The Lotus Eaters

An abbreviated few chapters

November 3, 1869

Hong Kong

The Club, as it was known by its members and the general populace, sat on Queens Road, day after day, where one of its more respected members, Jack Beverly, devoted much of his time. Jack was a taipan-foreign, a big shot in Hong Kong, a local businessman, whose business was completely unknown to the other members, the staff, and essentially, everyone in Hong Kong. Perhaps it was his air of mystery, his charm and good looks, that made him so popular at the club.

However, there were many things strange about Jack, despite his popularity, among these peculiarities, he was quite young to be so wealthy, and even though he was young, he seemed very mature and wise for his age, and strangely quiet in his field of work, even though he seemed to do very little of that, if he worked at all.

The room was filled with the smells of tobacco, wafting from the bowls of pipes, and of brandy, decades old, poured into a glass of Jack’s only moments ago.

“Say… Mr. Beverly?” began a wisened miser, his conversation reaching Jack’s position “If I may, what have you to say of the crime wave infringing on the island from Macau?”

Jack perked up his ears, and smiled, making his way to the group, assembled in leather armchairs of the lounge, each of them holding a pipe and or a tumbler, sucking in the high life, and pretending the outside world had an effect on their affairs, that somehow it could aversely affect their business, and make them significantly poorer. He meandered over, and took an open chair.

“Mr Devereaux seems to believe, and he tells me, that it in no way worries you, but I would like to know first hand, what a young gentleman such as yourself thinks about this rise in crime?”

The old man, Sir Willoughby from Devonshire, drew in a mouthful of smoke, and his muttonchops grew, as he waited patiently for Jack to respond.

“Sir Willoughby, since you ask, I disagree with the viewpoints of the criminal enterprise that has found it necessary to damage the honest and hardworking individuals and their establishments in town to succeed or in their case, thrive, while from whom they choose to steal ultimately suffer. As for the enforcement of the law in this fledgling port, I find it embarrassing how underfunded and poorly trained and equipped officers are, and thus how leniently criminals are punished, and for that matter, in the first place, apprehended.”

“I told you,” Mr. Devereaux piped in, but Sir Willoughby continued, ready for an argument, in an effort to get a biased opinion from Jack, perhaps even some insight as to what Jack did for a living, or how he earned his money, “Now now Mr. Beverly, surely you understand, I meant how does it affect you, and your business?”

In kind, Jack replied, “Well in that case, I can only assume that it would affect me and my business as much as it may affect yours or Mr. Devereaux’s or Mr. Thomason, Mr. Kent and even Sir Postlethwaite,” saying his name slightly raised to wake him since he had fallen asleep in his chair, “depending on how much merchandise is taken from our establishments, and depending on the number of times we are robbed, if ever we are unfortunate, and that is to say, the culprits are wrangled by the joke of a police department we have here in Kong Kong.”

Aside from Sir Willoughby, the group of older gentlemen hummed with laughter, and Jack even received a ‘here here!” from one of them. Sir Willoughby appeared miffed by the response, but he merely sat back in his chair and took a large sip of his drink.

“How positively vague,” chimed in Mr. Thomason.

“As usual,” followed up Mr Kent, and that too brought in laughter from the men.

Jack excused himself, “Now if you'll excuse me gentlemen, I have some business to take care of,” and with a few strides exited the lounge.

“Not one of you know his profession?” Sir Willoughby said to the present company.

“Sir, we consider ourselves lucky, and thus fulfilled whenever we extract from him the simplest tidbit of information,” answered Mr Thomason.

“Don’t you find that untrustworthy?”

“The governor doesn’t think so. He speaks quite highly of him, he went so far as to say he may well be the most trustworthy man in the colony.” said Mr. Kent

“Surely such a secretive man, a man who has no bias, or opinions, or politics is beyond our trust?” Sir Willoughby stated reasonably.

“On the contrary, if you ask it, he will give you a very succinct answer on political affairs, and his attitudes of various trivial matters, he only goes about it in a very neutral, nonpartisan way,” Mr. Devereaux remarked.

