Snake Bite

CHAPTER NINE

Whatever it was that was following Malcolm Mackenzie, Sherlock couldn’t make out its shape. He only had a rough idea of its size, which was about that of a large dog. Mainly he could just see movement, a blur as something passed in front of walls or vegetation. He shifted around, trying to get a better view, but it was impossible. Whatever was following Cameron’s father seemed always to be behind a person or a tree or a cart. It had an amazing ability to stay hidden.

Sherlock suspected it was the same thing he had glimpsed in the garden of the Mackenzie house the night before. Maybe it hadn’t been a burglar, but had been watching Malcolm Mackenzie for some reason, observing him from a distance. Or maybe it was a burglar and it was still targeting him as a victim.

Sherlock found himself torn. On the one hand he wanted to get back to Cameron, and to Wu Fung-Yi and his mother, but on the other hand he wanted to find out what this thing was and why it was following Malcolm Mackenzie. The latter won. Instead of going straight on, he diverted sideways, keeping Cameron’s father in sight. He knew that if he kept his eyes on Malcolm Mackenzie then all three of them would end up at the same place. Wherever that turned out to be.

Strangely, nobody really took any notice of this mysterious thing that was slipping past them. Some people turned around, confused for a moment, as it passed, but when they saw nothing there they scratched their heads and went back to what they had been doing.

Fortunately, Sherlock was able to keep following Mr Mackenzie without being seen himself. Partly this was because the follower was intent on its quarry while Malcolm Mackenzie was staring grimly ahead, jaw clenched hard, and partly it was because Sherlock was effectively in disguise. He thought about getting rid of the bamboo pole and the buckets, to make it easier to get through the crowd, but decided for the moment to retain them. He could always throw them away later, if he needed to.

Mackenzie was heading uphill. The closer he got to the top, the larger, more ornate and more colourful the buildings became. They were spaced further apart as well, so that each building had a cleared area of space around it. That made things more difficult for his tracker, as it had fewer and fewer areas of shadow to keep to. Twice Sherlock saw it dash across an area of open ground, but frustratingly he still couldn’t make out what it was — only that it seemed to be running on two legs and crouching low to the ground.

Eventually there was only one building ahead — a massive, sprawling construction on the top of the hill with walls so white they dazzled the eye. Its roof was made of yellow tiles and it was surrounded by cherry trees. Guards, dressed similarly to those outside the city gate, stood beside the various doorways, and at the corners of the building. Sherlock decided that it had to be the residence of someone important — perhaps the Prefect that Captain Bryan had mentioned.

The crowd had thinned out as well, so that the only people around were those going to the building — the Residence, as Sherlock decided to think of it — and coming away from it.

From the top of the hill the whole of Shanghai spread out below Sherlock. He could see the twisty streets and the broad thoroughfares that crossed them. He could see the square houses with their hidden gardens forming splashes of green in their centre. He could see the walls of the town, holding everything inside in a tight embrace. Beyond the walls he could see the blue waters of the South China Seas glittering in the sunshine. Several ships were lined up along the quayside — including the Gloria Scott, which he recognized from the masts and the rigging with which he had become so familiar over the past few months. He could also see the long grey bulk of the USS Monocacy. Her steam-driven wheels were turning, and white steam was emerging from her funnels. She was preparing to leave the dock and head up the Yangtze River.

Turning his attention back to the buildings, Sherlock saw Mr Mackenzie heading directly for the Residence’s main entrance, but whatever was following him seemed to have vanished. The main entrance was a formidable double-gate made of thick wood and studded with metal bolts. It had four guards standing on either side of it. A Chinese official stood directly in front of the gates. He wore a long embroidered robe with big sleeves, and a small black brimless hat on his head. People were going up to him and talking for a moment, and he would either let them in through the gates or send them away. Most people were sent away, with only a trickle heading in. Sherlock noticed that at least some of the people who got in handed across a purse of coins to the gatekeeper. The transactions were quick and well hidden by the official’s long sleeves. Bribes? Perhaps.

