“And I’ll assist you to the limit of my being,” Gordon said fervently. Ten heads should satisfy even you, Tai-Pan. Pity Chen Sheng is family, otherwise he’d be the perfect one to set up as the “head Triad.” With any joss at all I’d be next in line to be compradore of The Noble House. Don’t worry, Jin-qua will assist you to find the right decoy. “Tai-Pan. To more important things. What about this editorial? Is Hong Kong finished? We stand to lose a fortune. It would be disastrous if we lost the island.”
“There are a few minor problems. But they’ll be settled. Hong Kong’s permanent. This Government will be out of office soon. Dinna worry. The Noble House and Hong Kong are one.”
Gordon Chen’s anxiety disappeared. “Are you sure? This Cunnington will be removed?”
“One way or another. Aye.”
He looked at his father with admiration. Ah, he thought, even by assassination. Excellent. He would have liked to tell the Tai-Pan that he had eliminated Gorth and thus saved his life. But this could wait until a more important time, he said to himself, filled with delight. “Excellent, Tai-Pan. You’ve reassured me marvelously. I agree. The Noble House and Hong Kong
are one.” If they’re not, you’re a dead duckling, he thought. But you’d better not set foot on the mainland ever again. Not with this Triad story set in motion. No. You’re committed to Hong Kong. It’s your palace or your tomb. “Then we’d better expand, gamble heavily. I will work to make Hong Kong very strong. Oh yes. You can depend on me! Thank you, Tai-Pan, for reassuring me.”
“My Lady wished to say hello. Go below, eh?”
“Thank you. And thank you for warning me about that ridiculous but dangerous story.” Gordon Chen bowed and left.
Struan had watched his son very carefully. Is he or is he na? he asked himself. The surprise could have been real, and what he said makes a lot of sense. I dinna ken. But if Gordon
is, you’ll have to be very clever to catch him. And what then?
Struan found Skinner in the printing-press room of the
Oriental Times. It was stifling and noisy. He complimented the newspaperman on the way he had handled the release.
“Don’t worry, Tai-Pan,” Skinner said. “There’s a follow-up issue tomorrow.” He handed the proof sheet to Struan. “I’ll be glad when this cursed summer’s over.” He was wearing his usual black broadcloth frockcoat and heavy trousers.
Struan read the article. It was filled with invective and sarcasm and emphasized that all traders should band together to bombard Parliament and destroy Cunnington.
“I’d say this would make a few of the lads break out in a rash,” Struan said approvingly.
“I certainly hope so.” Skinner held his arms away from his sides to relieve the fiery itch in his armpits. “Cursed heat! You take your life in your hands, Tai-Pan, walking out in the night like that,” he said.
Struan wore only a light shirt and linen trousers and thin boots. “You should try it. You’ll sweat less—and no prickly heat.”
“Don’t mention that cursed plague. Nothing to do with heat, it’s a summer flux. Man was born to sweat.”
“Aye, and to be curious. You mentioned something in your note about a strange codicil to Longstaff s agreement with Viceroy Ching-so. What was it?”
“Just one of those strange bits of information a newspaperman collects.” Skinner wiped his face with a rag, which left ink stains in its wake, and sat back on the high stool. He told Struan about the seeds. “Mulberries, camellias, rice, tea, all sorts of flowers.”
Struan brooded awhile, “Aye, that’s curious, right enough.”
“Longstaff’s no gardener that I know of. Perhaps it was Sinclair’s idea—he’s a bent for gardening. At least his sister has.” Skinner watched the Chinese coolies working at the printing press. “I hear she’s quite sick.”
“The lass is recovering, I’m happy to say. The doctor said it was a stomach flux.”
“I hear Brock was aboard the flagship this afternoon.”
“Your information’s very good.”
“I was wondering whether I should be preparing an obituary.”
“Sometimes I dinna find your humor amusing.”
The sweat ran down Skinner’s jowels and dropped onto his soiled shirt. “That wasn’t meant as a pleasantry, Tai-Pan.”
“Well, I’m taking it as such,” Struan said easily. “Bad joss to talk about obituaries.” He watched the press spewing out tomorrow’s paper. “I had a thought about Whalen. Longstaff named the old town Queen’s Town. Now we have a new town. Perhaps Whalen should have the honor of choosing another name.”
Skinner chuckled. “That would involve him nicely. What name have you decided on, Tai-Pan?”
“Victoria.”
“I like it. Victoria, eh? In one simple stroke Longstaff’s obliterated. Take it as ‘suggested,’ Tai-Pan. Leave that to me. Whalen will never realize it wasn’t his own idea—I guarantee.” Skinner scratched his belly contentedly. “When do I own the paper?”
“The day Hong Kong’s accepted by the Crown and the Treaty’s ratified by both governments.” Struan gave him a document. “It’s all down here. My chop’s on it. Of course, provided the
Oriental Times is still a going concern at that time.”
“Have you any doubt, Tai-Pan?” Skinner asked happily. He could see the future clearly. Ten years, he told himself. Then I’ll be rich. Then I’ll go home and marry a squire’s daughter and buy a small manor house in Kent and start a paper in London. Yes, Morley, old lad, he thought, you’ve come a long way from the alleys of Limehouse and that pox-ridden orphanage and gutter scavenging. God curse those devils who birthed me and left me. “Thank you, Tai-Pan. I won’t fail, never fear.”
“By the way, you might like an exclusive story. Cinchona cures the malaria of Happy Valley.”
Skinner was momentarily speechless. “Oh my God, Tai-Pan, that’s not a story—that’s immortality.” He finally blurted. “Exclusive, did you say? This is the greatest story in the world! Of course,” he added craftily, “the peg to that story is the ‘she’—or ‘he’—who was cured.”
“Write what you like—but dinna involve me or mine.”
“No one’ll ever believe it unless they’ve seen the cure with their own eyes. The doctors will say it’s hogwash.”
“Let ’em. Their patients will die. Say so!” Struan told him bluntly. “
I believe the story so much that I’m putting a substantial investment into it. Cooper and I are now partners in the cinchona business. We’ll have stocks available in six months.”
“Can I print that?”
Struan laughed shortly. “I’d na tell you if it was secret.”
On Queen’s Road, Struan was blasted by the heat of the night. The moon was high and misted in a sky almost completely cloud-locked. But as yet there was no nimbus.
He set off down the road and did not stop until he had reached the dockyard. There he turned inland slightly, down a shabby potholed street. He went up a short flight of stairs and into a house.
“Bless my soul,” Mrs. Fortheringill said, her false teeth making her smile grotesque. She was in the parlor having supper—kippers and brown bread and a flagon of ale. “Ladies,” she called out, and rang a bell that was attached to her belt. “Nothing like a good frolic on a hot night, I always say.” She noticed Struan was in shirtsleeves. “No wasted time undressing, is that the idea, Tai-Pan?”