For weeks she had been living under a strain so intense that her feelings had seemed to cease to have any connection with what was normal. She had known too much; and yet she had been certain of nothing at all. -- Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Making of a Marchioness
A hotel balcony
Hong Kong
31st May, 19—
"Aaah-chooo!"
Phil glared at the flowers as if the hotel staff had deliberately set them on the table to irritate her hay-fever. Her mood was worsened by a shout from the room next door.
"Stop that noise!" her aunt yelled. "You're making my headache worse!"
Phil pulled out her handkerchief to wipe her nose. She gingerly picked up the vase, carefully avoiding the flowers, and carried it over to the far side of the balcony. The balcony was accessible from two rooms: the one she shared with her sister, and her aunt's next door. She placed the vase outside her aunt's door with a spiteful wish that Aunt Rachael would trip over it when she walked through the door.
The clink of the vase being set down prompted another shout. "If you can't stop making a noise, at least do something useful and order me a cup of tea!"
Phil counted back from ten as she left the balcony. Her room was much smaller — and less expensive — than her aunt's, but it had one advantage: it had a phone. This was solely for her aunt's convenience. When staying in hotels Rachael Patton-Langdale refused to have a phone in her own room where it could disturb her sleep. She was much more cavalier about her niece's sleep being disturbed. Phil had lost count of the times she'd been jolted awake by some business partner of her aunt's phoning about stocks and shares and goodness knew what.
She picked up the receiver and dialled for room service. "Hello? A pot of tea for Room 273, please."
Once the order was confirmed she went back onto the balcony. It overlooked the harbour. For a while Phil sat watching the ships glide past and trying to spot which one was the ship that would take them to Australia.
A movement glimpsed in the corner of her eye made her turn her head. A man had stepped out onto one of the balconies further along. He was rolling a cigarette, apparently oblivious to her presence. He lit it and stood smoking for a minute. Then he wandered back into his room.
There was nothing unusual about his actions. Yet Phil had seen that man before. He'd gotten onto the same train in Moscow and had gotten off at Tiflis[1]. She remembered him specifically because he'd been wearing a bow-tie patterned with little dogs. He wasn't wearing it now, but she was sure it was the same man.
What were the chances of meeting a stranger twice, four thousand miles apart?
Phil turned and frowned thoughtfully at her aunt's doorway. Rachael, as usual, hadn't said a thing about why they were making this trip. Octavia imagined it was just a holiday: a train ride across Russia and neighbouring countries followed by a cruise to Australia. Phil, however, was smarter than her sister. Their aunt had some deeper reason for dragging them half-way across the world, or her name wasn't Ophelia Lucinda Patton.
The man's reappearance had given her an idea. What if her aunt had come here for a business meeting, safely away from anyone who could report the news to the stockholders? Her aunt never bothered to tell Phil anything, but she couldn't conceal that something was wrong in her business affairs.
Thirty years ago the Pattons had owned a small security company selling locks, gates and burglar alarms to local businesses. Then Rachael Patton had married the wealthy Edward Langdale and convinced him to take over and expand her father's business. To paraphrase what had once been said about Jane Seymour, it had been a marriage of good luck and good sense — Rachael had the good luck to find an idiot willing to marry her, and Edward had the good sense to die shortly after their son's birth, leaving his wife in full control of the business.
According to the coroner Edward had fallen into the lake by accident. Unkind people suggested Rachael had murdered him. Phil thought it was much more likely he'd committed suicide.
Whatever the truth, Rachael was the undisputed owner of Patton-Langdale Security while her son was a child. And when he got old enough that she began to worry about someday having to hand the business over to him, he very helpfully solved that problem for her by running away to an island somewhere off the coast of Scotland and becoming an ornithologist.
Phil had never met her cousin Jack, but she approved of him. His actions showed great common sense.
