Jade Dragon Mountain (28 page)

Brother Martin stared. Li Du said, almost apologetically, “I can tell a forged seal from an authentic one. And there have been other indications.”

“Wh-what do you mean? What indications?”

“I have made the acquaintance of many Jesuits during my life—you see they spend a great deal of time in libraries. But despite their fondness for any volume that is unfamiliar to them, I have never known one to part from his own prayer book. You seem to be using yours as a paperweight. I was also surprised by your ignorance of simple funeral rites. Probably you did not expect such knowledge would be required in order to maintain your disguise. Just as you never expected to meet a real Jesuit in the rural mountain villages of China.”

Brother Martin's reply was faint. “No—no, I—I am not—You are mistaken…”

Li Du drew another, folded piece of paper from his pocket. “I found this letter among Pieter's possessions. It is addressed to Brother Pieter, and its author is one Brother Martin Walpole of the Jesuit house in Calcutta. It was written three months ago, and it shows that Brother Pieter and Brother Martin were good friends. When he first met you, Pieter was introduced to a person whose name he knew, but whose face he had never seen before in his life.”

The other man's eyes widened. “He—he knew? But I didn't—I am not…” He stopped, too upset to continue.

Li Du said firmly, but without rancor: “You are, or would be in the eyes of any Chinese magistrate, a spy.”

At this Brother Martin began to shake his head vehemently. “No,” he said hoarsely. “No—I am not a spy. I care nothing for politics. I swear to you—I am not a spy.”

“Then I will ask you again. What is your real name? And why have you been impersonating the Jesuit Martin Walpole?”

He dropped his head into his hands, and his broad shoulders collapsed. He moaned softly, and said, addressing Li Du only vaguely, “But he didn't say anything. I—I thought that I'd carried it off perfectly. I thought that he believed me.”

“You exaggerated your illness in order to avoid meeting a real Jesuit, didn't you?”

The man nodded miserably. “But why didn't he say anything?”

Li Du's response was cautious. “I think,” he said, “that Brother Pieter saw before him a young man, a fellow traveler, alone in a dangerous country. He did not confront you because he did not want to harm you before giving you a chance to explain yourself. But he never had the opportunity. He was silenced—”

“No! I know what you are about to say, but it is not true. I would never have killed him. Never. Even if I had known that he suspected me. But I swear—I didn't think that he knew. And I didn't kill him. I didn't. I—I will tell you the truth now.”

He took a deep, steadying breath. “My name is Hugh Ashton.” He gave a short sigh. “Oh—I had not realized how good it would feel to say it. And you are right. I—I am not a Jesuit. I am not a man of the church at all, may God forgive my blasphemy. How stupid I have been.”

“The officials here and at the border must have been too busy to look closely at your papers.”

The man who had called himself Brother Martin winced. “The forger in Calcutta assured me that the seal was done well,” he said.

“It is passable,” said Li Du.

Realizing that Li Du was waiting for him to go on, Ashton took another deep breath. “The whole truth of it is that I am a botanist, and that I have been a terrible fool.”

Li Du raised his eyebrows. “Your passion for the trees and flowers of the province is obviously genuine, but why did you conceal your identity? If you are not part of the church, then who is your employer? The English East India Company?”

Ashton's cheeks reddened again. “I have been so foolish—I do not know how to make you believe me. I have no employer. It—it was all supposed to be a grand adventure. I wanted to be like the famous botanical explorers. I wanted to return to Europe with information and seeds and specimens never before seen in the West.” He looked up, his eyes pleading for Li Du to understand.

“I know that it is hard to believe,” he went on at Li Du's silence, “but I wanted to be a kind of hero.”

“To whom?” Li Du was genuinely curious.