“Sir Postlethwaite,” continued a flabberghasted Sir Willoughby, “Perhaps you of all men would be inclined to agree with me? Do not you think Mr. Beverly a dishonest man?”

Sir Postlethwaite cleared his throat, and spoke in a deep voice, “There are a great many men in this world, whom I find unethical, or depraved. Some are vagabonds, filthy and unsightly, while others are aristocratic, convincing and cut from the very same cloth as you or I. But Mr. Beverly, is reticent, reserved, and very very wise, even though he is a young man; if he can keep a secret, and lend his advice when needed to the governor for instance, I believe he is welcome to his privacy. In my mind, that is an honourable man,” summarized Sir Postlethwaite.

Jack sat at the bar, a drink and a newspaper beside him, the Daily Press, which he promptly folded upon noticing an attractive young woman walk past the window. He left abruptly, and tailed after her. “Pardon me, mademoiselle,”

The woman stopped and turned, her dress billowing, “Mrs., if you please. Madame, if you must,” said the woman.

“Of course, madame. Might I inquire your name?”

“What will I get in return?”

Jack smiled, but his rejoinder was swift, “Why you would have my name in return, madame.”

Jack’s charm had taken the woman by surprise, so she relented, “Mrs. Coates.”

“And is that your real name, Madame Coates?” denounced Jack, though it was more of a joke than an accusation, and Mrs. Coates laughed, “Beatrice. Beatrice Coates. Now you said you would tell me your name.”

“I’m Jack,” said he.

“Jack?” mimed Beatrice, “So full and proper.”

“A bit late for a walk don’t you think? Doesn’t the increase in crime bother you? Pilferage and abductions?”

“Right now, only you bother me.”

Jack’s teeth gleamed in the moonlight, and it his grin made Beatrice laugh.

“Would you care for a drink, Madame Coates?”

“I’m married,” Beatrice explained simply.

“And I’m not,” his response made the young Beatrice giggle again, so she in turn,  elaborated, “I can’t have a drink with you. I’m married.”

Jack walked up close enough to hold her, and asked, “Why can’t you have a drink? And why should being married have anything to do with it? Don’t you get parched after extended marriages? Besides, if I were married to you, I might be worried that you were out late at night by yourself. I’d want you to stay hydrated in the company of handsome young men if I were your husband.”

Beatrice thought about either continuing on her stroll, or entertaining a retinue with the first-named gentleman. “Very well, one drink. Only one, understand Mister Jack.”

The two of them reconvened inside The Club, and Jack had a drink prepared for her. He reinitiated the conversation, “I don’t believe for a moment that you’re married.”

Slightly aback, Beatried rebutted, “I don’t believe your name is Jack.”

“Mr. Beverly, then,” he said, ending the issue. He looked at Beatrice with wise eyes, as if he knew everything about her.

“How do you know I’m not?” said Beatrice quietly, contemplating staying for more than the agreed single drink. She admired his features, and even his muscles under the handsomely tailored suit. Jack didn’t answer, so she continued, speaking as if inebriated, completely overtaken by his mysterious charm, “Mr. Beverly,”

“Call me Jack.”

“Jack… I think I’ll stay for one more drink.”

“Not one for the road?” Jack said, his mood lightening again.

“Actually, maybe more than one? Do you have a room?”

“What’s wrong with this one?”

Beatrice batted her eyes, and gave Jack a hungry stare.

“Are you trying to seduce me, Madame Coates?”

“Yes. Aren’t you?”

Suddenly, a dozen uniformed men barged into the club, moving past the doorman, and moving upon Jack and Beatrice.

“Mr. Jack Beverly?” asked the sergeant.

“Yes, what is this about?” Jack pried, though sounding only remotely interested.

“Jack, what’s going on?” Beatrice asked, more confused than Jack, the bartender, and the doorman.

“We would like you to come with us, sir,” and the armed men hoisted Jack to his feet, though he didn’t resist, or complain.

“Jack, what’s going on?” repeated Beatrice, more assertively, “where are you taking him?” now questioning the uniforms.

“Don’t worry, Madame Coates, I need to straighten something out with their employer, I’ll be back soon enough. If you still would like another drink, Charles can make it for you, but don’t wait for me, this could take a while.”

