Part 18 (1/2)

Thank you for sweeping the gra.s.s from my grave. The Peony Pavilion Lin Chung enjoyed the wedding feast. The ceremony had been utterly foreign to the young bride, who had stood through the whole thing without understanding one word, looking at Tommy with an expression of lamb-like adoration which had even softened Great Aunt Wing (already much mollified by a strong exchange of views on morality with Old Lady Chang. Observers put the honours at about even). And Lin supposed that the earlier ceremony had been just as incomprehensible. Who amongst most congregations under-stood the Latin ceremony? Tommy said that he had had to . . . well, not exactly lie, since he was not really of any religion, but sign something which said that his children were to be brought up Catholic. Might as well, reflected Lin Chung, handing over his present of money, wrapped in red paper.

The local priest would doubtless instruct them and any religion was better than none for the very young. It was a pity that Maisie's relatives had not attended, disgusted that she was marrying a Chinaman, but Tommy had every chance of success and even adamant families usually came round in time.

He wondered how Phryne was whiling away her evening. Waiting for him.

He s.h.i.+fted a little and turned his attention to the feast. He had eaten more feasts in the last few days than in the whole of his rather austere life. Although he did not live on rice and vegetables like Li Pen, he usually ate sparingly. He listlessly took up a hundred year old egg, its white as translucently black as Vegemite and its yolk a sulphurous yellow. He really couldn't eat any more and put it down in his bowl again. A duck egg, if he was any judge, a product of that band of sleepy quackers in the shed outside. He recalled watching two very important small children, armed with long wands made of rushes, drive the ducks into their sleeping quarters. They had been charming, and he was getting sleepy.

He refused another refill of wine and went back to drinking tea. Tonight, Lin Chung did not mean to sleep.

Tommy was feeding Maisie from his own bowl. For a girl who had never tasted Chinese food before, she was managing well. They looked very happy.

At long last the young men of the household took Tommy away, and the girls claimed Maisie. Ma.s.sed giggling announced that she had been stripped of her red wedding dress, dressed in her trousseau nightgown, combed, patted, kissed by all available children and put to bed. Shouts and gongs announced the arrival of Tommy, who was finally able to break free from his boisterous well-wishers and get through the bedroom door and it was, finally, shut and the revellers went away.

That was not the end of the feast, of course. The formal part was concluded and now everyone relaxed, nibbled more of their favourite delicacies and gossiped freely, not having to translate. Jokes, particularly, just didn't translate. Or, at least, they didn't translate into anything funny. Lin listened idly. He liked the sound of his own language, the flutter of syllables across various tones, not the high-pitched chirping of Mandarin. His ancestors had done well. He honoured them now as he had not before this journey into the past. They had braved a terrible sea voyage with hatred at the end of it; cruel weather and hard work had bent their backs. But they had persevered and prospered. They were still here. They were still Chinese.

Cousin Tan began to sing the closing aria from The Peony Pavilion, a tale of a scholar who marries a beautiful ghost. A Taoist nun brings the bride back to life, the lovers have to flee and are separated; and then the scholar wins fame at his examinations and they live happily ever after. Lin liked happy endings. He applauded and demanded another song.

The house rocked to the sound of the drunken poems of Li Po, and Maisie and Tommy ignored them all.

At half past eleven the household was going to bed and Lin went onto the verandah to look at the night. It was dark and still, moist, presaging rain.

'You are going out tonight?' asked Uncle Tao, coming out to enjoy the cool night air. The moon was full and as bright as a coin, casting faint blue shadows.

'Yes, into Castlemaine.'

'Be careful, Cousin. I heard a car driven down the Moonlight road screeching its tyres early in the evening. That usually means that the young men are abroad. When they are drunk they are unpleasant.'

Lin smiled. 'I will avoid them. It is not a young man I am going to see.'

'I guessed that,' said Uncle Tao reminiscently. 'One only has a few fragrant nights of spring. Store your memories for when you are old. You will enjoy them again under such a moon as this.'

'I will,' said Lin. He went back to his room to resume his ca.s.sock, got into the car and drove carefully to Castlemaine. The Imperial, he had ascertained, had a fire escape which was beautifully sited for access to Miss Fisher's room.

He did not have a chance to test it. When the big car swept around the corner into Lyttleton Street he was stopped by a sweating policeman.

'Sorry, Father, we're looking for a lady. Can I search the car?'

The policeman was so overwrought he did not even react to Lin Chung's Chinese face.

'A lady? Yes, of course, search all you like. Which lady?'

The policeman leaned in at the window, opened the back door, checked the boot and returned, touching his uniform helmet.