Ashton spread his hands in a helpless, all-encompassing gesture. “To the scientific world. The Temple House Botany Club is the most respected group of botanists in England. Sloane—he sailed to the New World—he returned with chocolate and is now the leader of the botanical society. He is at the forefront of every discovery, every convention. Six months ago, I was traveling through Calcutta. I received a letter, a personal letter to me from Sloane. He wrote that he had heard of me, a young student of botany from his college, and knew that I was in this part of the world. He said that there is a growing fascination with the tea forests in southwest China, and with other rumors of botanical wonders in these mountains—of plants, they say, in the shape of lanterns as tall as a man that emit green light. And of many, many others. He said that the society would be most grateful for any report I could give. So—so I began to dream about coming here myself, becoming one of the greatest collectors in history.”

“But why did you not simply apply for permission to do that?”

Ashton's eyebrows drew together and his expression became perplexed. He looked at Li Du as if he was searching for some trick in the question. “But you know why,” he said.

“I do not. My own journeys over the past five years have kept me outside the company of others. I do not understand why you could not apply to cross the border, especially when the Emperor had invited foreigners to the festival here.”

“Oh. Oh—well—yes.” Ashton removed the somber black cap from his head and raked his fingers through his mass of curly hair, leaving it in wild disarray. “Then I suppose you do not know the mood in Calcutta. The foreigners there are all convinced that the Emperor of China is going to close the borders permanently, and that it will happen very soon. Everyone feels that the Jesuits are the last vestige of the Emperor's interest in the West, and even they are being treated coldly now. And as for us—the academics, the explorers, the scientists—we are all turned away as spies. I thought that if I wanted to collect plants, my only chance would be to—to … Well, to borrow the legitimacy of a Jesuit robe. I have no great tribute to offer, as Sir Gray does.”

“And how did you get the letter of permission from the real Brother Martin?”

“We were friends already. I would visit him in the monastery in Calcutta, and he would tell me stories of his journeys in China. When the invitation came from the Emperor, I took it as a kind of sign. I thought that with Brother Martin's old letter, a Jesuit robe, and a new letter giving me permission to collect, I might get away with it. I planned not to attract much notice, to sort of blend in with the other travelers. But I—I did not picture the situation correctly. I—I only borrowed the letter. I didn't steal it.”

With an attempt at bravado he added, “I have tried to keep my wits about me, to continue my work and not panic. But—but I have been so afraid. It has been on my mind that the murderer might have killed Brother Pieter out of hatred for the Jesuits. I—I am willing to die as an explorer, reaching for a blue poppy high in the ice and snow of the Himalayan cliffs, if that is my fate. But to be killed for being a member of a religious order to which I do not truly belong…” He stopped, frustrated, searching for words to express his feelings. “I did not want to die,” he said finally, “as someone other than myself.”

He looked up, intensity in his green eyes. He was terribly vulnerable, and Li Du could see that he knew it. And yet there was a new strength in his bearing. A dogged confidence had begun to assert itself from the moment he had uttered his own name, and he did not fidget as he waited for Li Du to pronounce judgment on him.

Looking at him, Li Du understood why Pieter had not immediately condemned Ashton for lying about his name. Li Du recognized a scholar when he saw one. Now that he no longer had to sustain his false identity, his determined, untiring enthusiasm for his quest radiated from him with almost tangible energy. Hugh Ashton had risked his life, had entered a place of isolation and danger to him, in order to study its plants. He was not really a man of the church, but he knew what it was to revere the work of whatever power had breathed life into the snowy mountains, and painted flowers onto them with colors no painter or poet could ever replicate. Li Du sighed.

“I am inclined to believe you,” he said, and added, with a little smile, “and I am not going to turn you in to the authorities for the crime of spying on flowers and trees. If you are eavesdropping on orchids in the hope of learning political secrets, you have bigger problems than the threat of imprisonment.”

“And—and you believe that I did not kill Brother Pieter?”

Li Du's expression became grave. He glanced outside at Hamza, who sat, eyes closed, with no appearance of paying them any attention. Li Du turned back to Ashton. “You did not leave the courtyard during Hamza's performance that night. At the moment I cannot see a way that you could have been the one to prepare the poisoned tea for Pieter. It appears, for the present, that you have an alibi.”

