Trailing a group of fellow passengers – farmers and commercial men, and a family with two children, one of them being carried half-asleep – she emerged from the first-class passenger exit at Spencer Street Station shortly after eleven o’clock at night. A courteous porter followed with her travelling bags on his otherwise empty barrow. She stood quietly beneath the glow of the gas lamps while the others dispersed into the darkness, and the porter called over one of the two hansom cabs waiting on the forecourt.
Smelling noticeably of horse, a scent she found comparatively inoffensive given what met her on the breeze, the worn-coated cabman stowed her bags, and while doing so was moved to demonstrate his amiable nature by directing a grin at her, to which she responded with no more than a neutral glance, and withdrew a fraction further into the shadow cast by her dark felt capote bonnet.
“Marvellous Melbourne” was off to bed, she mused as the horse clipped over the Bourke Street cobblestones, and once again she noticed the unfamiliar scent of the place – of late, wags in the newspaper had been calling it “Smellbourne.” She tipped the cabman generously, and the night staff of a family hotel along from the Menzies saw her inside with her baggage and entered her name in the hotel book; it was an ordinary place, where she would go unnoticed. In her plain but comfortable room, she slipped out of her dolman, spread it out on the bed, and sat down beside it. Using a pair of finely pointed scissors, she unpicked some stitching from the hem and removed a small silk purse, from which a stream of gems spilled out onto the bedspread.
Fang’s diamonds, and just a few from Chee Ling Qua, of the “Court of Peking Troupe,” who had made a gift of them to her on one knee – a token of his vain courtship. Which were which she could not recall, only once or twice having had the need to inspect the hoard. She transferred them into the false compartment of an innocuous-looking velour jewellery case. Then, she took from a side pocket of a travel bag Forster’s letter, penned in his precise hand.
Dear Miss Chan
My return to duties in the Melbourne precinct has been made the more trying by the absence of those opportunities, both official and otherwise, in which I had lately grown accustomed to seeing you.
I am very much looking forward to fulfilling your request to act as your guide in investigating the matter of an inheritance that is due to a woman of your description (if you will forgive the expression). The information supplied initially by the issue of the Police Gazette I showed you in Deep Lead has subsequently been reinforced by some further researches I have made since moving here.
I have arranged a meeting with the party concerned, to be held at See Yup Temple in Raglan Street, Emerald Hill, on the 20th inst. Unfortunately the cold weather here has not yet quite broken; however, I wonder if in advance of the appointment it might be to your liking if I showed you the Carlton Gardens, which were redeveloped for the International Exhibition two years ago. You expressed some interest in them during one of our informal meetings at Mow Fung’s teahouse before I departed Stawell.
After a light meal in the Gardens, which I would be honoured to provide, and perhaps a walk, we might discuss the matter further before making our way to the Temple.
Should you wish to proceed with my proposal, please inform me by wire at your earliest opportunity. We may meet at half past ten in front of the Great Hall, which will be unmistakable for its large dome.
[…]
Your obedient servant
William Forster
Leaning back into an armchair, she lit up a cheroot and poured a small gin, enjoying a few moments of indulgence after her day of travel. Shortly after receiving his communication, she had wired her agreement to Forster. She allowed – what was it, a breath of fond laughter? − to escape her lips as she pictured the somewhat punctilious detective superimposed on his words. A thin, translucent strand of smoke rose up in the still, cool air, as her eyes traced the leaves that scrolled about the dark russet wallpaper. He was evidently smitten, though certainly not from calculation on her part, and actually, his quiet strength was proving to be something of a pillar of support in this ill-considered excursion, the precariousness of her situation having increasingly dawned on her since Forster had shown her the notice.
At first, the notion of some possible inheritance had struck her as nonsense, however closely the description of this sought-for legatee resembled herself. Yet infected by his show of enthusiasm, and perhaps falsely lulled by the anonymity she enjoyed in her comfortable life in Deep Lead, she had allowed him to look further into the matter. Subsequently, as the momentum increased and, according to Forster, her discovery had fuelled some interest at the other end, she had found it difficult to renege. At the same time, she had begun to feel more vulnerable, drawn not only into the light of officialdom, but perhaps also, through her complacency, back towards the dangers of a past from which she had so successfully, so completely, fled.
But it had been a shock to come across a reference to See Yup that Forster had made months ago: the name by which she had known in San Francisco as the tong to which her persecutor Fang belonged. When she asked Huish-Huish about the name – Huish-Huish knew many of the details of Lili’s past with her highbinder, and the abuses she had suffered at his hands − she was assured that in Australia the group was not known as a criminal organisation at all.
On the contrary, it was a community association of long-standing charitable purpose and unimpeachable good name. It had originated among emigrants from four counties of southern Guangdong, near the Pearl River Delta, and its mission was to lend support to others from that region. Indeed, the See Yup Society in Melbourne was run by highly respected leaders of the Chinese community throughout Victoria. Forster had since informed her that one of these gentlemen would be honoured to meet her. The meeting was to take place within the next few days. She read herself to sleep with a Mark Sinclair detective story by W.W. in a copy of the Australian Journal.
