May 2, 1943

ARBOGAST IS SCREAMING. Will cannot stand to hear it, cannot stand not to hear it. He is frozen, wants to clap his hands over his ears, wants to scream himself. Around Will, the adults are pale and silent, mothers rushing the children away.

Usually the guards take the unfortunate suspects away to a far-off house where they are made to sign their confessions, written long before they start to talk. But Arbogast! They had come silently, grimly, filled with purpose-two men-and seized him under his arms and dragged him to Ohta’s office, just next to the officers’ mess. He had gone quietly, but then the screaming started.

It has been three days since Will returned from his furlough and he has made it a point to avoid Arbogast, as if even coming close to the man will transmit his secret to him-a secret he has no intention of learning if he can help it.

He doesn’t want to know anything about Arbogast. If he is the type of man to keep a secret to the end, if he is the kind of man who will value his family more than his country, or if he is the kind of man who will take a deal to better his circumstances. He wants to know nothing. Instead, he tries to ignore him-the once proud man with his swollen beriberi feet, dragging around the camp, complaining about his wife and his dysentery.

The door opens and Arbogast is brought out, bucking. Strange how violence is not as vivid in real life. There are only a few streaks of blood. Mostly the impression is that he is wet. The water torture. They take him to the outskirts now. He is still screaming but his voice is starting to fray from the exertion. Will’s own throat hurts from the tearing sounds coming from Arbogast’s mouth.

So this is the man he reveals himself to be, Will thinks suddenly, inappropriately, bloodlessly-a man who screams when he is in danger. He hopes he himself will be silent. But one never knows.

Johnnie is at his side suddenly. They watch the man being dragged off again.

“That poor devil,” he says. “I wonder what they think he’s done.”

“Does it matter?” Will says.

“Not at all,” Johnnie says. He glances at Will. “What a cynic you’ve become.”

The next day, Arbogast is brought by two soldiers to his room and dumped unceremoniously on his bed, where Regina has a fit, falling and having hysterics on the floor while her husband lies, nearly unconscious, above her. His right hand is gone, the stump of his wrist wrapped in bloody rags.

Some sensible women drag Regina away and ply her with tea while the doctor is summoned. He shakes his head, powerless without any equipment, any medicine.

“What can I do?” he says. “He will live or die. That is all.”

They leave him there, with the powerless doctor, his face swollen blue beyond recognition, blood from the wound soaking through layers of ripped sheets. In the morning, the other residents of D Block will complain they could get no sleep because of the old man’s moaning. Arbogast, the rich businessman, has been reduced to this, and the others have been reduced to that.

The secret must be out now, Will thinks. And that should be that.

May 27, 1953

VICTOR CHEN was in a panic. Even Claire could see that, hidden away in the piano room. He was streaming from room to room, shouting at the servants, shouting at Melody, picking up the phone and banging it down again.

For the sake of the child, she tried to keep the lesson going but it was almost impossible. After a door slammed for the third time, she reached over and shut the instruction book.

“Well, Locket, what do you say?” she said.

“About what, Mrs. Pendleton?”

For the first time, Claire felt sorry for Locket. What must it be like to live in a house like this with parents like Melody and Victor? The child’s face was heartbreakingly smooth, the Oriental skin almost glossy, her eyes curious hazel orbs. Claire reached over and tucked a loose strand behind Locket’s ear. The maternal gesture surprised her almost as much as it did the girl herself, who gave a quick, shy smile.

“How about we finish a little early?”

“All right, Mrs. Pendleton.” Locket got up quickly, bumping the piano, and spilled the glass of water that had been sitting on top. “Oops,” she giggled. “Mummy says I’m very clumsy.”

“You just have to be more careful,” Claire said. “All children are careless.”

“Mummy says I give her a headache,” Locket said more somberly. “I’m not to disturb her in the afternoons anymore so that’s why she’s got me signed up for so many lessons.”

“I’m sure she wants you to grow up to be an accomplished lady with many interests.” Claire patted her head.

“We’re having a party!” Locket brightened. “For the queen’s coronation. Daddy got a big honor from the queen, you know.”

“Yes, I heard. You must be very proud.”

“I’m getting a new dress. It’s a tangerine silk taffeta with guipure lace,” the girl recited carefully. “Mummy had the lace flown in from France and it’s the only one of its kind in Hong Kong.”

“That sounds lovely, Locket.” The girl beamed, then looked uncertain.

“Of course,” Locket faltered, confessed, “it’s just the leftover from Mummy’s dress. She had some extra so she gave it to me so I could have it put on mine.”

“I’m sure you’ll both look a treat,” Claire said.

The reason Victor Chen was in such a state, Claire surmised, was what had appeared in the paper today. It had been relegated to page 7, pushed back by the relentless, breathless coverage of Princess Elizabeth and the latest details of her procession to Westminster Abbey, but it was still there-a small column about the formation of a War Crimes Committee, to be headed by a Sir Reginald Lythgoe, based on new information that had come to light. Will had pointed it out to her earlier in the afternoon.

“It’s bloody unfathomable!” she heard Victor shout into the phone. “It’s a witch hunt. The war’s been over for a decade and they want to dredge up this rubbish. You tell Davies I won’t forget this. It’s pure anti-Chinese sentiment. They can’t stand to see someone do well, and the OBE was just the last… That wretched old woman was playing Chopin on the Government House piano the entire war, drinking scotch and dining on veal, under my protection! She has no right…”

Someone shut a door so his voice was muffled.

Locket smiled.

“So I can go?”

“Yes,” Claire said. “Run along.”

Claire let herself out quietly, without running into Melody or Victor. She had an appointment with Edwina Storch.

The old woman had rung her up last week, asking to get together for a cup of tea. They decided on the Librarians’ Auxiliary in Mid-Levels, and Claire had arranged to meet her on the next Thursday, today.

The bus stopped outside the building on Tregunter Path and Claire got out. Miss Storch was just entering the clubhouse. Claire stopped to watch her. She had on a pink hat, under which her salt-and-pepper bun peeked. Her bottom was wide and encased in a matching pink cotton skirt that went to the knee. Varicose veins trailed down her thick calves, and as she walked with her cane, she swayed ever so slightly from side to side. She stopped to catch her breath outside the door, then stepped up and went inside.

Behind her, Claire waited, then walked to the door and pushed it open herself. Inside, it was dark and cool, fans swaying as they turned, and heavy damask curtains shielding the furniture against the bright sun outside. Claire squinted, trying to make out the shapes in the room.

“Hullo,” said Edwina Storch. Claire jumped. Edwina Storch had taken off her spectacles and was rubbing them with the hem of her jacket. “They steam up in this humidity, you know.”