Free The Master of Rain by Tom Bradby Page A

there the similarities ended. Lewis, from his slicked-back hair to his finely polished leather shoes, was every inch the son of privilege, confidently shouldered.

    “Richard’s just come out, joined the police force.”

    “The police,” Lewis said with gentle, mocking admiration. “Excellent. Not in the Traffic Branch, I hope.”

    Field hesitated. Granger was always warning them not to tell anyone in the city what they did, but as members of the Municipal Council, both of these men were responsible for governing and overseeing the municipal police force. “No,” he said.

    “One of Macleod’s men?”

    “I work with Patrick Granger.”

    “Ah.” Charles Lewis raised his eyebrows. “You look like you’ve been pounding the streets all day.”

    Field smiled thinly. “There was a murder,” he said. He realized immediately he’d been trying to show off, and regretted it.

    “The Russian woman,” Lewis said. “I was just reading about her in the
Evening Post.”

    “Lena Orlov.”

    Perhaps it was Field’s imagination, but he got the impression Lewis had known Lena Orlov, or at least recognized the name.

    “Handcuffed to the bed. Kinky.” Lewis took his hands from his pockets. “What are we doing?”

    Geoffrey Donaldson looked at his watch and turned to Field. “We had better get along to meet Penelope.” He put his glass down on the bar, facing Lewis again. “You’re very welcome to come along,” he said without enthusiasm.

    Lewis smiled. “Never say no to dinner with Penelope.”

    Charles Lewis led the way out. Field held back to wait for Geoffrey. In the lobby Lewis took his trilby from the porter and walked straight through the doors. Geoffrey grabbed Field’s arm. “He’s all right,” he said. “Charlie’s all right.”

    “Yes,” Field said. “Of course.”

    Outside, Lewis’s chauffeur had already brought up his new black Buick and they climbed into the back before setting off down the Bund, past the brightly lit monoliths. The dome of the Hong Kong Shanghai Bank was ghostly against the night sky. They turned left into Nanking Road and Field looked out of the window in silence at the streets and shops still bustling with life.

    The country club on Bubbling Well Road was similarly grand, a wide circular stone entrance giving way to an airy stone-floored lobby with plants in large silver pots. There was a reception area on the left, but Lewis led them straight through to a veranda that overlooked a small fountain and several acres of flat, well-tended lawn. A group dressed in white was playing bowls in the corner, close to the wall; another group, nearer, croquet.

    It was growing dark. An Indian waiter in a starched white and gold uniform was hanging lanterns all along the terrace and placing joss sticks and spraying paraffin beneath each table to ward off mosquitoes.

    Penelope Donaldson was waiting for them at the far end, one long leg crossed over the other, both resting on a wicker and glass coffee table. As she turned toward them, Field saw immediately that she was pretty, with bobbed, jet-black hair. Her skirt was short, her mouth small. She wore, Field thought, a lot of makeup.

    “Charlie!” she said, standing and putting her arms around his neck, kissing him on the mouth. “What a treat.”

    “Penelope,” Geoffrey said a little stiffly, “this is Richard Field, my—I suppose our—nephew.”

    She stepped forward and offered a slender hand, her smile warmer and more engaging than Field was for some reason expecting. “We’ll get along fine,” she said, “just as long as you don’t call me ‘Auntie.’ ”

    Field smiled back at her.

    “The boy’s in the police force,” Lewis said.

    “Good Lord,” she responded with the same mock admiration.

    “Working on that Russian woman found handcuffed to the bed.”

    “How exciting,” she said, ignoring Geoffrey’s frown. “It’s sexual?”

    They were all looking at Field, who was wondering what