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The Return of the Yellow Beetle
by Mark Hodder (2006) Chapter Three The Brotherhood of the Yellow Beetle Michael Wellington turned his back on the study and opened the French doors. He stepped out onto the veranda; a short and stout man with a dark complexion and thinning black hair. He unbuttoned his jacket and breathed deeply. The weather was cooler than yesterday though still warm; a few scattered clouds drifted lazily overhead. A chainsaw rattled in the distance; the gardener, Zhang Wei, trimming the trees down by the fence which surrounded the property. Twelve security checks had been carried out on the man from China. All of them had drawn a blank. He was a farmer who, as a child, had picked up a smattering of English from a volunteer schoolteacher; a Scottish woman who later died from lung cancer. Zhang Wei had met Bernard Stone in a marketplace two years ago. Overhearing the collector asking a stallholder about a vase, he had interrupted, pulled Stone away, and led him to an incredibly ancient woman who kept, beneath the floorboards of her shack, seven vases of such exquisite workmanship that Stone had happily paid her exactly eight times more than she asked for them. He also offered Zhang Wei a job. The farmer accepted and had lived in a small cottage on the grounds of Thistle Wood Manor ever since. He never seemed to leave the estate apart from Sundays, when he would catch a bus along the coast to Herne Bay where, in a pub named The Fisherman, he played Mah Jongg with two countrymen, both around his own age; both with similarly spotless backgrounds. The chainsaw coughed and stopped and the gardener descended from his stepladder and walked towards the gate, brushing bits of bark and splinters of wood from his tunic with one hand, carrying the tool with the other. “Blake’,” muttered Wellington as Zhang Wei swung the gate open and a large car drove through. The curator and spy hurried down the veranda steps and crossed the lawn in front of the manor until he reached the top of the driveway. The car drew up just as he arrived and he held its door as Sexton Blake stepped out. Edward Carter emerged from the other side. Both were looking noticeably grim; their faces were white and strained. Wellington wondered what was wrong. “You said you’d be here at eleven,” he said, looking at his watch, “and it’s exactly eleven. Are you always that punctual?” “Let’s go inside,” snapped Blake, ignoring the question. Wellington shrugged and shut the car door. He led them across the grass, up onto the veranda and into the study. He closed and latched the French doors. “Is it too early for a drink?” he asked as they lowered themselves into the leather armchairs around the unlit fire. He nodded towards a decanter on a sideboard. “For me, yes — too early,” said Blake. Carter refused the offer with a slight shake of his head. An elderly white-haired man appeared at the door. “It’s alright, Mason,” said Wellington, “We don’t require anything for the moment.” Mason shuffled out and closed the door behind him. “A butler of the old school,” said Wellington, taking a seat. “So. Let’s press on. What do you need to know?” Blake lit a cigarette. He considered for a moment before speaking: “Mr. Wellington, you are the curator of Mr. Stone’s private museum, yes?” “Yes.” “And unknown to your employer you also work for Eustace Craille — as, indeed, your employer does.” “That’s correct.” The detective blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling and watched as it slowly dispersed. “Let’s focus on your role as curator. Am I right in thinking you got the job because you are knowledgeable in the matter of Oriental antiquities?” Wellington nodded. “Yes, Mr. Blake… and not just antiquities but Oriental culture, history and language too. It has been a passion of mine for a good many years. I studied the field at university and have since written a couple of books about the Five Dynasties; the Liang, Tang, Jin, Han and Zhou. I am reckoned to be an expert on all things Chinese.” “More of an expert than Bernard Stone?” “Oh, absolutely! He’s merely a collector; an enthusiast. He buys and I catalogue. In the normal scheme of things I should accompany him on his trips in an advisory capacity too. But he doesn’t allow that. He says he prefers to travel alone. Of course, I know full well that there’s a great deal more to his visits to China than just shopping. He doesn’t know I know, obviously.” “But your expertise is why Craille selected you for this particular mission?” “Yes, though I’d hardly call it a mission. I function as Mr. Stone’s curator in a full-time capacity; it’s my job. I was only ever going to ‘activate’ — so to speak — as an agent for Craille, should something out of the ordinary occur — which it did. Mr. Stone vanished.” “We’ll come back to that presently. Now, Mr. Wellington…” Sexton Blake leaned forward and his grey eyes seemed to drill into Wellington’s head. “I need to ask you something and I’m asking you not because you work for Craille and not because you work for Stone but because you are an expert in Oriental matters.” Wellington swallowed nervously. “Very well,” he gulped. “Have you ever heard of the Brotherhood of the Yellow Beetle?” The two men sat facing each other, their eyes locked. On the mantelpiece, a clock ticked quietly. The chainsaw growled in the distance. Edward Carter could feel