Fatal Enquiry by Will Thomas Page A

Goodness knows how long we must live off them.”
    “It’s only money, lad, and easily gotten,” he said, putting on a shirt.
    “The words of a rich man,” I countered. “I’ve never found it so.”
    “Yesterday morning you awoke in a comfortably appointed bed in an elegant house, where you dressed in the latest fashion and were fed by London’s finest chef. I would say you’re not doing too poorly for yourself.”
    I couldn’t argue with that, but I put out my hand and reclaimed the wallet, which I found had been emptied of twenty-five much-needed pounds. Scotsmen are like that, I’ve found, penny-wise and pound foolish, but it was his money, and he could do with it as he pleased.
    “What are we going to do today, sir?” I asked. “Shall we lie low?”
    “We have an appointment later, but first we are expecting breakfast.”
    “More rice and egg, I suppose?”
    “The egg is considered a treat,” the Guv explained. “Normally they just have rice. They are giving us the best they have.”
    “There’s nothing like a bit of rice and egg to break one’s fast,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic.
    “It’s nourishing, at least. That is why half a continent lives upon it.”
    “To be sure,” I agreed. “Sir, could you tell me what has become of my clothes? I don’t relish going about in a bedsheet all day.”
    “They’ve been washed and mended and are drying on deck. They should be ready after breakfast.”
    The tea arrived first, piping hot, but practically tasteless. Were I to mention it, no doubt I’d be told the flavor was subtle and I needed to refine my tastes. I prefer coffee to tea, and that as black as the devil’s heart, but I drank the tea and ate the rice anyway. The boy offered me chopsticks, but I still hadn’t mastered them yet, unlike Barker, who could pick up a single grain between the tips.
    “This barge belongs to the Lo family, our gardeners,” Barker explained. “The boy’s name is Yuk.”
    Soon after, Yuk came down with my clothes. They were still slightly damp, but it was better than spending the day dressed like a Roman senator in a grammar-school version of Julius Caesar . After changing, I returned from our cabin.
    “What’s on for today, then?” I asked.
    “We’re going out, but it’s early yet.”
    “In that case, do we have time to finish the story you began yesterday? Your brother didn’t return from battle. What happened next?”
    Barker’s brows went flat across the top of his spectacles like a storm head gathering.
    He was not inclined to open the vault of his remembrances so soon after his last revelation. Under normal circumstances, I’d back away and leave him to himself, but not this time. This time I had the justification of my convictions. This time I was right. He had told but half a story, and I wanted and deserved the rest of it. What had happened after his brother was so cruelly slain in the field? Did he confront Nightwine, and if so, what happened next? There are times when you can just tell that a momentous story is about to be told, and I refused to be cheated out of his because of a man’s natural or perhaps unnatural reticence.
    He cleared his throat a couple of times, perhaps hoping I’d take pity on him, but I was stern as granite. He rubbed a hand over his fringe of hair and began to speak.
    “I did not learn of my brother’s death right away. Townsend Ward had been killed at the siege of Chang-Sheng-Chun and the army was in disarray. Some joined the captain’s force and others began to pack up to go to America with the Devil Soldiers. Colonel Charles Gordon was coming; the Americans were out, for the most part, at least, and the British were coming in. The rebels took advantage of this time of command confusion and launched an attack upon an unnamed hillside town south of Shanghai, and during that offensive, my brother had been killed. No one but Nightwine knew of our connection, of course, and who would associate a Chinese