Meanwhile Rachael's brother Ben hadn't done quite so well for himself. He became a dentist, which Rachael had approved of, and married an actress, which she had emphatically disapproved of. She'd disapproved so strongly that she refused to acknowledge his existence for the rest of his life.
She'd meant this as a punishment. Phil was convinced her father had seen it as a blessing.
And that was how Phil herself came into the story. Octavia had been born first, followed by Ophelia two years later. (Their names were entirely their mother's fault. She was fond of soppy romance novels with heroines named things like Margaretta and Valentina. There was a reason Phil cringed every time she had to use her full name.) Then their father had died of lung cancer, leaving their mother with a small income which she squandered within months.
Perhaps Rachael had felt some grief at her younger brother's death. Or perhaps she simply wanted someone she could boss around. Whatever the reason, she had offered to take in both of her nieces and raise them to succeed her in the business. Their mother had gratefully accepted then swanned off to resume her acting career. She remembered their existence only at Christmas and — rarely — on their birthdays.
Rachael quickly discovered the best way to ensure the business foundered would be to put Octavia in charge of it. So Vi got off easy, and Phil was landed with being her aunt's heir.
The trouble was that Rachael seemed to believe her heir must be superhumanly perfect. Phil had gotten yelled at for wearing too many hat-pins, wearing gloves, not wearing gloves, taking too long to review the books, reviewing the books too quickly, dressing too old for her age, dressing too young for her age, being too outgoing, being too reserved, being too suspicious of other people, not being suspicious enough...
In short, Phil was criticised for everything under the sun that a person could be criticised for. She would have run away long ago, but Rachael — perhaps remembering Jack's escape — refused to let her have any money of her own. Ophelia Patton was twenty-two and had to ask her aunt for pocket-money as if she was a child. It was enough to drive anyone mad.
Everyone had a breaking point. Phil knew she was getting close to hers.
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Seo Yo-han fixed a politely interested expression on his face as the steward showed him to his cabin. It grew more and more strained when the ship's engines started, making the entire room shake. He managed to keep his composure until the steward left. Then he dashed into the bathroom.
A while later he emerged, still feeling queasy. One glance at the glass of water kindly provided for him — the water was sloshing around as if it was trying to imitate the sea — and he felt a strong inclination to run back in again.
The nausea was less severe this time. Once it faded Yo-han marched resolutely out of the cabin. He'd never liked ships, but he'd learnt from experience that the sickness would disappear in about an hour. In the meantime he needed fresh air.
His plan to spend at least an hour out on the decks received a sudden check when he turned a corner and found the hallway blocked. Four people were gathered outside a cabin door: a middle-aged woman, a young woman, a man who could be anything from thirty to fifty, and a steward.
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In his own words Yo-han was interested in learning about other people. In his half-brothers' words — not to mention the words of all the criminals he'd caught over the last twenty years — he was a busybody fundamentally incapable of keeping his nose out of other people's business. Either way, he stopped at once to see what was happening.
The middle-aged woman was the main actor in the unfolding drama. A casual passer-by would have assumed she was a British noblewoman — a countess at the very least, to judge by her behaviour. Yo-han had always had a gift for languages and had trained himself to have a decent grasp of accents in foreign languages. He also had studied enough people of all races and from all walks of life to pick up on subtleties of body language and expression. He knew at once that this was no noblewoman. She was as common as common could be, and she knew it. She was afraid everyone else knew it too. That was why she wore five pearl necklaces. That was why her clothes were the very latest fashion, even though they didn't suit her at all. That was why she acted like she owned the ship. That was why she put on an upper-class accent. Yo-han had never seen this woman before, but he had seen a thousand copies of her.
His eyes moved to the young woman. The first word that came to mind was "sharp". Everything about her was sharp: her jaw, her nose, the shape of her face, the look in her eyes. She didn't say a word. Her face was very pale and there was a wild, hunted sort of look in her eyes. Her expression was blank. Her hair was bound up in a severe bun better suited to a much older woman.
