Under the Dragon’s Tail

Henry Pedlow had woken early but he was still sitting in his pyjamas in the armchair beside the bed. A waiter had tapped on the door to deliver his breakfast but he’d sent him away with a surly command. Food seemed irrelevant to him. He was surprised when he came out of his reverie and saw it was after eleven o’clock. He had no recollection of what he had been thinking in the past four hours. He didn’t believe he had fallen back to sleep, but the time had vanished, wiped away like a mark on the beach. Stiffly, he got to his feet. His limbs ached and his throat was on fire. The doctor had warned him, of course. It would get worse. A man of few words, he had only added, “We have morphine or opium for the pain, but in the end…” He shrugged. Henry hadn’t known this physician long, only since he had arrived back in Toronto, and he knew the man disapproved of him, despised him for the disease. Not that Henry could blame him. He himself was filled with self-contempt. What a fool he’d been. What a stupid, stupid fool.

He began to pace, swept with a surge of emotion so violent he couldn’t stand still. He slammed his fist down on the sideboard, making the ornaments bounce. Stupid! Stupid! Fool! He’d been warned as soon as he arrived in India. “Watch for the fire-ships. You can’t always tell. Even the young ones can have it.” But the soft, dark eyes, the compliance of the women proved irresistible.

As suddenly as it had come, his anger vanished. He burst into tears. He couldn’t stop. Sobs racked his chest, hurting him, burning his throat. He finally forced himself to stop crying, not because the grief was over, but because the physical pain it created was too severe.

He was lying facedown on the bed, his head buried in the pillows. He didn’t remember moving there. Again he checked the clock. He had lost another half hour. Or had he? Was it ten past eleven when he had last looked? It was now almost noon.

Groaning, he got up off the bed. He’d asked for a fire to be laid and he walked over to the fireplace, struck a match, and lit the paper. The flames leaped, ready to lick around the coal. He waited for a moment but he was afraid to be still for long, too many thoughts rushed in. He went over to the escritoire by the window. The hotel provided stationery, rather good quality letter paper with the hotel crest at the top. He sat down, took one sheet, unscrewed the top of the inkwell, dipped in the pen, and wrote in large letters, “To Whom It May Concern.”

He supposed he could address it directly to the detective who was investigating the case but he had forgotten his name.

She hadn’t told him immediately, letting him meet Sarah and recounting the story she gave out to the world. This is my ward, and so on. It wasn’t until she’d received the letter from Dolly Shaw that she told him the truth.

Henry’s thoughts shied away, the shock of that revelation overwhelming him again.

He pulled up the window blind a few inches and gazed down onto the street. A carriage went by, the horse splashing in the rain-filled ruts. The driver, his waterproof glistening, flicked his whip and the horse broke into a canter. A man and a woman huddled together beneath a black umbrella as they hurried towards the hotel. He could see they were not young and something in the way they leaned in to each other, the closeness, suggested a conjugal familiarity.

His envy was like the taste of bile on his tongue. He had never known such ease with any woman and would not now.

Except for Maud.

Their connection had meant little to him. A chance to take a willing woman, and he hadn’t been in contact with her the entire time he’d been in India. Even her first dreadful revelation hadn’t brought them closer. He’d felt guilt, fear, anger, but no real sympathy. Then she’d come to his hotel. She was frantic. The police suspected her, she said. The detective was at her heels. She’d turned to Henry, as desperate as a deer at bay. Impatient with her fear and angry at what she’d done, he’d told her his own secret. He said it brutally, wanting to hurt her. She’d been jolted into agonized tears and then she’d reached for him and held him in her arms, her tears wetting his face. It was when he realized she was weeping for him and not just herself that Henry Pedlow experienced something approaching love for the first time in his life.

The memory was too painful to dwell on, and he looked out of the window again.

Across the road the lamps were lit in the houses. He could see into a drawing room, a maid straightening the antimacassars on the chairs ready for callers.

He felt himself move far away from the scene as if he were drawn up to a high mountain top. The carriage, the man and the woman, the houses, seemed like toys. Another sob threatened and he lowered the blind quickly.