke Balthassar die at the claws and teeth of his cougars, and also seen the stabbed body of a man at the Diogenes Club. There was the sailor who had fallen and broken his neck on the Gloria Scott, and the others that had been killed by the storm and by the pirates. But all of these had been people he didn’t know — or, at least, hardly knew. He had never had to come to terms with the death of a friend.

It wasn’t as if Wu Chung was a close friend, he tried to tell himself. He wasn’t like Matty Arnatt, or Amyus Crowe — or even, he thought with a chill, Virginia Crowe. It wasn’t as if he was a member of Sherlock’s family, like Mycroft, or his sister Emma, and yet… Sherlock had been close to him. The Chinese man had taught him so much, and he had been an important part of Sherlock’s life, and his absence would leave a hole that would be impossible to fill.

‘How are Wu Fung-Yi and Tsi Huen dealing with it?’ Sherlock asked, and he could hear that his voice was hoarse — more of a whisper.

‘His wife is pretty broken up,’ Cameron said. ‘It must be hard, having your husband away for so long, then losing him again the moment he comes back. The kid is trying to put a brave face on it. Frankly, I don’t think he knows quite how to feel. He’s kind of being guided by what his mother is doing.’

As Sherlock glanced over at the house, the healer emerged, still leaning on his stick. He walked past Tsi Huen and Wu Fung-Yi towards Sherlock and Cameron. He looked calmly at the plant that drooped from Sherlock’s hand.

‘I will take that back,’ he called. ‘I may be able to replant it. Maybe.’

‘What happened?’ Sherlock asked.

The healer looked at him in surprise. ‘You know what happened. He was bitten by a snake. I did what I could, but it was no good. The poison had taken hold in his body. There was nothing I could do to help.’

‘Are you sure it was a snake bite?’ Sherlock heard himself asking. For a moment he was amazed at the words, until he realized that his mouth was expressing a thought that his brain was only just processing.

The healer nodded. ‘There is a clear bite mark on his back.’

‘But how did the snake get into the bedroom?’ Sherlock asked. ‘The only window was too high for any snake to slither up to, and if it had come in through the front door then it would have had to go through several other rooms, past several other people, before it got to Wu Chung.’

‘Who can predict the actions of a snake?’ the healer said, shrugging. ‘There is no doubt in my mind — a snake bit him, and the poison killed him. I have seen this kind of thing before.’

‘In town?’ Sherlock pressed. ‘In a bedroom?’

The healer raised a white, thin eyebrow. ‘You have a better idea?’

‘No,’ Sherlock had to admit. ‘No, I don’t.’

The healer reached out and took the plant from Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock watched as the old man walked slowly back to Tsi Huen. Still crying, she took some coins out of a purse and passed them to him. He bowed his head, thanking her, and walked away, the plant still dangling from his hand. Sherlock found himself hoping that the healer hadn’t charged her for the plant that had arrived too late.

Wu Fung-Yi was standing to one side, staring at the house. Sherlock and Cameron walked over to join him.

‘I’m sorry,’ Cameron said awkwardly.

‘Me too,’ Sherlock said.

Wu Fung-Yi didn’t say anything. He just stared into the distance.

‘I wish I could see the body,’ Sherlock said quietly to Cameron.

‘What?’

‘Wu Chung’s body. I wish I could see it again.’

‘That’s a bit morbid, isn’t it?’

Sherlock shrugged. ‘Is it? He’s dead — I’m sure he won’t mind.’

‘Maybe his wife and his son might.’

Sherlock glanced over at them. ‘I suppose they don’t need to know.’

‘Why do you want to look at his body?’

‘I want to check that bite. The one on his back.’

Cameron shuddered. ‘Don’t remind me.’

‘Didn’t it strike you that there was something odd about it?’

‘Like what?’

Sherlock shook his head, trying to visualize the wound that he had seen on Wu Chung’s back. Part of him knew that he was thinking about Wu Chung’s death as if it was a puzzle so that he wouldn’t have to deal with the emotion of it, but another part of him knew that there really was a puzzle there. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘The fang marks, if that’s what they were, seemed to be different sizes. One was bigger than the other — it looked torn.’

‘So — the snake had a broken fang. What does that mean?’