Beatrice looked on in fear, watching as Jack was loaded into a carriage, with half of the uniformed guards, while the other half followed in a second, the horses lamenting, as they kept apace, listening to the clapping of hoofs on the beaten path.

The black hood was abruptly removed from Jack’s face, tousling his hair, and causing him to blink rapidly even though the room he found himself was dim, and austere, alight only by one candle. “Mr. Beverly. I’ve heard so many good things about you,” Jack’s interrogator started.

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Jack his eyes finally adjusted.  

The man wasn’t seated in the desk across from Jack, he was about, at the far wall fueling a lamp with the fire of the candle, further brightening the room, though the atmosphere remained unchanged.

“That said, the good things bad things, everything I’ve heard about you, about your reputation, my sources’ accounts are imprecise, ambiguous even. Keep in mind, everyone I have asked has been quite helpful, and very very lucid I might add, when I inquired about you, Mr. Beverly. Vague, albeit, good.” Jack didn’t say anything, he just held his winning smile, and waited, as the man took his place in the empty seat.

“Nevertheless, aside from your name, I am unable to verify who you are, what you do, or where you came from. You are an enigma.”

The two men sat in silence, waiting for the other to break it, and although the man across sitting opposite Jack knew his name, and had him shackled to a chair in an undisclosed location, Jack was the one who behaved as though he had the advantage.

“So,” said the man, finally, “who are you?”

“I’d rather like to know who you are, first,” Jack answered.

The man nodded, and obliged Jack with his name, “Mr. Van Lund. I work for Thomas Sutherland.”

“Ah, yes! I was trying to place your accent. You’ve concealed it very well, if I may say so. But you don’t work for the bank. Do you?”  

“Correct, and correct, my job isn’t finance, it’s security.”

“I recommend you oust some of your personnel; sending a dozen men to collect me is a bit excessive, besides, they might be more useful on the street, I understand the rate of burglarisations has doubled, while the rate of abductions of women in particular has nearly tripled.”

“It interests me, that you should mention the subject of burglary. Were you aware the HSBC building was broken into this time last night?”

“I did not.”

“Were you further aware, that the thief managed to break into the vault, and make off with 10,000 Hong Kong dollars, before cracking the personal safe of Sir Sutherland?”

Once again, Jack held his tongue, politely listening to Mr. Van Lund rattle off a list of crimes which were committed.

“Now, I’m not sure what was in Sir Sutherland’s safe, but I know the thief emptied its contents too, before leaving the premises, without sounding the alarm.”

“Disheartening news, Mr. Van Lund. I’m surprised I didn’t read about it the Daily Press. Do the police have any suspects?”

“Both the media and the police are unaware of the slight. My men and I are more than capable of handling such an investigation, probably more so than the police.”

“A fair point,” Jack concurred.

“We do have some evidence, however. A monogrammed pocket square, with the initials JB, was found in Sir Sutherland’s office… coincidentally, you share those initials.”

“As do many men and women I’m afraid.”

“The other piece of evidence is from Sir Sutherland’s secretary. Our witness said she fainted in the thief’s presence upon discovering him, though she did give us a description of the man, a man whose face very much resembles yours.”

Jack almost looked shocked upon hearing the news, but he said, looking untroubled, “Well that would be near damning information if it weren’t for my unflinching alibi.”

“I’m convinced it was you.”

“And I am convinced it is not up to you, to determine the innocence or guilt of anyone living in the city. With that, I demand to be released, and returned to the Hong Kong Club if you don’t mind. You ought to know your men interrupted a conversation I was highly engaged in with a delightful young woman.”

Mr. Van Lund winced when Jack reminded him he had no authority over him whatsoever, but kept his composure, and he said with a smug expression, “Yes, absolutely.” He surged to his feet, and rounded the other side of Jack’s chair to unbind him, “I’ll have my men take you back to The Club immediately. I’m sorry to have caused you any grief or inconvenience,” an angry tone in his voice.

Jack’s inflection was also stormy when he said, “Certainly, Mr. Van Lund, you’re just doing your job.” The men shook hands, and one of the uniformed men entered the room, and grabbed Jack’s arm, escorting him out of the building.