As well as the arriving and departing townsfolk, some people had stalls from which they were selling drinks, snacks and hats to keep off the sun. Sherlock walked past the official in front of the main entrance and found a space near enough to listen to what was being said without being observed. He crouched down and kept his hat low over his face, hoping anyone who did notice him would take him for a beggar.

Malcolm Mackenzie was third from the front of the queue. He kept twitching and moving as if there was something bothering him.

Sherlock glanced around as surreptitiously as he could. He was looking for the mysterious follower. Surely it couldn’t have disappeared? Eventually he saw it — or at least he saw something that he thought was it — in a cherry tree overlooking the Residence. Foliage and blossom concealed it, but Sherlock could see the branch bending under its weight, and while there were birds in all the other trees this one was empty of wildlife. They had obviously been scared off.

‘My name is Malcolm Mackenzie,’ Cameron’s father said in Cantonese when he finally reached the official. ‘I need to speak to Prefect Chen urgently.’

‘Have you applied for an appointment?’ the official asked calmly.

‘No. As I said — this is urgent.’

‘Ah.’ The official took his hands from his sleeves and spread them wide in a shrug. ‘All business is urgent to those who have it, but what is urgent to one man may be trivial to another.’

‘I promise you, this is an emergency,’ Mackenzie said with obvious frustration.

‘Nobody ever comes to the Prefect saying, “I have a small matter which has no real importance and can wait”,’ the official pointed out imperturbably.

Mackenzie looked ready to swear, but instead he pushed a hand into his pocket and came out with a handful of coins. ‘Will this make my business more urgent?’ he snapped, thrusting the coins under the official’s nose.

The official looked pained. ‘Regrettably,’ he said, ‘it will not.’ Sherlock suspected it was the aggressiveness with which the bribe had been offered, rather than the size, that was the problem. Or perhaps only Chinese people could bribe Chinese officials.

‘May I know when an appointment can be made?’ Mackenzie asked through clenched teeth.

‘For that, you will need to speak to the Prefect’s appointments secretary.’ The official inclined his head. ‘He is at the Gate of Celestial Blessings, which is on the other side of the Residence.’

Mackenzie’s hands were clenching and unclenching. ‘Could I perhaps leave a message for the Prefect?’

‘You may leave a message, and I will ensure that it is passed to the Prefect’s correspondence secretary. If he decides that it is important enough then he will pass it on.’

‘Do you,’ Mackenzie said, ‘have a brush, ink and paper?’

‘There will undoubtedly be someone around here selling those items,’ the official said smoothly. ‘And for an additional sum he will surely be able to phrase the message in a way that will catch the Prefect’s ear.’

Mackenzie nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he snapped, although it was clear that he would have liked to say something else.

Sherlock watched as Mackenzie turned away and looked for someone who could write a message for him, or provide the means with which he could write his own message. A stall near to the corner of the Residence seemed to have what he wanted. He headed for it. Unfortunately, few other people were down at that end of the wall, and Sherlock suspected that if he tried to follow he would be seen by Cameron’s father, disguise or no disguise.

Sherlock turned his head to look at the cherry tree. The branch that had been bowed down earlier was now at its normal height, and there were birds perching on the higher twigs. The mysterious follower had moved tree, or had left altogether.

When Sherlock looked back towards the letter-writer’s stall, the stallholder was rolling a paper up and sealing it shut with a blob of red wax. He handed it across to Mackenzie with a flourish. Cameron’s father snatched it away and virtually ran across to the official in front of the main gates, bypassing the queue of Chinese townspeople who were already there. He tried to hand the scroll to the man directly, but the official shook his head with a sorrowful expression on his face.

‘Please — join the queue at the back,’ he said. ‘I will take it from you in due course.’