‘I don’t know. But an old friend of mine once told me to look for things that were out of place. Those were the things that told you something interesting was happening, he said.’

‘And a snake with a broken tooth is interesting?’

‘That depends on what broke the tooth.’ He looked over at where the boy and his mother were holding each other. ‘Do you think if I asked her she would let me go in?’

Cameron looked over at Tsi Huen, then back at Sherlock. ‘Her husband has died. I hate to think how I would feel if my father died suddenly. How would you feel?’

Unexpectedly, Sherlock found his thoughts suddenly pushed towards his own father, somewhere in India. Maybe he was dead. Maybe he had been killed in some British Army action against the natives, and the message hadn’t even got to England yet. Or maybe it had got to England, and his mother, his sister and his brother already knew, but weren’t able to tell him. He tried to analyse the feelings that welled up within him, but he couldn’t. There was something there, some messy mixture of emotions, but he couldn’t pull them apart.

‘Sometimes,’ he found himself saying, ‘I wonder if my father isn’t already dead to me. I’m finding it increasingly difficult to remember his face, or his voice, or his laugh. I used to have memories of him — now I think that I just have memories of having memories.’

‘That’s awful,’ Cameron whispered.

‘Is it?’ Sherlock stared at Wu Fung-Yi. ‘Maybe the awful thing is caring too much.’ He shook himself. ‘Look, I made a promise,’ he said. ‘I told Wu Chung that I would tell the Captain of the USS Monocacy that he wouldn’t make the voyage. I’d better go and do that.’

‘I suppose I should go and tell my mother and father what has happened. I’m not sure how much use I can be here.’

Sherlock looked around. Nobody nearby seemed interested. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that being here is enough. Look, I’ll be back within an hour, I promise.’

‘All right.’

Sherlock left the house and headed downhill, towards the quay. His side ached from all the running, and he had to bend forward as he walked to keep the pain at bay. He hadn’t noticed before, but there were places where the blue sweep of the bay was visible through gaps between the houses. He could even see the masts of ships sticking up above the roofs, and as he got closer to the waterside he could, every now and then, see the great wheel of the USS Monocacy looming above everything.

It was only as he was passing through the gate in the wall that ran around the town, past the uniformed guards, that he suddenly wondered how he was going to get back in. He shrugged the thought away. He would face that problem later, if necessary.

He made his way along the quay towards the long bulk of the American ship. There were still plenty of sailors and local Chinese people around. He kept an eye out for the gang of youths who had tried to steal his money the day before, but although there were plenty of people the right age around, he didn’t recognize any of them. More importantly, perhaps, none of them recognized him.

Several gangways led up from the quay to the deck of the Monocacy. Each one was guarded by a pair of armed American sailors in dark blue uniforms. The sailors were all keeping a wary watch on the people walking past them.

Sherlock noticed that a lot of the Chinese locals were casting unpleasant glances at the ship, and at the sailors. Every now and then someone would shout an insult at the Americans. Sherlock understood the words — his Cantonese was getting better and better the more he heard — and he decided it was a good thing that the sailors couldn’t. Some of the names they were being called were pretty nasty, and the sailors were armed, after all. Insults, tempers and guns didn’t go very well together.

As he got near the gangway Sherlock saw with concern that a small group of locals was gathering a few feet away. One of them bent and picked up a rotten cabbage. He lobbed it through the air. It caught a uniformed American on the side of the head, exploding in shards of stinking vegetation and a spray of water. The sailor stumbled, then turned around and raised his gun towards the crowd. His face was twisted in anger and disgust. His companion caught his arm and knocked it down. The two of them argued for a moment while the crowd jeered.

Another vegetable flew out of the crowd and hit the ground between the two guards. They looked to Sherlock like they weren’t sure whether to retreat up the gangway, take some action or pretend that nothing was happening.

The growing tension was broken when someone started walking down the gangway towards the quayside. It was the man Sherlock had seen the night before at the Mackenzies’ dinner party — Captain Bryan. He was an impressive sight, in his full uniform and frock coat, and he was followed by two junior officers and a Chinese man in ornate robes — a translator, possibly. Sherlock thought he recognized the junior officers from the dinner party as well.

