“In an hour’s time it will all be over and you can start to enjoy being a bride,” I told myself. But I knew I couldn’t really start to enjoy myself until Bo Kei was safely far away and I had no idea how I was going to manage that. It wasn’t really my problem, was it? It was up to Frederick and Bo Kei to decide where they wanted to go and what they wanted to do. I should just leave well enough alone. But I’ve never been good at doing that.
Nothing stirred on Mott Street. The door of the Church of the Transfiguration was open and from inside came the sound of a voice intoning. Snatches of Latin floated toward me and with them that customary jolt of guilt that I had skipped mass yet again and was destined for hellfire. Then I detected a movement out of the corner of my eye. I spun around and my heart lurched as I saw a ghostly figure coming toward me from an arched entrance to some kind of tunnel or arcade between buildings. He was deathly white, pale, almost luminous. Then he came out into Mott Street, pausing to steady himself against the corner of the building and I saw it was a white man, but in a sorry state. He was in his shirt sleeves. His hair was plastered across his forehead. His eyes were staring vacantly, he was breathing hard, and he didn’t seem to know where he was. I thought for a moment he might be drunk, but I’ve seen plenty of drunks in my life, including my own father, and they didn’t look like this. Then it came to me that he was emerging from an opium den. Mrs. Chiu had told me that it wasn’t only the Chinese who frequented these places. The man looked around as if he was just coming to his senses and started at the sight of me, as if I too might be a ghost. He gave a little moan, then turned and staggered down Mott Street in the opposite direction.
I went on my way toward the Golden Dragon Emporium. The sight of that man had unsettled me even further and I wanted to get this over with. I reached the store and saw that shutters covered the windows and the front door was firmly locked. I hadn’t expected the Chinese to follow the laws of the Sabbath, and it now occurred to me that perhaps it would stay shut on the coming holiday. I just hoped that the mail slot on the front door to Mr. Lee’s residence would be big enough to take my package, because I wasn’t going to risk coming back here a third time.
I went up the steps slowly. Before I reached the top several Chinamen ran past, shouting to each other in animated fashion. My thoughts turned to tong wars and I shrank into the shadow of the building, half expecting shots to ring out. But they didn’t seem to notice me and disappeared into the On Leong headquarters next door. When I reached the top of the steps I was surprised to find the front door was open. I was just leaning inside to put the package on one of the stairs when I heard the most extraordinary sound—it was the wailing of a soul in torment, the sound of a wounded animal, unearthly and frightening. And it was coming from the top of those stairs.
I looked up and saw that the upper door was open, which was also strange, considering that it had been locked on the other occasions I had been here. Telling myself I was being a fool I crept up the stairs toward the sound. There was no houseboy in the hallway and the sound came from just behind the screen into the living room, so loud that it now echoed through the high ceiling of the hallway. My thoughts went to the Chinese demons that screen was supposed to keep out, but I had to find out what it was. I crept toward the screen and peeked around it—and reeled in surprise: a tiny old Chinese woman sat on the sofa, rocking back and forth. What drew my attention immediately were her feet. Her little legs stuck out like a china doll’s, too short to reach the floor, and peeping through from the hem of her shiny black trousers were tiny little stumps instead of normal feet. Each stump had a red brocade shoe on it, no bigger than a baby’s slipper. I recoiled, thinking she had had both feet amputated until I remembered what had been said about small-foot wives. I was actually looking at a small-foot wife.
All this passed through my head in an instant until the intensity of the sound obliterated any rational thought. Her mouth was open and from it came a continuous wave of horrific wailing. Her eyes were wide open and staring and I wondered if she was having some kind of fit, and should I perhaps go to help her. I also wondered where Lee Sing Tai and the servants were that they didn’t hear her and let her carry on like this.
At that moment I was conscious of another sound over the wailing—heavy footsteps. Someone was coming down the flight of stairs from the floor above. I tried to dart back into the stairwell, but I was too late. I saw big boots, dark blue trouser legs.
“For pete’s sake stop that row, woman,” a deep voice boomed in English. “It gives me the willies.” Then a burly New York police officer came into view. I had nowhere to hide. He saw me and reacted with surprise.
“Who are you? What the devil are you doing here?” he barked. He took in what I was wearing, my neat straw hat and gloves. “Don’t tell me you’re on one of these slumming tours, poking your nose into other people’s business?”
If I’d been smart I would have said yes. But I didn’t want to be seen as a nosy parker with no right to be in the house. “I’m delivering this package to Mr. Lee,” I said.