his temples throbbing. Wellington cleared his throat. “That,” he whispered, “is very strange.” Blake watched and waited. “Very strange,” the curator repeated. “Mr. Stone asked me the very same question a few days after returning from his last trip.” “And what was your reply?” “I told him what I will now tell you. Yes, I have. The Brotherhood of the Yellow Beetle is a myth. It was an exercise in propaganda created by the Chinese government in the early part of this century. Supposedly, it was an organization led by a fanatical Prince named Wu Ling. Its aim was to infiltrate and destabilize the West to the point where countries would turn on one another. In the aftermath, China would be the strongest power left on the face of the Earth. It was all classic ‘yellow peril’ stuff, Mr. Blake; not a real entity at all — merely a fiction created to cause paranoia.” “You seem to forget, Mr. Wellington,” drawled the detective, “that Western countries did turn on one another. And not once, but twice.” “Okay, I concede the point,” laughed the curator nervously, “but that doesn’t mean Prince Wu Ling was behind it. He never even existed.” Sexton Blake rose to his feet and paced across the study to the windows. He looked out over the lawn to where Zhang Wei was still on his step ladder cutting back overgrown branches. He smoked and pondered and while his mind went careening into the past, Edward Carter spoke for him: “Mr. Wellington, did you ever read a book entitled ‘The Structure and Organisation of the Secret Hung Societies of China’?” Wellington tore his eyes away from Sexton Blake’s back and looked at the youthful features of his assistant. He was starting to feel disorientated and confused. What on Earth were these two men getting at? “Um. Yes, of course,” he stuttered. “Required reading.” “And its author?” “Sir George Halliday. The great expert of his time.” “Do you know how he died?” “He was poisoned by one of the secret societies he’d been investigating.” Carter gave a grim smile. “Which?” “No-one ever found out.” “That’s not strictly true,” said Carter. “What? What do you mean? Listen, what’s all this leading to?” Sexton Blake’s voice cracked across the study like the lash of a whip. “It’s leading to this, Mr. Wellington,” and in four long strides he crossed back to the chairs and placed the Chinese puzzle box on a small table before them. His long fingers moved deftly across its surface and the lid swung open. He tipped out the contents and said, “In 1913 Sir George Halliday was killed by one of these. It was sent to him by Prince Wu Ling after Sir George overheard a meeting of the Brotherhood of the Yellow Beetle and tried to reveal their plans to the British government.” Wellington recoiled from the ugly, deadly-looking insect. “By God, Blake! What are you telling me?” “I’m telling you that Wu Ling did exist. I know that for a fact because, on more than one occasion, he tried to kill me. I’m telling you that the Brotherhood of the Yellow Beetle was never a myth. It was a ruthless and insidious reality — and I know that because many years ago I personally smashed it into pieces. Or so I thought… and now this !” and Blake angrily smacked his hand on the table causing the box and the beetle to jump into the air and fall to the floor. Carter retrieved them. As he did so, he realized that somewhere beneath the tension in the room, something had changed. He wondered what it was. Wellington used the back of his wrist to wipe beads of sweat from his forehead. “Wait,” he muttered, “wait, wait! Are you telling me that the Brotherhood is somehow responsible for Bernard Stone’s disappearance?” Blake slumped into a chair as if pressure had suddenly drained out of him. He lit another cigarette. His eyelids drooped until he appeared to be half asleep. “This species of beetle has never been discovered by Entomological science,” he muttered. “As far as I know, if it exists in the wild it must do so in a very remote enclave of inner China. The Brotherhood bred it in captivity for the venom. Either Wu Ling’s organisation still exists in some form or some other organisation has adopted the beetle as its emblem and principal weapon. Either way, this has to be nipped in the bud before it gets out of control. The beetle isn’t just physically dangerous — it possesses some sort of symbolic charisma which has the power to harness Oriental cunning and turn it to evil ends.” “This is too much to take in,” mumbled the curator. Carter suddenly realised what had been nagging at the back of his mind. At some point the chainsaw had ceased to rattle in the background. He stood up and wandered over to the window. Zhang Wei was near to it, at the edge of the veranda, digging weeds from its base. He looked up at Carter and smiled. His canine teeth were gold. “How he could afford those beauties?” wondered the young detective. “Mr. Wellington,” said Blake, “I would appreciate it if my assistant and I could stay the night. Today I intend to go over this study with a fine-toothed comb and I shall also question the staff. In addition, I need complete access to all of Stone’s documents. I want to know what it is he found that warranted the delivery of that—” he jerked a hand at the puzzle box, which Carter had put back on the table, “because, undoubtedly — and at best — the beetle is a warning.” “And at worst?” asked Wellington. “At worst, it’s the signature of Bernard Stone’s killer.” |