The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure (94 page)

‘I wasn't listening to a word you said,' said the doctor. ‘I refuse to cooperate.'

‘Please yourself,' said Henry, ‘but I have to go.'

He picked up the fallen rifle and climbed on to the tender. He turned. Airton was still sitting disconsolately on the shaking footplate.

‘Look, Doctor, trust me. Please trust me. I'm doing this for all of us.'

‘You're a murderer,' shouted Airton, his face red with anger.

Henry sighed. Quickly he climbed down the back of the tender, and stood for a moment above the swaying coupling, choosing his moment to step across to the back of the wagon ahead, which held the horses. He climbed up the ladder, and at a swaying run, traversed the roof of the wagon, choosing his moment again to jump onto the roof of the next wagon, which also contained horses. He could hear them moving and snuffling below him. He ran on. When he reached the further end, he climbed down. The next carriage was the Mandarin's. He crossed over to the small balcony at the rear, pressing himself against the wall as he checked the magazine and released the safety-catch of the rifle. Taking a deep breath, he turned the door handle, and threw himself into the compartment.

In the second he did so, he realised that he was too late. The Mandarin was slumped against the far wall, a bloody wound in his chest. Chamberlain Lin stood over him, a revolver hanging from his thin elegant hand. He heard a sound on his left and saw the frightened faces of the Mandarin's wives huddled on the floor. It was a mistake to turn away his attention, even for that fraction of a second, for when he looked back the chamberlain's pistol was raised and pointing at him. They fired together.

*   *   *

The doctor stared in panic at the controls of the shaking monster, which was hurtling them forward. He peered nervously round the side of the cab, terrified that he would see another tree or piece of foliage lying on the track. At least the track was straighter here, the banks less precipitous. Oh, this would not do. Visions of what might be happening in the Mandarin's carriage behind him fought with fears of what would happen if the engine went out of control. Manners was a maniac. A ruthless killer, and, he, Airton, had not raised a finger to prevent him going back to do his worst. It had not even occurred to him to try. But what could he have done to stop him?

The huffing rhythm of the wheels suddenly altered to a metallic sound as the engine rattled over a small bridge that crossed a stream. The engine shook from side to side. He started in terror, and only relaxed a fraction when they had crossed the stream, and the wheels had reverted to their steady pant.

He had watched Manners driving the train earlier. He had seemed to be constantly adjusting several levers. One was that lever there, which he had called a reverser. Why was it called a reverser when the train was obviously meant to go forward? What was a reverser? Should he be pulling it, or pushing it? Or just leaving it alone? He felt utterly disoriented.

He could not do this. He wanted the engine to stop. Surely there was enough distance now between the train and Major Lin to make pursuit impossible? He didn't care. He just wanted the train to stop.

Could he stop it? Manners had mentioned a brake lever. But which one was it? That big red bar—that surely was the throttle, which controlled the speed. If he pulled it would the engine slow down? And should he be doing something with the reverser as he did so?

Oh, he could not cope. This farce could not go on. What was he, a doctor, doing, even contemplating trying to drive a steam train? Perhaps he should just leave everything as it was. Make his way back with the engine untended, rolling down the track with ghost controls. He might as well be a ghost for all the difference his uncertain presence on the plates was making to the situation. Since he had been left there, he had not touched a thing. And he must go back. He must, somehow, make his way back over the unsteady tender and the wobbling carriages as Manners had done with such ease. Of course, it might be too late now to prevent Manners doing whatever he intended to do to the Mandarin—but he owed a duty to his family. He must go back to rescue them from this maniac, this lunatic, this killer. But then he thought, What if there is another tree fallen on the line? If the train was derailed, all of them might be killed. There was no help for it. He had to stop the train.

He looked at the controls again, trying desperately to remember what Manners had done when he stopped the train earlier. Definitely he had pulled that throttle lever, and that other lever. Yes, he remembered, that was the one Manners had called the air brake. Why air brake when this thing was run by steam? Never mind that. He closed his eyes and prayed an incoherent prayer, the burden of which was, ‘Please, God, forgive me for what I'm about to do in my ignorance. Only cast Your loving mantle over us, and save us. Save us.' Save me. Save me from the responsibility of driving this—thing.