“My name is Sergeant Tate,” the bulging man said plainly, as the two of them reloaded into the carriage that had brought them. The ride was smooth, while the company was daunting. Tate had a haunting face, riddled with scars and blemishes, fortunately hidden by beard.

“Good evening, sergeant. Where are we going?”

“We’re going back to The Club.”

“I meant, before there.”

“Why? Do you have a preference?”

Jack didn’t answer, because he knew he didn’t have a say in what was about to happen to him, if he were to protest, it wouldn’t make a difference.

“A Mr. Song is waiting for us near Victoria Harbour. He would like to have a word with you.”

It was now early morning, though the sky had yet to brighten, only the moon burnished Jack’s surroundings, as he made his way to the harbour. Standing behind him, back at the carriage, was the intimidating Sergeant Tate, and looming ahead was a solitary man stood waiting at the end of a pier, clearly impatient, and when he heard Jack come down the stretch, he said curtly, “Hello, Jack.”  

“Good morning, Mao,” said Jack familiarly.

“I don’t have time for pleasantries, Jack. Why were you talking with Van Lund?”

“Word travels fast.”

“I leave for Shanghai in ten minutes. Answer the question.”

“You should have already been on the Lotus, Mao. You have the merchandise, you had it last night. Why have been sojourned here for so long? As I understand it, you hate Hong Kong.”

“If I have all of it, then why were you speaking with Van Lund?” shouted Mao. Growing ever more impatient, Mao produced a single-shot pistol from his jacket, and pointed it at Jack’s face. “Do you still want to play games?”

“Van Lund seems to believe I was involved in the theft of 10,000 Hong Kong Dollars two nights ago.”

“Were you?” Mao asked angrily, and Jack heard the gun click. Jack knew Mao to be a lousy shot, but he wouldn’t risk it simply to be hit somewhere other than the face.

“Yes,” admitted Jack.

“And you had planned to keep it for yourself had you? Need I remind you, Mr. Beverly, anything you steal is half mine. Half of the plunder is mine.”

“Are you going to miss your boat then? What would Bok-Dow say?”

Mao looked bemused, though he really wasn’t. He was prepared to kill Jack right there out of contempt, but he knew it would put a damper on his metier, “Very well, Jack. Live for another day. I sail back into the harbour in two weeks. I expect the consignment when I come back. And know this, if you ever make an affront like this again, I will not hesitate to kill you.”

“Never again, Mao. You have my word.”  

Mao chuckled, “No no, Jack I suspect we’ll be in this situation again in the near future. Until the next time, Jack.” Mao gyred, and hopped into a rowboat on the side of the pier, which oared away into Kowloon Bay, as the first pastels of the sun shimmered through the darkened clouds rolling over the South China Sea.  

Jack finally arrived at The Club, to see the Beatrice was not waiting for him, though Jack hadn’t expected her to stay. He made his way to the second storey, to his room, and entered soundlessly. He nearly lit a match for the lantern at the door, however, he saw another struck from within, and the task done for him. When the chamber was bright enough, he noticed another gun being pointed at him, the second in the day thus far.

“Good morning Madame Coates. If that is your real name. Who exactly do you work for?”

“Where is it, Jack?” Jack looked up and down the room to see Beatrice had it ransacked in her search attempt, immediately after he was taken away. He couldn’t be sure how long she looked.

“You don’t work for Van Lund, so you must work directly for Sir Sutherland, is that right?” guessed Jack.

“Not even close, Jack, I don’t work for anyone.”

“I see. You’re the thief who has been intruding on my business. Was Macau not big enough for you?”

“I’ve made two mistakes in my life: killing that guard in Macau, and coming in second in breaking into Sutherland’s office safe. I simply couldn’t resist that little bit of spending money. But if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have met you. You’re no less crook than I am, are you, Jack? You’ve been stealing as long as I have, I’d wager.” said Beatrice pressing the gun right into Jack’s temple.

“You don’t need to do this. There is enough for the both of us to live like royalty. We can sail to America, or the Caribbean, together.”