‘This really is urgent!’ Mackenzie protested.

‘What is urgent today is of passing interest tomorrow,’ the official said as if he was quoting something. ‘Clouds pass in front of the sun and then are gone.’

Mackenzie stared at him for a long moment, then grudgingly went to the end of the queue, which by this time consisted of about ten people. Impatiently, he waited as they were dealt with one by one, tapping the scroll against his leg. Eventually he was in front of the official again.

‘Yes?’ the official asked.

Mackenzie looked at him in disbelief. ‘I need the Prefect to see this,’ he said. ‘Is there a way to get it to him?’

The official took the scroll. ‘I will pass it to the Prefect’s correspondence secretary. After that, the matter is in the hands of the gods.’ Slipping the scroll into one of his voluminous sleeves, he clapped his hands together twice. A younger official, also in robes, ran through the gates from inside the Residence. The official passed the scroll to him with a flurry of instructions in a language that Sherlock didn’t recognize. Was that the Mandarin language that he had heard about — the language reserved for officials and for the Manchu rulers? The younger man ran off, disappearing inside the Residence again.

‘It is done,’ the official said to Malcolm Mackenzie, bowing. ‘May blessings rain down on you like blossom from the cherry tree.’

‘And may your honour and wealth increase steadily, like a trickle that becomes a stream and then a river,’ Mackenzie replied. It was obviously a rote response: something that was expected in conversation with high-class Chinese. He stared at the official for a long moment, obviously debating whether or not to add something else, but eventually he turned and walked away, hands clenched by his sides. Passing on the message obviously hadn’t relieved his worries.

Sherlock gave him a few minutes’ head start, then he gathered up his buckets and his bamboo pole and headed downhill. With the mysterious follower gone, or hidden, there was no point in hanging around, and Cameron’s father was almost certainly heading back home, disappointed, so there was no point in following him.

His sense of direction had always been pretty good, and he quickly found his way back to a cross-street that he knew would take him back to the Wu family house on East Renmin Street.

Within ten minutes he was outside the house. The street was empty apart from a handful of passers-by. Leaving his bamboo pole and buckets at the side of the road, Sherlock gingerly walked up to the door and knocked on the door frame.

Cameron appeared in the opening. He looked tired, drained.

‘What’s been happening?’ Sherlock asked him.

Rather than answer, Cameron slipped out of the house and joined Sherlock. ‘Some friends and relatives have come round,’ he said. ‘They’re speaking so fast I can hardly keep up. A Taoist priest is here, and the body is being prepared for burial.’

Sherlock nodded. ‘How are Tsi Huen and Wu Fung-Yi?’

‘What’s the phrase? “As well as can be expected”.’ He shrugged. ‘This is the tropics. People die all the time here. It’s… expected. Or at least, it’s not unusual.’

‘This is,’ Sherlock muttered.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I just don’t believe that a snake could have made its way to Wu Chung’s bedroom and out again without help and without being seen. The distance was too far, and there were no windows, and Wu Fung-Yi was positive that he’d stopped up any holes in the walls or the floor.’

‘What are you saying?’ Cameron’s face was a picture of curiosity.

Sherlock’s voice was grim. ‘I’m saying that the snake was introduced deliberately. I think Wu Chung was murdered!’

‘But why?’ Cameron asked, obviously stunned.

Sherlock shrugged. ‘Maybe it was something to do with the fact that he’d just got back. Maybe there was someone here who hated him enough to kill him.’ He paused, sorting through the possibilities. ‘Or maybe people resented the fact that he’d got a job with the Americans and wanted to punish him. There’s obviously a lot of local discontent.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, but he was a cook. An assistant cook.’

‘He was a cook, yes, but with a job on an American military ship,’ Sherlock said. The words suddenly triggered a memory. ‘Captain Bryan told me that the Head Cook on the Monocacy had died after being bitten by a snake. That can’t be a coincidence, can it?’

