15

CHRISTMAS MESSAGES

BY PHONOGRAPH RECORDS

LONDON, Nov. 12.

A number of Australians living in London are taking advantage of the opportunity of sending messages to friends in Australia at Christmas by means of personal phonograph records. The novelty allows of a 90 seconds record for one shilling. The record is delivered to the customer before he leaves the shop.

Sir Edward Macartney (Agent-General for Queensland) is sending greetings to the Brisbane Golf Club in this manner.

Sydney Morning Herald, 14 November 1930

They argued and drank well into the night. Milton was adamant that handing over the disc to Randolph would be a mistake; Rowland and Clyde were reluctant to withhold evidence that might lead to Alexandra Romanova’s killer. Edna did not want to do anything that might make matters worse for Rowland, and Wing would say nothing but that he would do or not do whatever they wanted him to.

“Right,” Milton said finally. “What say you take the recording to your lawyers, Rowly? Let that fellow Carmel decide what to do with it. At least then they can prepare your defence first.”

Rowland glanced at Clyde. It seemed a reasonable compromise. “Very well, that’s what we’ll do.”

Edna leaned drowsily against Rowland’s shoulder. “Thank goodness that’s sorted.”

“What about the other message, sir?” Wing picked up a third silver disc.

“I guess we’d better listen to it,” Rowland said half-heartedly. It was already one in the morning.

Wing placed the disc carefully on the turntable, wound the gramophone’s handle, and set the needle.

“Yes… Sinclair… Sinclair? How does this infernal contraption work? Oh yes then. Alastair Blanshard here. Look, Sinclair, I’m leaving Shanghai for a couple of days. I’ll be in touch when I return. There are a couple of things you should know. In the meantime, I want you to be particularly careful. Do not take any chances. I’ll explain when I get back. With regards and so forth—Blanshard.”

Rowland groaned, suppressing a curse. Blanshard and his ridiculous obsession with cloak and dagger! He had no idea what exactly the Old Guardsman was doing in Shanghai, but it appeared he was at least still playing at being a spy.

For a few moments they contemplated the recording, and then Clyde broke the somnolent silence.

“So, Rowly, what do you think?”

Rowland shifted, trying not to wake Edna who had fallen asleep on his shoulder. “It’s my considered opinion we should go to bed and deal with it in the morning.”

Milton stretched. “I’ll second that.” He poked the sculptress. “Wake up, Ed. You’re too fat to carry up to bed.”

Edna was not so deeply asleep that the poet did not get a fitting response.

Rowland laughed as he helped her to her feet. “Our troubles will still be here in the morning… perhaps by then it will all make a little more sense.”

Rowland was the first to wake the next morning. He had again slept fitfully, haunted by Alexandra’s last message. What had she wanted to speak to him about? What could she have needed to explain? Surely it had to be something more than why she couldn’t meet him for tea. He showered and dressed and slipped downstairs, still contemplating the recording. Kiangse Road was already busy though it was barely light. The clatter of rickshaws passing the louvered shutters, the faint cacophony of languages.

Rowland stared at the silver discs beside the gramophone. They were all simply marked “Sinclair”. He’d have to play them again to determine which was which. Bracing himself, he wound the gramophone. Alexandra’s message was the second and as chilling and tragic in the light of day as it had been the evening before. Rowland ran a hand through his hair as she signed off, allowing the disc to run while he mentally replayed everything she’d ever said to him. Another voice caught his attention, a man’s voice. Faint, speaking what sounded like French.

“Votre Majesté!”

Rowland looked up sharply. Your Majesty?

Alexandra’s voice. “I’m sorry. Don’t. Please, I’m coming.”

And then nothing. Rowland moved the needle and listened again. He let the disc play out in case there was anything else. There was not.

Edna came down the stairs in pyjamas. “Rowly? What on earth are you doing up so early? It’s barely six in the morning.”

He beckoned her over and played her the end of the recording that they’d missed the night before.

“Votre Majesté? She’s not—”

“I don’t know. It seems unlikely.”

“Still, Romanova.”

“There are probably thousands of Romanovas. Ed—it doesn’t mean… The Russian royal family was executed by the Bolsheviks.”

Edna pushed the oversized sleeves of her pyjamas up to her elbows. Though she’d awoken only shortly before, her eyes were bright. “There are rumours that the youngest princess escaped.”

Rowland rubbed the back of his neck absently. He had of course heard the widespread speculation that the Princess Anastasia had survived. There were even stories that both Anastasia and her brother, the tsarevich, had been spared or escaped the slaughter of the Romanovs—a romantic hope more than anything else. “Surely if she was a princess in hiding from the Bolsheviks, she wouldn’t call herself Romanova?”