Beatrice thought about it for a moment, and Jack took the opportunity, snatching the gun from her hand with ease, quickly getting a bead on her.

“You hadn’t expected that, had you?” he said with menace in his voice.

“Are you going to kill me now?” said Beatrice with tears welling up.

“I have no choice. You’ll take the first chance you get to kill me.”

Beatrice begged, “Please, I know it was a mistake, threatening you like that. I know it was. I’m sorry.”

Jack began digging the gun into her stomach, forcing her to back up into the corner.

“Please don’t kill me, Jack. Please. Please don’t kill me,” she said emphatically, now only barely holding back tears, “I can help you! Please, I can help you! I can help you with with Mr. Song!”

Mr. Beverly stopped suddenly upon hearing the name. Immediately he confronted Beatrice, “I’m going to ask the questions, you’re going to answer them. If I don’t like the answers, then I am going to shoot you, do you understand?” Beatrice nodded in agreement.

“How do you know about Mr. Song? How do you know him?”

“He, is my employer,” said Beatrice breathlessly, wiping her eyes. “Or more to the point, I’m his slave.”

“How long have you worked for Mr. Song?”

“Fifteen years ago; he plucked me off the street when I was ten years old. I’ve been stealing for him ever since.”

“How can you help me?”

“I know his schedule, or at least, I knew everything he had planned for the last six months up until now. He was planning on killing you tonight. I assume he found out it was you who took the gold, that’s why you’re alive.”

“Let me guess, you told him?” said Jack, bringing the gun to her nose.

“No! No it wasn’t me. He didn’t find out from me. I promise! I told him someone robbed Sutherland’s safe before I got there. Van Lund, he must have told Mao.” Beatrice whimpered again, and she gasped when Jack lowered the gun.

“No, if it were him, he wouldn’t have wasted time in sending me to Mao. Mao wouldn’t have asked why I spoke with Van Lund. And the only reason Mao didn’t kill me, was because he has to report to his superior in Shanghai, he wouldn’t appreciate Mao delivering a late shipment.”

“He wouldn’t need you to show him the gold?”

“What gold?” The mention of gold threw Jack.

“The gold from the wreck of the SS Carnatic. Thomas Sutherland oversaw the entire recovery operation,” explained Beatrice, convinced of the safe’s contents. (It was likely then, that Mao had learned Beatrice stole a glance at his calendar, and he would soon kill her as well.)

“No, there was never any gold in that safe. If Sutherland had the gold, it’s somewhere else. Besides, there wasn’t enough in the shipwreck to kill me over. Unfortunately what I took is worse than I possibly could have imagined. But I don’t understand why Sutherland has it,” said Jack confused, and he no longer held the gun in Beatrice’s direction, however she didn’t seem concerned with escaping anymore.

“Wait, if you didn’t take gold, what did you take?”

“Two files, implicating a vast amount of high-ranking British government officials across her majesty’s Asia.”

“Implicating them doing what?” Beatrice asked, clearly dying to know.

“A smuggling business. Villagers in northern Burma all the way through China, being sent to South America, and sold into slavery. The second file details their involvement in the genocide of a large village that resisted being smuggled. I wouldn’t doubt this smuggling ring is involved with the majority of abductions throughout Hong Kong. But I can’t believe Mao is behind all of this he’s just a footnote... We are in grave danger. We need to disappear.”

“No we need to dismantle this operation. We need to take this to the highest authority.”

“We don’t know how high this operation goes!”

“If we don’t, whoever is responsible, is going to come after us, no matter where we go. We have privileged information worth killing for. If we don’t stop them, they will continue their operations, and hundreds if not thousands will die, no doubt thousands already have died. We need to stop this,” benevolent Beatrice reasoned.

Jack held his head in his hands, obviously torn. He looked at the gun, then at Beatrice, and noticed he was no longer pointing it in her direction. Yet she stood still, calm even, in his presence.

“You’re not trying to kill me anymore? Or run away?”

Beatrice stepped close enough to hold Jack, and he looked over her stunning features, cold desirous blue eyes, and shapely form which donned a pale blue dress hugging her waist to the point of suffocation. “I said I can help you, Jack. You need my help, and I need yours.”