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  They had arrived at Shanghai. They had arrived in China.

  Sherlock’s feelings were mixed. Partly he was filled with excitement at the idea of experiencing a new country, a new culture, where nothing would be the same as he was used to (‘except,’ he heard Amyus Crowe’s voice in the back of his mind, ‘human nature’). At the same time he was filled with sorrow, knowing that he was at the moment as far from home and as far from his friends as he was going to get. This was the end of the journey out. With luck, and perhaps a little careful planning, he could stay on the Gloria Scott and be part of the crew for the long journey home.

  Would home still be the same when he got back?

  Would he?

  The temperature and the humidity had risen sharply as they approached land. The sea breezes that had been simultaneously pushing the ship along and cooling the crew down had died away, leaving a heavy stillness in the air. Sherlock could feel sweat breaking out across his shoulder blades every time he moved.

  Fortunately, the riot of noise and colour and motion that was Shanghai harbour was enough to distract him from his thoughts and his discomfort. Boats and ships of unusual design were heading in every direction, usually at some speed, and everyone was shouting at everyone else. It reminded Sherlock of the times he had arrived on the train at Waterloo Station in London and seen people criss-crossing the concourse, somehow avoiding bumping into each other without apparently swerving or slowing down.

  Sherlock noticed that several of the ships in the harbour were Chinese junks. He felt his skin crawl, remembering the pirate attack, but he told himself that the design was common to almost all Chinese ships. The pirates were sure to be a long way away by now.

  Mr Larchmont ordered all of the sails to be taken down. Sherlock worked as the ship came to a gradual stop in a clear area of water out in the centre of the harbour. Mr Larchmont ordered the anchor to be weighed. For a while they just waited, but Sherlock became aware that a handful of small, flat-bottomed boats were heading their way. Presumably there had to be some kind of inspection, or at the very least a discussion with the local administrators, before they would be allowed to dock.

  Sherlock gazed out at the harbour. A series of quays and jetties had been built along its curve, with watchtowers at either end of the crescent. Behind the quayside and the jetties Sherlock could make out a series of warehouses, all of which appeared to be built to the same design. Off to one side, and sprawling into the haze of the distance, was the town of Shanghai itself. It was surrounded by a wall that Sherlock estimated was about five times as high as Amyus Crowe. The presence of the wall and of the watchtowers suggested to Sherlock that the town had been subject to many attacks through its history, but the wall was crumbling in places, and the watchtowers were weather-beaten and almost falling down. Whatever bad things had happened in the past, Shanghai now seemed to be safe and perhaps even complacent, like an old and sleepy ginger tomcat with scars on its face and a torn nose.

  As well as the Chinese junks there were a smattering of ships that looked more like the Gloria Scott in the harbour. Western traders were obviously welcomed by the Chinese. One ship in particular caught his eye. It was long, and low in the water, and painted white – or at least it had probably started out white, but was now a kind of creamy grey. It had two masts – one fore and one aft – but between them was a funnel and beside the funnel, in a kind of cage that protruded out sideways from the deck, was a large paddle wheel. It reminded Sherlock of the ship he had travelled to America on a year or so ago. That had used a coal-powered steam engine to power a pair of paddle wheels. The idea was that if the wind dropped then the engine could be fired up and the ship moved by the rotation of the paddle wheels in the water.

  The funnel looked newer than the rest of the ship. He wondered if there had been some kind of accident. Maybe the ship had been damaged, and the funnel had been repaired and repainted.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a commotion behind him. Captain Tollaway had appeared on the deck, with Mr Larchmont standing one pace behind him. He was wearing a fresh uniform and was even trying to smile.

  Crewmen near Sherlock were helping three men on board. They had climbed up a rope ladder from their flat-bottomed boat. Two of them wore baggy robes of patterned silk which wrapped around their bodies, and padded slippers. The third man wore a similar robe, but with a loose black jacket over the top. All three of them had black caps on their heads. The caps had straight sides, flat tops and no brims. The overall effect was a strange mix of ostentation and reserve. They greeted the Captain effusively, bowing repeatedly. The Captain bowed back, looking uncomfortable.