Yo-han looked at her thoughtfully. He'd seen people very like this woman before. People who had been pushed to the very limits of their endurance. What would happen if she snapped?
The man looked about as happy as a dental patient undergoing a root canal. His clothes were respectable but certainly not new. Yo-han spotted the ink stains on his fingers and immediately knew he was a secretary. He spared a moment to pity anyone who had to work for the middle-aged woman.
Finally there was the hapless steward, who had been unable to get a word in edgewise yet. The poor man looked like he was contemplating running on deck and leaping overboard.
"I insist on my niece always having the room beside mine!" the middle-aged woman was shouting. "The room across the hall isn't good enough!"
Yo-han looked at the young woman again. The hunted look was still there, and now there was barely-restrained fury alongside it. His mind repeated its earlier question: what would happen if she snapped?
The ship tilted again. Yo-han's stomach twisted. He immediately lost interest in the unfolding scene and fled back to his cabin. He was vaguely aware of running past another passenger in the corridor. He was in no state to pay any attention to them, so he had only a fleeting impression of someone carrying a very large suitcase.
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People who knew him — a short list back in Hungary and an even shorter one in Ulster — had always told Máté Király he was inclined to be pessimistic. In Hungary Máté had only to point to his father and his never-ending procession of ever-younger girlfriends to show he had good reason to be pessimistic. In Ulster he could instead point to his employer.
The best he could say for Mrs. Patton-Langdale was that she spared him the worst of her temper. He knew this was out of pragmatism rather than any regard for him — secretaries who were fluent in German, Hungarian, Romanian, and who could also muddle by in Russian and French weren't exactly a dime a dozen. If she treated him half as badly as she treated Miss Ophelia, he would hand in his notice at once and she would have the trouble of finding a new secretary and professional translators for each of those languages.
Unfortunately for Miss Ophelia, she wasn't a paid employee and couldn't threaten to resign. She was an easy target. And Mrs. Patton-Langdale, like all bullies, chose easy targets.
When he first began working for Mrs. Patton-Langdale, Máté had tried to stand up for Miss Ophelia. He had quickly learnt this was useless. Worse than useless, because it made Mrs. Patton-Langdale suspect there was something between him and Miss Ophelia when nothing could be further from the truth.
Vi had a plan to help her sister. Máté knew the basics — she had opened an account in her sister's name and was discreetly setting aside a certain amount of money each month — but had thought it wisest not to ask for more information. This way he could honestly say he didn't know what she was doing if her aunt found out.
Unfortunately Vi's plan would only be helpful when she had enough money for Miss Ophelia to move out. And in the meantime, scenes like this were practically a daily occurrence.
Mrs. Patton-Langdale practically spat her words at the unfortunate steward. "Listen to me, young man. I often can't sleep and need my niece to read to me. It is far more convenient for me when she is in the next room. I can summon her with a knock on the wall. But if she's in the room on the other side of a hallway? I'd have to get up in the middle of the night and go out into a cold, draughty hall to wake her!"
Máté glanced over at Miss Ophelia. Her face was blank, as it always was during scenes like this. If she ever decided to take up poker she'd wipe the floor with all her opponents. She was deathly pale except for a dull red flush around her cheekbones. Her jaw was clenched in a way that made him wince in sympathy.
The steward looked helplessly from Máté to Miss Ophelia, hoping for back-up they couldn't provide. "But ma'am, the room next door is taken by a Dr. Latimer—"
"So give Dr. Latimer the room across the hall," Mrs. Patton-Langdale interrupted.
"I can't—"
Mrs. Patton-Langdale drew herself up to her full height. She appeared to think this made her look imposing. Máté thought it made her look like a toad in mid-jump. "I am an acquaintance of the ship's owner. Its burglar alarms were provided by my company. I will lodge a formal complaint against you, young man, unless you let my niece swap rooms with Dr. Latimer."