Letting out his breath in a terrified shout, and using all his strength, he pulled on the throttle lever. What was that awful sound? He didn't care. Having started he must continue. He heaved at the brake lever, pulling it all the way, and was thrown forward by the sudden jolt. His head thumped against the dials, and then he was thrown back again against the tender. He looked up, dazed. Everything was steam and sparks, and screeching metal. The firebox door had banged open and he gazed almost hypnotised at the burning red coals, a vision of hell in front of him. The whole cab was shaking around him. He felt something heavy fall on top of him. It was the body of the boy soldier, which had been knocked forward when the tender banged against the back of the engine. The dead face bounced on the shuddering footplate. The blank eyes seemed to stare at him accusingly. The mouth flopped open as if to reprimand him. He shook with fear and repulsion. But thank God. Thank God. The engine was slowing. It was really slowing. Eventually it came to a stop, hissing and belching steam. And everything was still. Gloriously still. It took the doctor a moment to recover his senses. Muttering in disgust and horror, he wriggled and twisted himself away from the tangled corpse. Unsteadily he got to his feet. He was covered in blood and coal dust. He didn't care. He had to go back and confront Manners. He scrabbled for a weapon, any weapon, and saw the spade with which Manners had killed the soldier who had tried to climb up on the footplate. He picked it up. It clanged on the guardrail as he climbed down the ladder. It caught in the struts, so he had to pause to release it. He started running as soon as his feet connected with the bank. He only stopped when he reached the door of the Mandarin's compartment.

He heard the wailing noises before he reached the door. With a sinking feeling in his breast he recognised the sound. He had a sudden recollection of a trip he had made as a young medical student to the Outer Hebridean Isles. He and a friend had stumbled upon the funeral of a drowned fisherman. They had followed the villagers as they bore the bier along the clifftops to a windswept cemetery. And as the wind howled, the women had keened. He had never forgotten the shrill, eerie ululation. And he heard it again now from inside the Mandarin's compartment. His hand was shaking as he pulled the catch to open the door.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. In the interval since Manners had left him and he had been alone on the footplate, the light had begun to fade and the sky above the cliffs had become streaked with red cirrus as the sun dropped slowly towards the tree line.

As he stood there uncertainly a dying ray from the sinking red globe illuminated the inside of the carriage with a pink glow—and he saw the bodies.

The Mandarin was propped against the carriage wall next to the door to the adjoining compartment. The grey, pigtailed head had sunk on to his chest, and his arms lay flaccidly by his sides; the fingers on the chubby hands were half curled, as if displaying for the curious his heavy jade rings. His three wives were kneeling beside him. They had been screeching and tearing at their clothes, but now they looked up in silent fear at the sudden apparition of the doctor, a black, bloody figure silhouetted like some demon against the pale mauve light behind the open door, brandishing a spade.

The old chamberlain was lying at the feet of his master. The pale dead eyes in the calm parchment face were skewed upwards, as if they were curious about the dark hole in the centre of his forehead. A silver revolver lay just out of reach of his long, tapering fingers.

Henry Manners had fallen against some boxes that were lined against the wall. One had been knocked over, and his body was partially covered by gold ingots, which glinted in the fading ray of sunshine.

‘Oh, you thieving, bloody, murderous man,' moaned the doctor, falling to his knees. The spade slipped out of his hand. ‘So it was all for gold. You killed these men for their gold.'

He was startled by a familiar voice, but it was speaking very weakly, in a breathy whisper: ‘I see you have survived, my dear Daifu.'

Airton rushed to the Mandarin's side, and gently pulled aside the silk shirt, but a glance at the gaping chest wound and the froth bubbling out of the perforated lung told him that there was nothing medically he could do. The bullet had entered the Mandarin's chest about three inches above the nipple. There was evidence of rib fracture and he guessed that the right pulmonary vein and the right upper lobe of the lung were fatally damaged. It would be only a matter of time before the Mandarin would expire from blood loss. Rarely in his medical career had he felt such a sense of impotence. He looked around frantically to see if he could find any membranous material with which he could at least staunch the wound. On the table by the window was a piece of parchment. He carefully folded this and pressed the thick paper over the hole which was bubbling air and blood. He barely noticed the Chinese calligraphy on the manuscript:
‘wu wei.'