“Perhaps the Romanov name is all she has left.”

Rowland began to wonder now. There had been a sense of divine right to Alexandra’s determination to return to Russia… but that was possibly common to all aristocrats. “She sounded terrified.”

“Of someone who called her ‘your Majesty’.” Edna reset the needle and listened again. “I’m certain he’s not a Frenchman,” she said. “His accent isn’t right.”

Rowland nodded. Edna’s mother had been French and her mother’s language had been her first. He could hear it now, himself. An unnecessary heaviness in the r… not obvious but the man was probably not French.

Edna took him by the hand. “Come with me, I’m going to teach you how to make a pot of tea.”

“Why?”

“Because a grown man should not be quite so helpless without servants.”

Though he did not think making tea could possibly be that complicated, Rowland allowed her to lead him into the kitchen and show him how to scald and warm the pot, measure out the leaves and steep the brew. He was, in the end, surprised that the task was so involved. But by the time the rest of the household descended to the lower floor, he had made tea for them all.

Edna ran upstairs to dress, while Rowland played the men the end of the recording.

“Do you have any inkling as to who that might be, Mr. Wing?”

“There are a great many people in Shanghai who speak French, sir.”

“Including you, Rowly,” Milton noted.

“Still, it’s something.” Clyde sampled the tea. “Not bad, Rowly. You’ll be pressing your own suits next.”

“Let’s not get carried away.”

The notion was rendered unnecessary by the arrival of Ranjit Singh and his sister Harjeet. Harjeet Kaur Bal was a physically substantial woman, strong and cheerful. Her children were now grown and married themselves. She missed organising their day-to-day lives, being busy and needed, and so she had responded enthusiastically when her brother had told her of the hapless Australians who were in need of help. Their difficulties with the police aside, Harjeet trusted her brother’s assessment that these were good people, modern and a little wild in the way that Westerners were, but decent. They would pay well, he assured her, and he would be nearby. And so Harjeet arrived at Kiangse Road ready to take over the running of Victor Sassoon’s house.

She liked Rowland Sinclair immediately. His British reserve was mitigated by an easy smile and his manners were impeccable. Milton Isaacs was a rascal, Harjeet thought, but not a bad boy. Clyde Watson Jones seemed a little older and perhaps wiser, but he was very respectful. Harjeet might have been scandalised by the easy familiarity with which Edna Higgins dealt with the men, but the young woman was a Westerner and Western women in Shanghai were often unconcerned about their reputations. In any case, Harjeet felt a creeping admiration of the utter lack of self-consciousness in Edna’s manner. It was endearing more than shocking.

Wing Zau attempted to apprise Harjeet of the contents of the pantry and her duties, but she shooed him away, declaring that she had run households since before he wore trousers. He made a rather futile attempt to exert his authority and the exchange became somewhat heated before Wing emerged from the kitchen defeated. In twenty minutes, Harjeet Bal served them a breakfast of savoury pancakes and vegetable curry, accompanied by coffee and fresh fruit.

“Right.” Rowland stood, having eaten his fill. “I’d better take Alexandra’s recording to Mr. Carmel, and then see if I can track down Andrew Petty. I’ve probably missed a couple of meetings already.”

“Give us a moment to finish breakfast—”

“There’s no need for you all to come—I expect it’ll be rather dull. We’ve barely had a chance to look around Shanghai properly. Why don’t you take the taxi and explore. I can walk to the Bund from here.”

“Shouldn’t I come with you, sir?” Wing rose.

“No, Mr. Carmel speaks English quite well for a lawyer. The others may need you more than I.”

“Rowly, are you sure that Du chap—” Clyde began.

“Mr. Du is no longer a problem. I telephoned the bank this morning.” Rowland glanced at his watch. “I don’t expect I’ll be all that long. What say I catch up with you somewhere?”

“I think I’ll go with you anyway.” Clyde snatched the linen napkin from his collar and motioned towards Edna who had left the table to fetch her camera from the drawing room. “I’m a bit fed up with being Ed’s leading man.”

Milton snorted, lifting his chin haughtily. “Believe me, my friend, while I’m in the frame you’ve a supporting role at best.”

Clyde stood to retrieve his hat from the hook by the door. “Righto then, Rowly, we’ll leave Ed to make ‘An Idiot in Shanghai’ and go deliver this recording.”