"What about the room on the other side?" Miss Ophelia interrupted. Her voice was tight and she couldn't keep her anger out of it entirely.
"It's taken by a Mr. and Mrs. Tremaine," the steward said in the tone of one who had given up hope. "Very well, ma'am. Your niece can have this room, but you can explain it to Dr. Latimer."
"Thank you," Mrs. Patton-Langdale said, and swept into her own cabin.
The steward darted off at the speed of lightning, probably to take refuge in the bar. Máté's cabin was further down the hall. He headed towards it before his employer reappeared to start yet another argument.
As he left he heard Miss Ophelia mutter, "I'm going to kill her."
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If it had been remotely possible Phil would have thrown her aunt overboard on the spot. It was bad enough that she had to spend her life at the beck and call of a tyrant's whims without having to witness said tyrant harassing other people. And this had been the one time she thought she might have a chance to escape Rachael's demands for the duration of the voyage, too.
"I often can't sleep and need my niece to read to me", indeed. What Rachael should have said was "I often can't sleep, so I make sure my niece can't either." Phil rarely got to actually read much when her aunt summoned her. She'd get a few words out then Rachael would yell at her for not reading with enough emotion, not reading clearly enough, not reading slowly enough, or any other objection that came into her mind.
Phil glowered at her aunt's cabin door. As she did increasingly often, she contemplated killing Rachael. How would she do it? How would she avoid getting caught? She doubted she was strong enough to strangle her, unless Rachael had been drugged beforehand. Stabbing her? Striking her on the head with an iron bar? Shoving her down the stairs? All of those could be traced back to Phil. Besides, no matter how angry she was, she knew deep down she couldn't actually plan and go through with a murder.
Yet.
Footsteps approached. Phil came back to reality with a jolt and realised she'd been standing glaring at a door. That wasn't the sort of thing normal people did.
She looked up sharply. Then she froze. She knew this man. She'd seen him twice before: on a train from Moscow and in a Hong Kong hotel. He wasn't wearing his eccentric tie again, but he was eye-catching enough without it.
When they were teenagers Vi had irritated Phil by decorating their shared room with photos of the various film and theatre actors she had crushes on. All of them looked more or less the same to Phil — carefully-styled hair, good looks that were just slightly too perfect for Phil to find attractive, either a fake smile or a vacant stare that apparently counted as a "soulful" expression. This man looked like he had stepped out of one of those pictures. Phil could easily believe that he was an actor. But that didn't fit with her theory of him being some business partner of her aunt's.
She stared at him, knowing she was being rude but so surprised by his being here that she didn't care. Hadn't he and her aunt met up at the hotel? Had they decided an ocean liner was a better place for a business meeting than a hotel with easy access to the post office, the telephone, and the telegraph office?
He stared back as he walked past. He actually turned his head to keep her in view as he continued down the corridor. She noticed his eyes were a very dark shade of blue. His skin was sallow, the sort of paleness that suggested either a recent illness or a lack of sunlight. Combined with his black hair it gave him a washed-out, almost unreal look. One of his eyebrows was slightly higher and more arched than the other. That was the only obvious imperfection in a face that was otherwise too abnormally handsome to be truly attractive.
He was carrying a very large suitcase. Phil briefly considered the idea that he might have his own telegraph to send messages back to his head office, but dismissed that as nonsense.
She watched as he passed her new cabin's door, then only just stopped herself from staring open-mouthed. He opened the door of the cabin beyond hers and went in. The door closed behind him and she distinctly heard it lock.
Once again she was jolted back to reality. Suddenly she realised how very odd she must have looked, standing outside a door and staring at a complete stranger. No wonder he'd stared back.
Phil tried the door of her new cabin, then remembered she only had the key of her old cabin. All of her luggage was still in her old cabin too. She'd have to go back down to the check-in station, explain the situation, and ask them to give her the key for Cabin 175 instead of 174.
She gritted her teeth and set off through the ship's maze-like corridors.