“Then I am to continue the pretense? Please advise me. I have had no one to advise me in such a long time, and I am—” He stopped, overcome by the relief of unguarded speech.

“I think,” said Li Du, “that for now it is the safest course. Your plans were not as foolish after all—after today the crowds will multiply, and the Emperor will be too preoccupied with the festival to pay attention to you, especially if the real killer is found by that time.”

“And—and whom do you suspect?”

Li Du did not answer the question directly. He was thinking hard about what Ashton had said. He rubbed his forehead, pressing his fingers to his brow as if the pressure might hold his thoughts in place. “I am hoping that now that you are not afraid of me, you will speak candidly on several subjects. It would help me to know more of what you mentioned a moment ago—the impression outside of China that the empire is going to close to foreigners. And while we talk, I will show you how to serve tea.”

Hugh nodded, and smiled. Li Du went out to the garden where Hamza sat, where a kettle hung over a lit brazier. He pulled his sleeve over his hand to lift it, noticing too late that the blackened handle left a line of soot on the cloth. Hamza, with a raised eyebrow, said, “Are we drinking tea now? Is it safe to drink tea with him?” Li Du reassured him, and together they went back inside.

Li Du described to Hugh the method by which one can tell that the water has reached the correct temperature, explaining that it was the sound of the boil, the low rush in perfect balance with the higher-pitched dance of bubbles at the side of the pot, but not the center. He showed Hugh how to use the little pot to rinse the leaves and pour the dusty water into the slatted tray. He provided the appropriate ratios of tea to water, and repeated several times the proper way to hold the pot, to pour the tea into each cup, and to present the cup, gently with both hands, to the guest. Hugh Ashton listened with grateful attention, and Li Du saw how his eyes sharpened with keen interest at the mention of the color, variety, and preparation of leaves.

“So,” said Li Du, once they were sipping from their cups, “tell me of these rumors in Calcutta.”

Ashton had been watching the tea, long, silver strands of dragonwell, opening and darkening in the golden green water and steam. After a moment's thought he looked up. “The news is coming from the Jesuits who are leaving China. They say that the Emperor is beginning to despise all foreigners. The Jesuits blame the Dominicans, of course, for turning the Emperor against all of us with their mishandling of the audience he has granted them. And the Dominicans blame the Jesuits. They say that if the Jesuits had converted China the way they were supposed to, China would have a Christian emperor by now and would be more sympathetic to Western interests.”

“By Western interests do you mean trade?”

“The East India Company is the real Western power now in this part of the world—everyone knows it. Everyone outside of China, that is. And the Company is desperate to use Chinese ports.”

“Do think Gray's tribute will succeed?”

“The Company is almost as powerful as an empire in its own right, but it is not powerful enough to take China by force. There was a great deal of effort put into this tribute. The material luxuries and inventions and knowledge of all the Company's lands are packed into those crates. Its value is unspeakable—but you know. You have seen it.”

They spoke for a while longer, but Ashton had little more information to impart. Li Du had the impression that the space in Ashton's mind not occupied by his work was lonely, homesick, and exhausted. As for Li Du himself, he was aware of the light beginning to fade from the sky. Another day was coming to an end, and he did not know who had killed Brother Pieter. When the sun rose again, he would have only a single day remaining until the Emperor arrived in the city.

But, he told himself, he was beginning to see the face of the killer, as yet a shadowy form that crept through the alleys of memory and imagination, narrow and lantern lit like Dayan's labyrinthine streets. It stared at him, this visage whose features he could almost trace.

It was as maddening as holding a book to a twilit window, seeing the black ink of words across the page but finding them unreadable, as if he was again a child and the characters were only dancing insects with no meaning. Li Du shuddered a little as the figure in his mind backed slowly out of sight again, to wander freely and unobserved in the back corners of his thoughts.

“Are you all right?” Ashton's pale face wore an expression of surprise and concern, and Li Du recalled himself to the moment. After assuring Ashton that he was well, he rose and took his leave. Hamza bowed formally to Ashton, and left with Li Du.