Brother Betrayed

Two

TwoDeputy Virgil Hale drew deeply on his cigar and blew the smoke in a continuous deliberate stream over his left shoulder, narrowly missing John’s face. Jaw clenched, he turned away from the deputy’s gray fumes and inhaled deep, long and slow. Air that smelt of smouldering wood filled his lungs and he willed himself to relax.

He had been awake since the fire shattered his sleep eight hours ago, and fatigue and frustration were weakening his self-control. His injured leg hurt like blazes, but he stood grimly gazing at the ruins of the house he had hoped would provide a cherished sanctuary for his future wife and family. A day ago he was a successful respected businessman with the reasonable hope that the woman he chose would accept him and his fine Gold House without hesitation. Now he stood in the eye of a maelstrom; home gone, treasured father figure dead — almost certainly murdered — under his roof, his family partners locked in a deadly feud. And this mulish lawman couldn’t be less concerned.

In the dazed hours after the blaze was put out he’d tried to order his thoughts and get some plan of action under way. The first step was to get in a sheriff to start investigating the comprador’s death, the ensuing arson and Ollie’s disappearance. It was no coincidence — they had to be related. Then he would move on to other urgent things, like the comprador’s funeral and rebuilding his home.

The big man with a graying walrus moustache standing next to him regarding the smoking ruins was one of two deputies appointed to assist and replace Grass Valley’s permanent lawman Jeb Rogerson in his absence back East on urgent family business. Hale was the senior and permanent appointment while John’s brother Seb was the junior and temporary, so he’d thought it best to call Hale in, but now he was having second thoughts. It was fast becoming obvious that Hale didn’t see any problem that required a lawman’s intervention.

“I can understand it’s a damned nuisance losing your fine house, Sir John, I really can,” he was saying as he tapped on the cigar, his ash adding to the black cinders they crunched underfoot. “And of course we’re lucky no one else was seriously injured. A bit of smoke to get over is all. I’m sure your housekeeper will be fine in a few days. I just don’t see what you expect me to do about it.”

John was about to interrupt but Hale plowed on. “It’s an unfortunate fact that wooden houses burn so easily. Damn near wiped out Grass Valley in Fifty-Five, as you know. Bad luck, too, that your guests were caught in it. But we’ve just no way of knowing who’s responsible.”

John stamped on a smouldering ember with his boot.

“My stable hand being knocked out when he went to investigate a noise – that indicates intruders.”

Hale grunted grudgingly. “It does. But I’m not sure we’d know where to look in finding the perpetrator. And after all . . .” His eyes flickered side ways, avoiding John’s gaze. “After all, they were only Chinese.”

John felt the anger that he’d been struggling to suppress boil over. For a moment he was four years old, cowering in a dark alcove, his mother sprawled across the floor of their Hong Kong house, mouth opening and closing like a stranded fish. He had been powerless to do anything then too.

“I beg your pardon?” His heart was so cold that he imagined the air temperature had dropped by several degrees. “What did you say?”

Hale stubbed out his cigar and stepped out of range of his stare. “What I mean is they’re not like us, are they? For a start, they aren’t Americans.”

John braced himself to his full six-foot-plus height. “The man who died in my house this morning was like a father to me. He was a protector and guide.” He thought of the hours, days, he and Ollie had spent tagging along as Ting Hon went about his business, hanging on every word and, most of all, feeling secure in the shelter of his eminence. He wasn’t called Ting Hon, a name associated with palace rule and justice from ancient times, for nothing. He was a man of influence, from a line of Imperial counsellors, and one of the wisest men John had ever known.

Hale spread his hands wide, palms up, attempting to pacify. “I intend no offense, Sir John. It’s just how it is in these parts, you know that. I can understand you’ve suffered a grievous loss. But there’s no way we can tell how your guests died — apart from being burnt to death, I mean. And if your man wasn’t up to the job of security . . . Maybe you just need to take a might more care in future.”

John knew he was fighting a losing battle but persisted anyway. “And what about the disappearance of my business partner, Oliver Chung — Ji Ming? Is that of no interest either?”

The sheriff shrugged. “Like I say, it’s Chinese business, isn’t it. Nothing I can do about it. And I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be barging into it, either. You might have been born over there . . .” He regarded John with curiosity, as if seeing him in a new light. “Yes, as I say you might have been born over there, but you’re one of us, is what I mean. Them c******n? You’ve got no idea who or what you’re dealing with. Leave it alone is what I’d advise.” He turned to leave.

In frustration, John stabbed the toe of his boot into the ashes. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised at the deputy’s attitude. It accurately reflected how many locals viewed the Chinese workers arriving daily at Gold Mountain, as they called it, seeking to accumulate a modest fortune and return home. But he felt an impotent rage that he might not be able to get justice for the man who had been a fountain of wily wisdom when he’d needed it most. He kicked again and his boot came up hard against an object in the cooling ruins. It was the iron bedstead Ting Hon and Beautiful Jade had died on last night.

He reached out and touched the blackened frame. It was still warm. The brass headboard curliques had melted away, but the bed frame stood scorched but recognizable. He closed his eyes and pictured Ting Hon’s serene face, radiant with an inner spirit that defied his years. He shook his head to clear the image, and was turning to go when his eye caught an object trapped in a corner of the iron base. Curious, he reached out and captured it in his hand. He rubbed the hard surface to clean it, examining it carefully as he did.

As his fingers traced delicate Chinese characters carved into a jade surface, a charge of heat ran down his arm. He knew what this was: the precious Dragon Seal, the chop used by Ting Hon and his sons to authorize all their major transactions. He must have been holding onto it for Ollie, who had assumed general running of the company years ago, but John couldn’t think of a good reason why Ollie would have passed it back to his father.

He rolled the intricately carved block between his fingers, taking momentary comfort in the elegant detailing. Ting Hon’s death, the deliberately lit fire — these alone were weird enough, but to also find this treasure in the wreckage? There was no explanation for its presence. Things had just got a whole lot stranger, so finding Ollie was now even more urgent. If the lawman wasn’t going to take action, John would have to do it without him.