“That’s enough, Saint,” said Stephen. “But?”
Crane cast a glance over at Li Tang. “But China is my business, and—I really think it would be advisable to smile, and nod, and leave.”
“What?” demanded Janossi.
Mrs. Gold looked as though she was running out of patience. “I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, your lordship, but there is a giant rat on the floor in here, and a lot more out there, which somebody needs to do something about.”
“I see the giant rat,” Crane said. “And so did Li Tang, and he wasn’t surprised to see it. I think you should leave now. I would.”
“Why?”
“Can we talk about this later?”
“No, why don’t you explain your reasoning now?” Esther’s voice was hard.
Crane gave her a humourless smile. “Because I’d rather not share it with our friends from the East.”
“But nobody here speaks English—” Esther stopped abruptly. “Really. I see.”
“Lord Crane,” Stephen interjected. “Is that your professional opinion, that we would be well advised to leave? Because this is not a trivial matter. There are politics, and dead people.”
“No, it isn’t trivial. And yes. That’s my professional opinion.”
Stephen contemplated the taller man for a moment. Then he nodded and turned to the others. “Alright. We’re going. Lord Crane, tell the Chinese…I don’t know, whatever you judge best. We will be back if need be.”
“What?” said Janossi incredulously, as Esther said, “Excuse me?”
“I’m declaring this, Es,” Stephen told her. “Follow my lead, please. We’ll discuss it later.”
Esther gave him a long, hard look and a reluctant nod. “Very well. Joss, get the rat.”
Faced down and unsuccessful, the little group trooped out through the maze of corridors and alleys, back into the only relative airiness of the Limehouse streets.
Crane came out last and lengthened his stride to catch up with Esther and Stephen, who were engaged in a low-voiced, furious argument.
“Because he’s not a fool, that’s why!” Stephen was snapping.
“And he’s not a practitioner either,” Esther hissed back. “So what the devil does he have to say to it that makes his opinion worth more than mine?”
“Excuse me,” Crane called, and both justiciars swung round. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s something that needs checking before we go further.”
“There is no we.” Esther spoke with barely restrained anger. “I appreciate your translation, but that is the limit of your involvement with this matter. This is not your business!”
“Just a moment, Es.” Stephen sounded tired and irritated. “What is it, Lord Crane?”
“Does anyone know a good vantage point for rooftops around here? A tall tower or church spire?” Crane looked at the blank faces and added, “I don’t know this part of Limehouse at all, and I want to see the roofs as soon as possible. There may not be much time.”
“For what?” demanded Janossi.
“To test a theory.”
“A theory?”
“Saint can get on the rooftops,” Stephen said. “What should she look for?”
“Oh, for—” Esther span away, obviously fighting down a surge of temper.
“Look for flagpoles, Miss Saint,” Crane told her. “Maybe one, possibly more. Standing proud of any nearby chimneys or walls, positioned to be visible. They may have several flags, they will definitely have long slender red pennants, and—can I borrow a pencil? Thanks. You may also see this symbol here on square red flags. When I say ‘this symbol’,” Crane added, with eight months’ painful experience, “I mean one exactly like that, rather than one which is also made up of some lines.”
Saint gave him a malevolent look, but took the paper on which he’d sketched the character and slouched off down a nearby alley. The rest of them moved to the street corner, out of the way of walkers and shufflers. Janossi glared at a beggar till he went away. Esther Gold looked after Saint, turned back to Crane with arms folded, and said, as one at the limits of her patience, “And may we know what flagpoles have to do with the serious problem that we’re supposed to be dealing with at this moment?”
Crane glanced round. “I’d rather this wasn’t overheard.”
Stephen made a quick twitch of his fingers. The noise of the street was abruptly muted. “It won’t be. Go on.”
“The flagpoles she’s looking for are ghost poles.” Crane settled his shoulders back against a sun-warmed brick wall which was nevertheless still slightly clammy with long damp. “It’s a very old shamanic practice. The idea is that when you die, while your body is prepared for burial, there is a chance that your soul will go wandering. If it can’t find its way back to your body, it might become a hungry ghost or even take over someone else’s body and become a chiang-shih, a vampire. So the ghost pole is put up where the body rests, to help your spirit find its way back.”