Rowland laughed. “Fair enough. If Ed can spare you.” He stopped, turning back to Milton and Wing. “Shall we meet at the Cathay tea rooms—let’s say half past two? I’d like to have a look at the recording booths.”

His mouth full, the poet waved his fork in agreement.

The sculptress was already rolling film and so their farewell and departure was captured on celluloid.

The red door was barely closed behind them when Clyde raised the issue of Mrs. Dong, whose remains were still hidden beneath Clyde’s bed.

“What exactly were you supposed to do with Mrs. Dong?” Rowland asked.

“Danny wrote to his cousins to tell them to come to the Cathay, but since we’re no longer there…”

“Perhaps we should give Mrs. Dong into Van Hagen’s keeping.”

“We can’t just leave her there for collection like a lost hat. What if Van Hagen gives her to the wrong people?”

“How many people will come to the Cathay asking for human remains?”

“I don’t know, mate, but I promised Danny that I would look after the old girl.” Clyde sighed. “I was terrified of her when Danny and I were little tackers, but still…”

Rowland smiled. “Of course. We’ll sort something out—I’m sure the Cathay can simply alert us when Danny’s cousins turn up.”

“I hope they don’t take too long,” Clyde grumbled. “There’s only so long you can be expected to keep someone’s grandmother under the bed.”

They made their way down Kiangse Road, towards the Bund, picking through the press of people, dodging the occasional erratic rickshaw.

“One helluva job,” Rowland murmured as they watched a barefoot driver drag grown men in his rickshaw.

“It’s opium, you know.”

Rowland and Clyde turned to see Emily Hahn skipping to catch up with them. They stopped and she stepped between them, hooking her arms through theirs. “Most of the rickshaw drivers are opium addicts. Deadens the pain I expect.”

“Good morning, Mickey,” Rowland said, moving his head to avoid being hit by the feathers in her hat.

“I was just about to hail a rickshaw to work.”

“You don’t mind that the drivers are opium addicts?” Clyde asked.

She smiled up at him. “Opium is part of the real China, not to mention the muse of men like Coleridge and Cocteau. I’ve always wanted to be an opium addict myself.”

“We’re on our way to the Bund.” Rowland decided to leave the declaration alone. “We’d be pleased to escort you if you have the time to walk.”

“Well, thank you, I think I will.” She turned to look at Rowland, hitting Clyde in the face with the feathers in her hat. “Are you going to see your lawyers?”

“How did you—?”

“I’m a journalist, Rowland. I’m not covering the murder but, you know, old habits.”

“I see.”

“Her brother called by the Cathay looking for you, you know.”

“I didn’t.”

“Yesterday evening. He seemed quite agitated. Victor and I had just come in from the boat. Of course, the staff have been instructed to tell no one where you are. Poor chap. Inspector Randolph intercepted him, took him for questioning there and then.”

“Why did Randolph want to question him?”

“Beats me.”

“And afterwards?”

“I don’t know. Victor and I went dancing.”

The conversation fell into matters less consequential then. Emily told them a little of her time in the Congo where it appeared she had developed a love for primates.

“What exactly brought you to Shanghai?” Rowland asked.

“A broken heart. Shanghai’s the kind of place that helps you to forget.”

“I see. I’m terribly sorry.”

“Victor advises against throwing sentiment away on self-pitying drunks.” She sighed. “He’s right, of course. He’s been very kind and attentive… but then Victor does have a soft spot for girls with broken hearts. And what about you gentlemen? I have bared my soul now you must do the same.”

“Rowly is here on family business,” Clyde replied. “The rest of us just came along for the ride.”

The feathers slapped Rowland’s chin now. “That’s hardly baring your soul. Try harder, Mr. Jones!”

“Well, I’m afraid…”

“That’s really all there is to it, Mickey.” Rowland came to Clyde’s rescue. “We’re utterly dull.”

“Well, we’ll just have to do what we can to make you more interesting!”

Rowland laughed. “That’s very kind of you.”

“You can start by coming to Bernadine’s salon tomorrow evening.”

“Bernadine?”

“Mrs. Szold-Fritz. A dear friend from Chicago who’s settled here. Bernadine is one of nature’s catalysts, like manganese dioxide. She makes things happen!”

“I’m afraid we haven’t had the pleasure.”

“I’ll arrange for invitations if you must hang on such formalities.”

They had by then reached the steps of the North China Daily News where Emily Hahn bid them farewell.

“Do you think she meant what she said about wanting to try opium?” Clyde whispered as they watched her walk up the steps.

“I believe she said she wanted to be an opium addict.”

“But do you think she meant it?”

“Yes.”