  The man with the black jacket seemed to be a translator. When the two administrators spoke in Cantonese he listened, then repeated the message back to the Captain in heavily accented English. When the Captain replied he did the same in reverse.

  Whatever discussion or negotiation was going on, it was completed to the satisfaction of both parties. The meeting broke up with a lot more bowing, and the three men were escorted off the Gloria Scottagain.

  Mr Larchmont spoke with the Captain, then turned to the attentive crew. ‘We’ll be docking in Shanghai shortly,’ he announced. ‘The Captain’s intention is to be here for a week while we sell off our cargo, barter for a new one and reprovision for the voyage home. I’ll be handin’ out your wages, in cash, down in the crew room over the next hour. If you want your hard-earned money, you need to come an’ get it from me, otherwise I’ll spend it on dresses and jewels for my missus back in Lambeth.’ He smiled at the chuckles and whistles that followed his comment. ‘That’s my story, lads, an’ I’m stickin’ to it. Now, I’ll be pinning up a roster of shore leave, an’ I want every man-jack of you to read it and follow it. This ship has to have a skeleton crew aboard at all times, and there have to be enough additional men to shift cargo in an’ out.’ He paused. ‘It’s been a hard voyage, an’ we’ve lost some mates. You deserve a good time, but keep a hand on your wallets an’ an eye on the local law. If you find yourselves in clink then I ain’t guaranteeing that I’ll be able to afford to get you out!’

  It took most of the rest of the afternoon for the Gloria Scott to be towed to a vacant section of quayside by a flotilla of smaller boats. By the time the ship was fastened to the quay by thick ropes and a gangway laid from the deck down to the dock, the sun was dipping beneath the hills.

  Within half an hour of having docked, the ship was nearly deserted. Any crew member who wasn’t required to stay behind had left. Even Mr Arrhenius, dressed in his beekeeper’s veil and black leather gloves, had left the ship. He had nodded at Sherlock as he walked towards the gangway. Perhaps he smiled slightly, but the veil made it difficult to tell. The sailors gave him a wide berth as he walked past, and none of them would walk on to the gangway while he was standing on it.

  Eventually, as the sky turned from blue to red, Sherlock stood at the top of the gangway, looking towards the town. He wanted to explore, but he was nervous. He didn’t know anything about local customs. He might get into trouble.

  A large hand touched his shoulder. ‘You can come with me,’ Wu Chung said in a kindly voice from behind him. He was speaking Cantonese, and Sherlock could understand him pretty well. ‘You should meet my family. They will cook oysters, and crab, and jellyfish for you. It will be a feast like you’ve never seen before.’

  Sherlock smiled, but shook his head. ‘No, this is your time,’ he replied. ‘Go and see them again. Catch up on all the gossip. Tell them about your adventures. I don’t want them distracted by having a foreigner there, and having to be hospitable.’

  ‘You are a wise man,’ Wu said. He squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder. ‘Any time you want to come and see me, make your way to Renmin Dong Lu, and ask for the Wu family. Everyone knows where we live. You are welcome, always.’

  He took his hand off Sherlock’s shoulder, but he still stayed where he was for a few moments. He seemed reluctant to leave. Sherlock turned to look at him. The
big cook was staring wistfully out at the town.

  ‘I wonder if they will remember me,’ he said softly.

  Before Sherlock could say anything, Wu Chung set off down the gangway. Watching him go, Sherlock considered how much he’d learned from the cook. Not only how to defend himself using the movements of T’ai chi ch’uan, but also how to communicate with the locals in Cantonese. He had been lucky in the teachers he had met over the past two years – Amyus Crowe, Rufus Stone and Wu Chung. And Mycroft, of course, although his brother rarely gave the impression that he was teaching Sherlock anything, despite the fact that everything he said contained a lesson of some kind.