Even at that distance, Sherlock could see that Bryan’s bright blue eyes were taking in everything that was happening in front of him. He got to the bottom of the gangway and the two sailors snapped to attention. Without stopping, he strode directly across to the crowd.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ he snapped in English. The translator hastily translated.

The various members of the crowd looked at one another. Nobody seemed willing to speak for them.

‘We are visitors here,’ Captain Bryan continued. ‘We are, I have been led to believe by your Governor, honoured guests.’ He paused while the translator caught up. ‘Word of the hospitality of the Chinese Empire has spread widely. I am disappointed to see that those words are apparently untrue.’ Again he paused, and Sherlock noticed that some members of the crowd were looking ashamed of themselves. ‘Wherever this ship has docked around the world, it has been met with the hand of friendship. Do not let this port be any different. Do not dishonour your ancestors and your Emperor with petty bullying.’

As the translator rushed to convey his words in the native language of the crowd, Captain Bryan let his gaze run across the various people standing there. None of them would look him in the eye. He waited for a few moments after the translator had finished, then abruptly turned and strode back towards the gangway, apparently disregarding the possibility that somebody might lob another cabbage at his back. His junior officers waited a few seconds, then turned and followed him. The translator had been looking nervously at the crowd. When he realized that he was alone he quickly scurried to join them.

Sherlock was impressed to see the crowd start to disperse. The locals looked as if the wind had been knocked out of their sails.

Sherlock suddenly realized that he was going to miss his chance if he didn’t act quickly. He sprinted across towards Captain Bryan.

Hearing his footsteps, the two junior officers turned to face him. At the foot of the gangway the two armed sailors swung their rifles towards Sherlock, fearing that he was another local threat. He slowed to a fast walk and raised his hands in the air.

‘I’m British,’ he said. ‘My name is Sherlock Holmes. I have a message for the Captain.’

‘You were at the Mackenzie dinner party last night,’ Captain Bryan said, turning around. ‘I remember you. We never got a chance to talk.’

‘You were far too busy and I was far too unimportant to bother you,’ Sherlock said. ‘But thank you for pretending that you might have wanted to talk to me.’

Bryan smiled. ‘You’re refreshingly honest, son. None of my officers dare say anything that sounds like it might disagree with me, and this country seems to run on saying one thing to your face and another behind your back. Now, you say you have a message?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Sherlock took a breath. ‘You’ve recently taken on an assistant cook. I’m sorry to tell you that he died today. Almost his last words to me were that he wanted you to know so that you didn’t think he had forgotten, or got a better offer.’

Captain Bryan frowned. One of his junior officers leaned forward and whispered something in his ear. He nodded, and turned back to Sherlock.

‘We cast off and sail up the Yangtze River within the hour,’ he said. ‘It’s too late to get another assistant cook. We will have to manage without, I suppose, which is annoying given that we have only just replaced our Head Cook with a local man. But I appreciate the effort you went to in order to convey the message.’

He nodded, and turned towards the bulk of the USS Monocacy. After a moment he glanced back at Sherlock.

‘You knew this man?’

‘I did.’

‘Was he a good man?’

Sherlock nodded. ‘I was with him on the Gloria Scott.’

‘Then my condolences. Good men are hard to find. Good cooks are even harder. How did he die?’

‘He was bitten by a snake.’

Captain Bryan shook his head sadly. ‘Snake bite, eh? Must be a lot of the beggars around. Our own Head Cook was bitten by a snake, and died, a few days ago. You wouldn’t find rattlesnakes in the middle of an American town, I promise you that.’

As soon as Captain Bryan reboarded the ship, a whistle blew somewhere on deck. The pairs of armed sailors at the bottom of each gangway snapped to attention, then quickly scurried on board. As Sherlock watched, the gangplanks were pulled up to the deck of the ship by invisible hands. Within a few moments only guy ropes attached the ship to the land. It was now a separate world. An American world.

Sherlock waited for a while, but the ship didn’t move. Presumably they were raising steam, or checking their charts, or otherwise getting ready.

Eventually he turned away and headed back towards the town wall.