All this time the hooded eyes were contemplating him, and there was a hint of a smile on the pale face. ‘No miracles for me, then, Daifu, like your Jesus can do?'

‘Don't talk, old friend,' he whispered.

‘I am glad that you can still call me friend,' said the Mandarin, forming the words with difficulty, punctuating them with deep breaths. ‘I hope that you have enjoyed your train ride. I remember that you once told me of some bandits who attacked a train. I expect that you never thought that you yourself would one day…'

He stopped, weakened by the effort of speaking. He coughed and a thick film of dark, venous blood trickled down his chin. Airton clasped his hand. The Mandarin's eyes, which had closed in his pain, opened again slowly, and again the hanging mouth twisted into a smile.

‘If you can find me a little water … I would be grateful,' he managed.

‘Oh, Da Ren, of course,' murmured the doctor. ‘Why didn't I think…' Of course. The blood loss would be creating a deep sense of thirst. Gesturing to one of the women to hold the staunch on the wound, he hunted the carriage for some liquid, settling for want of anything better for a pot of cold tea, which he poured into a cup, and pressed to the Mandarin's lips. He could only manage a little, but sighed gratefully.

‘I would like you to know that I have always enjoyed my conversations with you,' he whispered. ‘You did reveal many things to me. Yes,' he said, ‘truly. You have a fine vision of what the world should be.'

‘Oh, Da Ren,' muttered the doctor, tears running down his cheeks.

‘But you were never very practical,' smiled the Mandarin, ‘as I had to be.' He made a coughing sound, which might have been a laugh. More blood trickled out of his mouth. ‘My poor Daifu. How difficult it has been for you. But perhaps I taught you a little of what it is to be practical. Before the end. No?'

He closed his eyes, and wheezed heavily. Airton wiped the beads of sweat from his brow and the blood from his face. He felt the Mandarin's hand clutching his tightly. The hooded eyes rolled open, stared fiercely into the doctor's face. After a moment the Mandarin relaxed. ‘Not that it matters,' he breathed. ‘We are all powerless pawns of an inexorable fate. Dying in this fashion is … ridiculous.' The large body shook uncontrollably. The froth bubbled in the lungs. Finally there was a long sigh.

Dr Airton closed the staring eyes. The women began to wail.

Ignoring them, he rose to his feet. It was only professional habit that caused him to examine the other two bodies. The Chamberlain was clearly dead, and he had no doubt from the contorted angle of Manners's body that he, too, was slain—presumably by the chamberlain after Manners had himself shot the Mandarin in cold blood. He must have returned the chamberlain's shot as he fell. A lucky and accurate hit, but Manners had always been lucky, and precise, as befitted an adventurer and schemer. Not any more, he thought, as he knelt beside him. There would be no more schemes now, thank God. He removed the ingots that covered him. That he should murder for this—this tinsel, this Mammon. He turned the body and saw the wound in the groin. Manners had bled prodigiously. Mechanically, he felt for the pulse—and started. He leaped to his feet, and stared down at the torn body—which was still living.

‘My God!' He felt a chill run down his spine. What was he to do? The murderer was still alive.

*   *   *

Before Henry had stopped the train, Major Lin and Jin Lao had gone into the Airtons' compartment, and while the Chamberlain had trained the revolver on them, Major Lin had tied up Nellie, Fan Yimei, Mary and the children. This had been a precaution so that they would not be disturbed when they went back into the next-door carriage to give their final, fatal ultimatum to the Mandarin. Nellie, who was lying closest to the compartment, had heard a shot shortly after the train had got going again after the stop to remove the tree. A long while after that there had been more shots followed by a long, long silence. Nellie tried to explain all this to the doctor as he hurriedly untied them, but he was not listening. He did not want to listen. He knew in his own mind what had happened—the extent of Manners's villainy and the violent retribution Providence had brought down on him—and he was not prepared to entertain anything that contradicted his version of events.