  He wondered with a slight and sudden flutter of his heart where his friends and family thought he was.

  As he was about to disembark he heard a voice behind him say, ‘I always wanted a crewman who could take orders without complaining, work hard without shirking and then walk off the ship without being paid. People told me I was mad, but I said to them, “You wait – one day I’ll find a crewman just like that.” And here you are, laddie. Here you are.’

  Sherlock turned. He had already recognized the voice. It was Mr Larchmont, and he was gazing at Sherlock with a bemused expression on his face. He held up an envelope – rough brown manila, stained by many sets of fingerprints. ‘Do you want your pay, or shall I donate it to the Jim Larchmont Charity for Distressed Ship’s Masters?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Sherlock said, reaching out for the envelope. ‘I nearly forgot.’

  ‘You’re a good sailor, laddie,’ Larchmont said as he handed it over. ‘I keep forgetting you started out as a stowaway. You deserve pay – more than some of those other wastes of victuals I was forced to employ.’ He paused. ‘You’re coming back, I hope? Not stopping off here to make your fortune, or see more of the world?’

  ‘I’m coming back,’ Sherlock confirmed. ‘I want to get home to England.’

  Larchmont stared at him for a few moments. ‘There’re ships in dock that are leaving sooner than we are, and heading back for Blighty,’ he said softly. ‘If you want, I could have a word with one of the captains for you. Get you a berth.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Sherlock said, ‘but I’d rather wait a few days and leave with the Gloria Scott.’ He shrugged. ‘I never thought I’d say this, but the ship feels like home.’

  ‘Aye,’ Larchmont murmured. ‘That she does.’ He paused, and then in a louder voice said, ‘You be off now before the sun goes down and the rats come out of their holes. Stay away from card games, strong spirits and any woman that tries to speak to you before you’ve spoken to her.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir!’ Sherlock saluted, and then turned and headed for the gangway. As he went he slipped the envelope that Mr Larchmont had given him into a pocket of his jacket. Before he could pull his fingers out, they encountered something else – a smooth, curved piece of metal. He pulled it out, curious as to what it was. It took a moment before he recognized it as the object he had picked up off the deck outside Mr Arrhenius’s cabin a few days before. He stared at it, bemused.

  ‘Fifteen seconds, laddie, then you have to stay and prise the barnacles off the hull!’ Mr Larchmont shouted.

  ‘Aye aye, sir!’ Sherlock called back. He slipped the metal object back into his pocket next to the envelope of cash and sprinted down the gangway towards the Shanghai quayside.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Standing on the quayside, Sherlock was impressed by the city wall looming over everything. The stonework was in obvious disrepair, but he could also see scars that looked like they might have been the result of cannonballs striking the walls and bouncing off. The scars looked fresh – the stone beneath was still bright, not darkened with age and not covered with moss. It looked as if there had been some kind of fighting around the city in the not too distant past. He wondered what had happened – and whether it was likely to happen again while he was there.

  Off to the right was a city gate. Guards in flared metal helmets and brightly coloured uniforms were stopping everyone who wanted to enter the town – questioning them and checking their papers. Again, it was evidence that there was unrest in this country. He hoped things would be quiet while he was here. The locals could have whatever wars and battles they wanted, as long as they waited until the Gloria Scott had left.

  He watched as various people walked past him. The Chinese were mostly dressed in variations on the baggy wraparound robes that he’d seen earlier on the ship, although some had a combination of loose trousers with a round-collared shirt. The materials were all embroidered, patterned or dyed in bright colours. It was very different from the browns, greys and blacks that he was used to in England, but he found that some things were still the same. He could tell various trades by the signs that they left behind. One man, coming towards him, was in his thirties but had hands that looked as though they belonged to someone much older – wrinkled and white. He probably ran a laundry, and spent most of his working day with his hands in hot soapy water. Another man had a tanned face and arms, but his hands were dead white. He was probably a baker, and the whiteness was caused by flour coating his skin. Several cooks passed by – they, like Wu Chung, had hands covered with tiny cuts. Numerous passers-by had wrinkles and patches of mud on their trousers, and Sherlock tentatively classified them as farmers who spent a lot of time kneeling down and either planting or pulling up vegetables.