As he approached the gate, and caught sight of the guards in their yellow and red uniforms and their metal bucket-like helmets, he suddenly remembered his earlier fears about getting back into the town. What was he going to do?

He looked down at his clothes. Fortunately, he had selected things from Cameron’s closet that made him look at least passably like a Chinese youth. His face was another thing. One look at his eyes and his skin would be enough to give him away.

His mind raced. He had to do something to disguise himself.

Glancing around, he saw an elderly beggar at the side of the road. He wore a wide straw hat to protect his face from the sun, and he stared at every passing person with a pleading expression on his face and his hand outstretched. Sherlock crossed the road to him. His eyes lit up when he saw Sherlock approach.

‘A copper coin, young master?’ he asked. ‘A copper coin that I can use for a cup of tea and a bowl of noodles?’

‘Two copper coins,’ Sherlock said, ‘for your hat.’

The beggar stared at Sherlock. ‘Three,’ he said.

‘That’s a lot of tea and noodles.’

The man smiled, revealing a mouth that had too many teeth for a proper beggar. ‘I have a big appetite,’ he said, patting his stomach.

Sherlock delved into his pockets and retrieved three copper coins, along with a strange piece of metal that he couldn’t immediately identify. He threw the coins to the beggar. ‘Here — try not to eat it all at once. You’ll get indigestion.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ he beggar grumbled. He took the hat from his head and threw it to Sherlock. ‘Be careful with it.’

Sherlock paused for a moment, gazing at the metal object in his hand. It was the thing he’d picked up from the ship’s deck outside Mr Arrhenius’s cabin. He still didn’t know what it was. For a few seconds he thought about throwing it away, but he hated a mystery, even one so small. He would keep it until he knew what it was.

Sherlock set the hat on his head and tipped it forward so that it shielded his face. Looking around, he saw an abandoned bamboo pole by the side of the road. Near it were two broken buckets. He picked them up, dusted the dirt off them and hung them from either end of the bamboo pole, then balanced the pole carefully on his right shoulder so that one bucket hung in front of him and the other one hung behind. Then, with a deep breath, he set off for the gate.

He managed to get in behind a group of workmen returning from somewhere in the dock area. They were grumbling, and shoving each other, and he found that if he stayed at the back and bowed his back to disguise his height then he was pretty effectively blocked from the sight of the guards.

‘Hey, you!’ one of the guards called. ‘You with the buckets!’

Sherlock kept his head down. If he showed his face then they would know he was not Oriental. If he even opened his mouth to speak they would hear his strong accent.

One of the guards stepped into the road in front of the group of workmen.

Sherlock desperately tried to think of some convincing story that would explain why he was trying to sneak into the town disguised as a Chinese worker. He looked up, ready to say something, but the guard was hauling a Chinese woman out of the front of the group. She had two buckets balanced on a pole over her shoulder as well. They were filled with something that looked like milk. Maybe it was milk — Sherlock couldn’t tell.

‘We’re thirsty,’ one of the guards said. ‘Give us some of that or we won’t let you in!’

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. Although he felt sorry for the woman, he was glad that the guards had missed him. He walked past them, head bent, while they were drinking noisily from her buckets.

Once inside the town wall, he breathed a sigh of relief. Strange, he thought, how just yesterday the Gloria Scott had been home and Shanghai had been unfamiliar territory, but now Shanghai felt like home. The crowds, the smells, even the houses… maybe he had simply been immersed in it over the course of the day, but it did feel familiar.

And Farnham? That felt like another world now. Like a dream.

He quickly moved on. He wasn’t sure what awaited him at… at Tsi Huen’s house… but he felt an obligation to go back there. Cameron was expecting him, for a start, but he had got to like Wu Chung’s son in the few hours he had spent in the boy’s company. He had a quiet dignity about him, and Sherlock wanted to make sure he was going to be all right.

A Western face flashed past him, heading across his path, and Sherlock had to look twice before he recognized Cameron’s father — Malcolm Mackenzie. The reason he was so difficult to recognize was that his face was twisted into what Sherlock first thought was a scowl, but then recognized as a frown of worry and concern.

Sherlock was about to shrug it off as a chance encounter and continue on his own way when he realized that Malcolm Mackenzie was being followed. Something was slipping through the crowd behind him.