'Terrible thing. Lady kidnapped in the stable yard about seven, and Old Bill Gaskin as well, though what they wanted with Old Bill I can't imagine. Hang on! You wouldn't be called Lin, would you, Father?'

'Yes, I am Lin Chung,' said Lin, beginning to be seriously concerned.

'Go on to the Imperial, will you, Father? See my sergeant. There's a letter for you.'

Lin drove to the Imperial where a hara.s.sed porter tried to stop him, saw that he was a religious person, and allowed him to leave the car.

'Park it somewhere,' said Lin. 'Who is in charge of this investigation?'

Chinese was one thing but effortless authority was another and, adding the ca.s.sock to the equation, the door porter thought it best to allow Lin into the bar, where a worried owner was wringing his hands. A uniformed policeman was making notes in a notebook with one of those pencils which he had to keep licking, and Annie of Reception was crying like a fountain. Even the Imperial's guard dog was sitting in a corner, tail between its legs, whimpering occasionally.

'Excuse me,' said Lin. 'The policeman at the corner said that I should come here and speak to the sergeant. Is that you, sir?' he asked.

'You're Lin Chung?' demanded the policeman. 'Good! I'm Sergeant Hammond. Sit down, Father, here's the letter. We can't make head or tail of it.'

'The lady who was kidnapped, what is her name?' asked Lin urgently.

'Lady Phryne Fisher, and she was s.n.a.t.c.hed in the stable yard about seven. They took off down the road like bats out of h.e.l.l and we've not seen hide nor hair of them. Just this arvo I got a phone call from Jack Robinson in Melbourne asking me to take special care of her and now look what's happened. He's going to have me back pounding a beat before the night's out if I can't find her quick. Now, sir, can you tell me what this Lady Fisher means?'

Lin unfolded the letter. It was written in Phryne's fluid, italic hand with her very favourite black ink and the fountain pen he had given her. It smelt faintly of roses.

'Lin dear, if you are reading this it has all gone wrong. Call Dot for the whole story and lay hands, very quickly, on Roderick Cholmondeley and his mate Wallace. Bill Gaskin is the Beaconsfield heir. Also find Young Billy and keep him safe.'

'It is clear,' said Lin. A hollow was forming inside him.

'She had a meeting with these two men and they have kidnapped her. If you can find me a telephone I will get you more information. Detective Inspector Robinson has been looking for these two criminals for some time. They tried to murder a young lady in Melbourne. They are dangerous.'

'b.l.o.o.d.y wonderful,' said the sergeant. 'No one of that name staying in the hotel.'

'We will get a description,' said Lin. 'Let me telephone.'

'Have to send young Annie here over to work the exchange. It's closed.'

Annie looked at the imploring eyes of the dreamy young priest. She rose to the occasion, wiped her eyes, claimed a porter as escort, and went off to open the telephone exchange.

Lin rubbed his palms over his face. This was not the evening he had been expecting. Phryne must have been taken entirely off guard. It must have been a sudden, brutal, unexpected a.s.sault. She might have been injured, concussed, dying at this moment. Time was ticking past with all the dancing alacrity of an ice age. How long did it take to get to the telephone exchange, for G.o.d's sake? It was practically next door!

He became aware that his hands were clenched together so tightly that his knuckles were white. He released them. He might need his hands.

After what seemed like years he managed to get Dot on the telephone, and then gave it to Sergeant Hammond. Soon infor-mation was pouring into his receptive ear. He made notes. He shouted orders. He demanded the register. And he found one Thomas Atkins and his friend Joseph Smith. Neither of whom were in their well-sprung beds enjoying the country peace. And their car, a sleek new Bentley, was also missing. This galvanised the sergeant, who at last knew what to search for. He sent minions into the night, shouting some more.

Lin recaptured the instrument.

'Miss Dot?' he asked gently. 'It is Lin Chung.'

'Oh, Mr Lin!' wailed Dot. 'Shall I send Mr Li?'

'Yes,' said Lin. 'Put him on the first train and tell him that I shall be here, at this hotel. Do not distress yourself,' he said. 'I am sure that Phryne will be all right. She is very clever.'

'But this bloke bites the heads off chickens!' cried Dot, on whom this story had had a strong effect.

'Even so. I have to go now. I will call you as soon as I know anything. Good night,' he said, and heard the connection break on a sob. As he did so, he recalled Uncle Tao saying that a car had screamed up the Moonlight road earlier in the evening. Returning to give this piece of information to the distracted Sergeant Hammond, he found him bellowing at the door porter.

'What do you mean you can't find Young Billy?' he demanded.

The door porter had had enough of being yelled at as though he was deaf or stupid or both.