  Remembering the envelope that Mr Larchmont had given him, he pulled it from the pocket that he’d stashed it in and examined the contents. It was a loose collection of copper coins of various kinds. They weren’t British currency. Most of them had square holes in them and odd symbols around the edges. He presumed that they were Chinese. He supposed that made sense – there was no point in paying the crew in pounds sterling if the local businesses only took local currency. He had no way of knowing what value the coins were, or whether they added up to a fair wage for the many weeks he’d spent on board the Gloria Scott, but he found that he didn’t particularly care. Money had never been that important to him. Matty had never understood that about him.

  Before he could decide what to do next, two things happened at the same time: a hand grabbed the envelope, and something struck him hard in the small of his back, sending him sprawling forward. He managed to twist as he fell so that it was his back that hit the ground rather than his chest. He could feel stones digging into his skin.

  Three dark-haired boys were grouped together where he had been standing. They were all about his size. Despite their obvious youth the one who had taken his envelope had a thin moustache and the boy on his right had a straggly beard. The third boy was clean-shaven but his hair was long and greasy.

  Around them, people walked past as if nothing untoward was happening. It was as if they were in their own little bubble, separate from the rest of the world.

  ‘You don’t need this, do you?’ the one holding the envelope said in Cantonese. He held the envelope up, smiling. ‘Just say if you want it back.’

  The three boys laughed.

  ‘Yes, I want it back,’ Sherlock said, also in Cantonese, as he climbed to his feet and brushed the dust from his clothes.

  The boys stared at him, surprised. ‘You speak Yue?’ the greasy-haired one exclaimed. ‘I didn’t think white barbarians could learn our language!’

  ‘I can do more than speak your language,’ Sherlock said darkly. ‘Give that back.’

  ‘Or what?’ the bearded youth sneered.

  He found his hands and feet naturally assuming T’ai chi ch’uan defensive positions. ‘Or I’ll take it back.’

  The boy glanced at his friends. ‘One against three? Hardly fair. One of us could defeat three of you, little boy.’

  ‘Numbers aren’t important. I want it back more than you want to keep it.’

  ‘And besides,’ another voice said in accented Cantonese from one side, ‘it’s not one against three – it’s two against three. The two of us can take the three of you easily.’

  The boys all
turned their heads to see who was speaking. Sherlock took the opportunity to step forward and snatch his pay from the boy who had taken it. The boy’s head spun back, and he grabbed for the envelope, but Sherlock stepped out of the way.

  On the other side of the boys stood a Western youth of about Sherlock’s age and about Sherlock’s height. He was thin and he wore metal-rimmed spectacles. His hair was blond, almost white: it was swept back from his forehead and it was long enough to fall over his ears and collar. His clothes were Chinese, but somehow newer and cleaner than the ones that everyone else was wearing.

  The youth with the moustache stepped forward and reached for Sherlock’s envelope at the same time that his friends decided to remove the newcomer from the equation. One of them – the bearded one – reached out to push the blond boy’s shoulder while the other one – the one with greasy hair – tried to step past him and put a foot behind his leg so that if he moved backwards to avoid the shove he would trip over.

  Sherlock grabbed the approaching wrist with his right hand and then twisted his whole body underneath it. The boy jerked forward, forced over by the pressure on his arm. Sherlock glanced at the newcomer. The blond boy easily deflected the hand moving towards his shoulder. He stepped forward rather than backwards, throwing the boy with the greasy hair off balance. His right hand shot out, fingers curled so that the heel of the hand slammed into the bearded youth’s ribcage. The youth doubled up in pain. Before the one with greasy hair could react, the blond newcomer lashed out with his elbow, catching him in the face. Greasy Hair jerked back, blood streaming from his nose.