The Master Of Rain

peeling off its walls.

Field had wanted to work alone, so he had not told Caprisi he was coming to the orphanage, though perhaps he’d guessed.

If he could find the boy, Field believed, then he would be able to ascertain beyond doubt that Lewis was the killer.

A corkboard in one of the alcoves was covered with notices, including the same newspaper article on Lu Huang that had been pinned to Maretsky’s wall. Above it a printed sheet announced:

Our benefactor will grace us with a visit at ten p.m. on Wednesday. Bedtime will be delayed accordingly. All dormitories must shower before nine. Songs in the hall will be followed by a dormitory inspection. All children will stand by their beds. Mr. Lu has promised to find homes for at least two more children.

Field stared at the last line.

The notice was signed, Sister Margaret.

Field turned around. The orphanage must be only a minute or two by car from Lu’s house.

He thought of the young orphans standing by their beds, waiting to see if they would be the lucky ones. Would they have an inkling of their fate—or would their hearts be bursting with joy that they had been chosen for “adoption”?

Field felt physically sick, his pulse quickening. He wondered why Natasha had not taken Alexei in.

There were three wooden chairs in the hallway. Beside each was a pile of pamphlets and Field picked one up. It was a list of prayers.

He replaced it and walked into the gloomy corridor beyond, his loud footsteps, the damp, and the stifling odor of sanctity providing uncomfortable echoes of his own past.

A man in a dark suit was walking toward him. He carried a Thompson machine gun, and the incongruity of his presence suggested to Field that he was one of Lu’s men.

The man looked at him as he passed, before turning toward the front gate.

Field reached a central hallway, encircled by thin shards of light from the glass dome above. He could hear the sound of children playing. He approached an open door in the corridor to his left, where a light was on, and knocked once.

The woman who looked up was pretty, her white habit not quite denying her femininity. She was startled and then flustered.

“My name is Richard Field, from the Shanghai police,” he said. “I’d be grateful if I could speak to Sister Margaret.”

She stood, nodding, and disappeared into the room behind.

Field retreated to the hallway again and looked up. A shard of light fought its way through the filthy windows set in the roof and fell directly on his face.

He moved to the corner and sat in one of the straight-backed chairs. He picked up a copy of the newsletter from a long altar table beside it and fanned his face. He waited a long time. The sound of the children seemed to have grown fainter.

Field heard movement at the other end of the corridor and looked up to see the nun he’d spoken to leading a smaller, older woman quickly toward him.

“I’m Sister Margaret,” the woman said. She spoke with a Scottish accent. Her skin was pale and her handshake cool. The light caught the top of her wimple, illuminating the few strands of red hair that poked out from beneath it.

“Richard Field, Special Branch.”

Sister Margaret nodded once and then led Field into her office. Through the window he could see the children playing in the courtyard. They were all in clean, pressed white uniforms, their hair neat. Most seemed to be Chinese or Eurasian. A small group of boys was playing football. Field searched their faces for one he might recognize.

“Would you like some tea, Mr. Field?”

“Thank you. Milk, no sugar, please.”

She indicated the seat behind him, a small, tall-backed wooden pew, before leaving to arrange for the tea. Field went back to scanning the playground. He could see only one Caucasian boy, but he had blond hair, was older than Alexei had been in the photograph, and bore no resemblance to either Natalya or Natasha.

Sister Margaret appeared again so silently that Field did not realize for a few moments that she had returned. She sat down behind her desk, beneath a picture of the Virgin Mary holding the infant Jesus. She moved a pile of papers to the edge of the desk, brushing off the dust that had gathered beneath it. “How can I help you, Mr. Field?”

Field returned to his seat. “You have been here long, Sister?”

“Some years, yes.”

“It’s a long way from Scotland.”

“Most places are.”

“I’m from Yorkshire.” Field smiled.

“Then you had a shorter journey.”

She was impervious to small talk. Field cleared his throat. “You are . . . Mr. Lu Huang is one of your donors.”