‘It’s an intriguing theory,’ Cameron said, cocking his head to one side and staring at Sherlock. ‘But there’s no evidence. All you have is a story that fits the facts, but I could come up with a story just as plausible.’

‘Like what?’

‘Give me a minute and I’ll think of one.’

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, wondering whether to say the next words or not. ‘Look, Cameron — I saw your father earlier, when I was coming back from the quay. He was heading up to the Prefect’s Residence, and he was in a hurry. He wanted an audience. He didn’t get in, so he wrote a message and got an official to take it in for him. He stressed that it was urgent. Cameron — I think he knows what’s going on. That thing from the garden last night — it was following him!’

‘You followed my father,’ Cameron said quietly. His tone was quiet and level. Sherlock couldn’t tell whether he was angry, surprised or intrigued. Or perhaps he was a mixture of all three.

‘Yes,’ Sherlock replied. ‘I did. You would have done the same thing if you had seen him.’

Cameron stared at Sherlock for a long moment. ‘Actually, you’re right,’ he said eventually. ‘I probably would have done.’ He sighed, and looked away. ‘He’s been acting strangely recently: irritable, argumentative and easily distracted. You saw what he was like at breakfast this morning. Even Mother is worried about him. I think something is wrong.’ His mouth twisted suddenly, and Sherlock realized with surprise how worried Cameron was about his father, and how hard he was trying to hide it.

‘I really think he knows what’s going on,’ Sherlock repeated. ‘Or at least, he has an idea.’ He felt his pulse pounding as the excitement of putting facts together to form a brick wall of evidence started to get to him. ‘Did you see, in the garden last night, Mr Arrhenius gave your father a package? I think I know what it was. I saw a set of pictures in his cabin, on the Gloria Scott. They looked like spider’s webs. I think that’s what Mr Arrhenius delivered to your father.’ He suddenly remembered the pirate attack. ‘And I think there are people trying to get hold of those pictures. Pirates attacked the Gloria Scott and one of them sneaked into Mr Arrhenius’s cabin, looking for something. Then there’s that thing from the garden last night — I think it might be looking for the pictures too.’

Cameron’s eyes flickered with interest. ‘What was it? Did you see?’

‘It moved too quickly,’ Sherlock said. ‘And it kept hiding in shadows. I couldn’t get a clear line of sight.’

‘So what are we going to do?’ Cameron sighed. ‘We think there’s some kind of plot afoot involving the USS Monocacy but we don’t know what it is. We think my father is involved, but we don’t know how. We think these spider pictures are important, but we don’t know why. Is that a fair summary?’

‘Pretty much.’ Sherlock scratched his head. ‘I suppose we could always ask your father what’s going on. He might tell us.’

‘Possible, but not likely. We might be better off trying to find those spider pictures you talked about. They might tell us more.’

‘All right,’ Sherlock said. ‘Let’s do it.’

The two boys stared at each other for a moment, each one hoping that the other one was going to move first. Eventually Cameron broke the stalemate.

‘Come on then,’ he said brusquely. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

As they walked away, Sherlock wondered if he would ever see Wu Fung-Yi or his mother again. Would he remember even their faces in a year or two, or would it be just their names? It seemed such a waste, to have fragments of memories like that floating around inside his head, disconnected from anything real or important. He wished that he could remember perfectly everything that he had ever seen, read or heard, or that he had the ability to erase memories that he didn’t need any more. As it was, he still remembered the nicknames and faces of the boys he had studied with at Deepdene School, and he wasn’t likely ever to need those memories again.

The two of them made their way back to the Mackenzie family home through the by-now familiar streets of Shanghai. It was mid-afternoon, and the sun was shining down from an enamel-blue sky. Cameron stopped abruptly at one point as they passed a stall selling noodles. He threw a few coins at the stallholder and came away with two woven bamboo baskets of noodles mixed in with fragments of meat and covered with a sauce. ‘Here,’ he said, handing one over. ‘Eat this. It’s been a long time since breakfast.’