She awoke to a grey morning and breakfasted in the dining room, before taking herself for a stroll along an already lively Bourke Street, casting an appreciative eye through the display windows of some dressmakers’, milliners’, glove and shoe shops, all resplendent with the latest fashions, and of department stores with their mixed luxury goods, books, and bibelots.
Stawell was, naturally enough, decidedly drab by comparison, and what took her aback was the frisson this little outing aroused in her. Of course, there were ample reasons for having secluded herself in provincial Wimmera for such a long period; but the élan of this gay city street lifted her heart.
She passed three or four jewellers before returning to one that was more discreet. Standing in a narrow, recessed arcade, the shop presented an immaculate display behind a thick glass window set into a wall of block bluestone.
When she said she wished to have a few gems appraised, the jeweller left the shop under the charge of his assistant, and led her into a small back room, with a table, safe, and chests of small drawers. He handed her his card, and Lili pushed her silk pouch across the tabletop to him.
He emptied her stones onto a black velvet tray under the window light and after a mere glimpse selected two, pushing them to one side.
“Paste,” he announced abruptly.
Lili could not contain a laugh. “That Chee Ling Qua – such a fraud!” The jeweller looked up at her blankly, and she coughed. “Do excuse me, Mr Kaminski. An old acquaintance, a mere stage magician of no enduring consequence. However, all the jewels have sentimental value, though I rarely look at them.”
Kaminski returned to his task, bringing a loupe to his eye to examine the rest. As he proceeded, he noted down descriptions and figures, weighed each stone, and placed it in a small white envelope, which he marked neatly in pencil.
“There are gems of remarkable value in this parcel – most of them without internal fault, beautiful stones,” he said after finishing his task. “But this one…” He drew it aside. “… this one … it has what we refer to as a ‘natural’ on the girdle,” indicating the region with a probe, “You may just be able to see it with the naked eye, a slight patch of the original rough stone. And beside that, a tiny chip where it was once mounted. No great matter, but enough to mark it.”
“So it’s worthless…” Lili said.
“On the contrary,” Kaminski continued. “At first one sees only the flaw – before noticing the extraordinary character: that soft warmth, and the faintest blue cast. I seem to recall a reference made some months ago in an issue of the Jewelers’ Circular and Horological Review from the United States… It concerned a distinctive old-cut gem such as this. It will take me a day or two to go through my journals, if you would be willing to leave the diamond here for the time being.”
Lili nodded. “I had intended to ask if you wouldn’t mind me leaving the parcel with you for safekeeping during my stay in the city, if you thought they were of any value.”
“Oh, indeed!” laughed Kaminski. “They are definitely of value, I can assure you, not merely sentimental value, as you have admitted, but of substantial financial value as well.” He gathered the envelopes together and placed them into a compartment of his safe, along with her velour case, before recording details in a ledger and writing out a receipt on his letterhead.
Closing the door behind her, Lili took a second to adjust to the light of the late morning, even despite the grey day. The footpath was bustling, and she nearly collided with a pair of young women who seemed to come from nowhere.
“Excuse me, sweetie, that was my fault,” said one of the girls, placing a steadying hand on Lili’s shoulder. “Oh, what a lovely coat! Could I borrow it for the opera tonight?” Then the two were off again, giggling heartily.
Lili hired a hansom cab to the Carlton Gardens, and, with hands tucked into the sleeves of her dolman, and breathing out steam, strolled leisurely along the long straight path to the front of the Great Hall. Water shimmered and splashed in the fountain. Consulting her chatelaine watch, she found she had arrived a few minutes late, but Forster could not have come and gone already, so she paced patiently for a little while, enjoying the cool air. She heard his hurried footfalls behind her and turned around, to see him puffing as he came up. He wore a dark wool coat unbuttoned, with a waistcoat, white shirt, sober tie, dark trousers and sturdy boots, carrying what was obviously their lunch wrapped in brown paper and a bottle under one arm.
“Something came up at Russell Street just as I was stepping out,” he said.
“Not another murder mystery so soon?” she said.
“Just another dissatisfied customer.”
They found a bench near the fountain, and he unwrapped the packages: some little pies, buns and slices of seed-cake, and two small enamel cups.
“A feast! My dear Chef Detective Forster, that is immaculate.”
“A little lunch place in Lygon Street, just a couple of blocks over. Roast beef or chicken-and-veal?” He indicated the pies.
“Perhaps the chicken-and-veal, thank you. I’m reluctant to provoke the beef before noon.” She broke off a piece of crust. “I have been reading all about you in the Pleasant Creek Chronicle – your marvellous work pursuing and apprehending that scoundrel Burns.”
“When we first met, I had thought I sensed some antipathy towards policemen.”
“It’s true I have had imperfect relations with some of them, and I have to admit to having something of a chequered past. But to have been implicated in your mystery, and to watch how you brought the villain to justice… it’s been most edifying – worthy of a Mark Sinclair, which recently I’ve taken to reading, I hasten to add.”
