China by Edward Rutherfurd (latest novels to read TXT) 📗

“Did you know him, sir?”

“Yes. A great sportsman. Big game.”

“Tigers?”

“Certainly. When he first came out, you know, they used to hunt on foot. Not the big affairs with elephants, like nowadays.” He gave Charlie an approving nod.

What was it about Charlie Farley that made Colonel Lomond like him? Partly, of course, that he was an amiable fellow, just as his father had been. Straightforward, polite, easy. But something more. He knew where he fitted in, and he was content to be there. Charlie would never overstep the bounds. When he’d told Lomond frankly that he had a friend who’d be interested to see inside the club, but that he’d no way of satisfying his friend’s interest, “unless you were to invite us to lunch, sir,” Lomond had invited them at once. “Cheeky young fellow,” the colonel had later remarked to his wife, with the same approval he would have accorded a daring young officer. But Charlie would never embarrass him by trying to join the club. Not that Colonel Lomond would have minded, particularly, if Charlie Farley was a member. But that, of course, was not the point. As all who governed Britain’s empire knew, the point was not the individual case, but what it might lead to.

Which brought the colonel’s gaze to John Trader.

There was something about young Trader that Lomond did not like. He wasn’t sure what. Naturally, since the dark-haired young man was Farley’s friend, he’d be pleasant towards him. But his years of living in India and observing men had developed in Colonel Lomond a sixth sense. And at this moment he was experiencing the same unease he’d once felt just before he discovered a cobra in his house.

“What part of the country do you come from?” he tried. Always a safe question.

“I was brought up in the West Country first, sir,” Trader replied. “Then just outside London. Blackheath.”

“Blackheath, eh? Used to be highwaymen up there in the old days, what?” Though it was said in a jocular way, was there a subterranean hint that Trader might be a highwayman himself? Of course not. “You have family there now?”

“I’ve no family living,” Trader replied.

“Nobody at all?”

“There used to be some distant relations of my father’s, generations ago, I believe. But there was a family quarrel, and they never spoke again. I don’t even know their names or where they might be.”

“Oh.” The colonel tried another tack. “You and Farley here weren’t at school together, were you?”

“No, sir. Charterhouse.”

“Fine old school.” The colonel took a sip of wine. Not quite Harrow, of course, where he and the Farleys had gone.

“Trader saved my life, sir,” Charlie said hopefully.

Colonel Lomond looked at Charlie noncommittally. They both knew that Charlie had already told him. But the colonel did not wish to grant this dark stranger a triumph.

“Glad to hear it,” he said with a brief nod. “If we have dinner someday,” he added vaguely to Trader, “you must tell me the whole story.”

—

The tablecloth was removed for the dessert course. The colonel passed the decanter of port around the table. They had eaten well. If the colonel had not addressed Trader directly during the meal, while he looked fondly at Charlie, it could be taken for absent-mindedness. Now, however, it seemed there was something on his mind.

“Tell me, my boy, your agency house, Rattrays…” He leaned towards Charlie just enough to indicate concern. “They’re all right, aren’t they?”

“Absolutely, sir. Sound as a bell.” Charlie smiled. “My father asked me the same thing. After the last crash, sir, Rattrays believes in moderation.”

“Good.” The colonel nodded, relieved. It was only two years since the collapse of the mighty trading house of Palmers—a victim of the excessive greed and debt that periodically returns, like the plague, to every market—had brought down most of the agency houses in Calcutta, ruining countless widows and orphans. “Of course,” the colonel conceded over his glass of port, “back in the last century, some of the East India Company nabobs made vast fortunes in just a few years.” A faraway look came into his eyes, indicating that, should chance place it in his path, even a valiant soldier like himself wouldn’t take an extra hundred thousand pounds amiss.

“The only fellows who make those quick fortunes at the moment, sir,” Charlie said, “are the men who go over to Canton, in the China trade.”

“So I hear. Bit of a dirty business, isn’t it?” the colonel added quietly.

“Well, we’re not in it, sir,” said Charlie, receiving a nod of approval in return.

And now, having remained politely silent for so long, John Trader decided to speak.

“I’m sorry you don’t like the China trade, sir,” he remarked. “It’s based on tea, isn’t it?” Was there the faintest hint of menace in his tone?

“Tea. Of course,” the colonel grunted.

“The British drink tea, which is imported from China, because that’s almost the only place which grows it. The tea is taxed. And the tea tax pays for most of the running costs of the British Navy.”

“I really wouldn’t know,” said the colonel.

“So it can’t be the tea you object to, sir,” Trader continued. “Is it the opium we supply to the Chinese in return for the tea that you don’t like?”

“It’s up to the Chinese what they buy, I daresay,” Colonel Lomond remarked, with a glance at Charlie to indicate that he’d had enough of this.

“The English cup of tea,” Charlie cut in cheerfully. “You wouldn’t believe people could drink so much. It’s not as if anyone really needs tea. But they insist on having it. More every year.” He gave Trader a warning look. “Actually, it’s all paid for in silver, you know.” He turned to the colonel. “I’m afraid, sir, that we must be going. You know, work and all that.”

“Of course, my boy. Always a pleasure to see you,” Lomond said gratefully.

“It’s a triangular trade,” Trader went on, quietly but relentlessly. “Chinese dealers get their hands on opium through our Canton agency men. Those Chinese