‘I suppose it has,’ Sherlock said, suddenly realizing that he was ravenous. He took one bamboo container, which came with two wooden sticks, and he used the sticks to shovel noodles into his mouth as they walked. The sauce was sweet and spicy, and the whole thing tasted wonderful. Why was food in England so bland? he wondered.

By the time they reached Cameron’s house they had finished the noodles. Cameron threw the baskets away. ‘Mother doesn’t like me eating in the street,’ he said apologetically. ‘She thinks I’ll catch some terrible disease.’

‘Maybe you’re protecting yourself from disease, by eating the local food and playing with the local kids,’ Sherlock suggested. ‘Maybe the people who stay indoors all the time and isolate themselves from everything are the ones who catch the first disease they encounter, rather than shrug it off.’

Cameron stared at him. ‘You know you think too much, don’t you?’

When they went inside, there was nobody around. The door to Mr Mackenzie’s study was closed — possibly he was inside, doing the important work that he had been talking about at breakfast. Did it involve those spider diagrams? Sherlock wondered. Mrs Mackenzie wasn’t anywhere obvious in the house, but Cameron said that she would often go and lie down for a while.

Neither of the boys wanted to open the door to Malcolm Mackenzie’s study so that they could try to find the spider diagrams. Instead they gravitated towards Cameron’s room. While Cameron flung himself down on his bed and lay there, an arm across his eyes, Sherlock found a notebook and sketched what he could remember of the snake bite on Wu Chung’s back. There was something about that snake bite that still bothered him. As best he could, he drew out the two different fang marks — the one that looked like an ordinary bite mark and the ragged one that looked as if it had been made by a broken fang. He also tried to get the spacing between the marks correct. He wasn’t sure why it was important that he kept a record, but he wanted to make sure that he had it to hand if he needed it.

Just as he had got the sketch the way he wanted it, recording accurately the wound he had seen on Wu Chung’s back, he suddenly heard a gong being rung somewhere outside.

‘That’s the signal for afternoon tea,’ Cameron said, taking his arm off his face. ‘I guess we missed our chance to go and search Father’s study.’

‘That was bravado talking,’ Sherlock said. ‘I don’t think either of us really thought we were going to do it.’

Quickly they washed their faces and hands, and changed into fresh shirts. Cameron led the way across the rock and sand garden and towards the main areas of the house.

Mrs Mackenzie was already in the sitting room, where pots of tea and coffee, and a host of small cakes, had been set out. She smiled at the boys. ‘Did you have a nice day?’

Cameron shrugged, but Sherlock smiled at her. He liked Mrs Mackenzie. ‘Yes, thank you. Cameron’s a great guide to the area.’

She reached out and ruffled Cameron’s hair. He pulled away, embarrassed. ‘Yes, he’s great at so many things,’ she said proudly. She glanced towards the door. ‘Malcolm’s going to miss out on all the cakes if he doesn’t hurry up. Cameron — be a dear and fetch your father.’

Cameron grabbed a plate and a cake and, despite his mother’s disapproving look, walked out of the dining room holding the one and eating the other. Sherlock wandered across to the table. ‘Would you like me to pour you a cup of tea?’ he asked.

‘That would be lovely,’ Mrs Mackenzie said.

Outside, across the corridor, Sherlock heard Cameron knocking on the door.

‘Father? You’re missing out on cakes and tea!’

There was obviously no answer, because Cameron knocked again. ‘Father? Are you in there?’

Sherlock became aware that Mrs Mackenzie was sitting perfectly still, listening to what was going on with a concerned expression on her face.

‘Father?’ Cameron knocked again. Moments later, Sherlock heard the sound of a door being pushed open.

The next thing he heard was a cry of pure anguish — ‘Father!’ — and the sound of a plate smashing on the floor.