Mine Eyes Dazzle

Prologue

Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle; she died young.
-- John Webster, The Duchess of Malfi

Shanghai
24 February 1905

This is how it began and how it will end:

The curtain rises.

The music swells.

The audience applauds.

A single discordant note in the symphony. A line delivered wrong in a soliloquy. A spotlight directed where it shouldn't be.

Piece by piece, second by second, it all unravels.

~~~~

Shanghai
13 February 1905

Inspector Meng Zhan had better things to do than act as a guide for tourists and foreigners. As he left the Captain-Superintendent's office he thought a few things that would have got him demoted to Constable. He followed them up with a few even more colourful things when he reached the station's waiting area.

At first glance there seemed to be a sea of faces staring at him. Once he got over the initial urge to run back to the Captain-Superintendent and beg to be put on another assignment, any other assignment, he realised his mind was exaggerating. There were only ten people there. One of them was an elderly man who had fallen asleep in his chair. One was a middle-aged lady, looking very indignant, and beside her was a young man, looking very stupid. The other seven were the real problem.

Someone, somewhere, for some reason that must have made sense in their disordered mind, had decided to let aspiring young detectives learn by experience. Specifically, experience of following Inspector Meng around while he tried to find the missing Jiang boy.

It was obviously a none-too-subtle hint that he was taking too long to find Jiang. Zhan would like to see the Captain-Superintendent do any better, considering the boy had — according to three reliable witnesses — walked into a seventh-storey room, with only one door and a window that couldn't be opened, and disappeared.

Perhaps some of these hopeful young Sherlock Holmeses could solve the mystery. Zhan didn't mind admitting — as long as his superiors weren't around — that it was beyond him.

It would probably be beyond these seven too. They had all had some success solving cases in their hometowns or countries, but not one of them was over twenty-three. There were two Koreans, one Japanese, and four Chinese — one from Hong Kong, one from Harbin, and two from Beijing. The prospect of the language barriers alone made Zhan feel like resigning.

That was as good a place as any to start.

"Do you all speak Mandarin?" Zhan asked. A series of nods and "Yes"es answered him. "Good. I am Inspector Meng. You are going to help me find Jiang Qiu Heng. You will all be honorary constables for the next month. First you'll go to the uniform room to be given your uniforms, and then we'll review the case." He paused, trying to remember what he'd forgotten. "What are your names?"

Each gave their surname and where they were from: Li from Beijing, Lee from Hong Kong, Sun from Beijing, Zhang from Harbin, Aoki from Japan, Gim from Joseon, Seo from Joseon.

~~~~

The banner was hung from two windows on the theatre's first storey. To random passersby it might have looked impressive, ominous, intriguing; everything an advert for a play was supposed to be. Meng Wei Yang looked up at it and remembered the fights that had raged over making it. Otterbourne, idiot that he was, had wanted it made of silk. Edward had quietly arranged for it to be made of paper. (It was lucky for everyone that it hadn't rained — yet.) Otterbourne had wanted it designed by a professional artist. Goncharovsky — who had his good points, even though he did his best to hide them from everyone — had quietly done the best calligraphy he could. He'd even translated it into Chinese, which amazed Wei Yang. That had to be Edward's orders. Goncharovsky made no secret of how much he hated China and everything associated with it.