“Sinclair always gets his man, of course. In this case, I am afraid there is a fair chance Burns may slip the noose.”
“How so?”
“No absolute certainty of who the victim is. Burns insists that his mate Forbes is still rambling about somewhere, alive and happy as Larry. I am certain Burns is the perpetrator, but the case I have made against him is, unfortunately, rather circumstantial, as the lawyers say.” He poured some ginger beer into the cups.
“Ah, too bad,” said Lili. “Drat.”
“Nevertheless,” Forster continued, “that may yet change, thanks to some of the uncanny observations made by our mutual friend Mr Mow Fung the publican. He was struck by certain patterns in a different case he had been reading about in the paper, that of a Michael Quinlivan, at Wickliffe, two years ago. We have some detectives reexamining that case to look for a connection. But Burns’s trial opens next month, so we find ourselves in a race against time.”
“Too bad Mr Sinclair isn’t here to lend a hand,” Lili said. “Though his author is a mystery in himself, isn’t he? W.W. or Waif Wanderer – unlikely name, wouldn’t you say? He seems to me to have something to hide. Still, Sinclair is excellent, with a sharp eye and shrewd grasp of character, of women as well as men. What was he saying in this one titled ‘Hereditary’ I was reading last night on the train: ‘Women … are very pretty and very useful things sometimes, but they are also occasionally very silly and try a practical man’s temper immensely.’ The hide of the man! But a fascinating theme nonetheless: can we escape our pasts, or are we determined even by our heredity, entirely lacking the freedom to make our lives as we would wish them to be?”
“It seems true from my own experience,” said Forster, “that there’s generally a lot more going on beneath than meets the eye. Quite often, it seems to me, will an action precede the thought that one had supposed motivated it, and the scientific research bears this out.”
“Well said, Sinclair, old chap,” said Lili. “I mean, Forster.”
“William.”
“William,” Lili said, laughing and briefly rubbing his forearm.
The two glanced at the interior of the Great Hall, before strolling along the grand allée and turning away from the city noise into a secluded curving gravel path by the lower lake, past weeping elms and Moreton Bay figs that overhung the water.
“We had best soon make our way to the See Yup Temple,” said Forster. “It’s over at the Chinese quarter in Emerald Hill – we’ll easily be able to flag a hansom cab at the corner on Victoria Street.”
“I made mention of my past a short while ago…” Lili took a deep breath. “I wonder whether we have time to linger a little while in this peaceful part of Melbourne, while I explain to you some of my apprehension about our appointment at the temple,” and they made their way to a bench closer to the lake and beneath the trees. “Arriving in San Francisco a penniless waif from a Chinese village, I came under the influence of a truly despicable man, a Chinese who, under the guise of a doyen of culture and refinement … took me in hand … ignorant and defenceless as I was – and through torments beyond compare, made of me his own abject supplicant. I soon came to learn that this Fang Jing Dock was one of the city’s deadliest assassins and a leader of a Chinese criminal gang. It was known as the See Yup tong…”
Forster looked at her intently for a moment. “I am aware,” he said, “of the murderous San Franciscan tongs, of course. So you are afraid that this Fang person might be responsible for the notice in the Police Gazette, and is making some kind of attempt to get you back?”
“Yes and no,” Lili said delicately. “Fang has since left this world and is now, I’m certain, where he belongs. I departed from San Francisco somewhat in haste, however, unknowingly carrying in a satchel belonging to him certain items that I believe his associates would dearly wish to reclaim, if only they suspected who might be in possession of them.”
“Hmm. Well, I think we may be confident that the Melbourne See Yup Society is absolutely beyond suspicion in this regard. I have met some of the elders in the course of my duty and know them to be eminently respectable Melbourne business and community leaders, who are only too keen to assist in any way they can with our policing, and especially whenever such matters touch upon the Chinese community. As for Mr Lee Kong Wing, the gentleman with whom we have arranged to meet, he is a greatly respected Elder, who organised with our Police Commissioner – who is also a man of impeccable ethics – to have the circular posted. But fear not, I shall be on the alert during the rest of your visit.”
“I love the way you say ‘impeccable,’” said Lili brightly. “Then you have reassured me immensely. So let’s be off.”
The hansom cab crossed the Yarra at Princes Bridge and made for Emerald Hill, where it set them down at the temple gate in Raglan Street. In the forecourt, a group of Chinese men smoked and chatted, while another pair faced each other across a movable table, playing dominoes. Lili and Forster passed between the two stone lions that guarded the front door of the brick temple and went through a doorway into the lavish main hall, with its altars, tinted windows, and array of brightly coloured statues. The scent of sandalwood hung in the air, amid echoes of quiet conversation and the footfalls of the half-dozen visitors and attendants. The centrepiece of the hall was an altar set behind a low balustrade, beneath a bearded, ruddy-complexioned statue that dominated all the others. Forster seemed decidedly drawn to it, and they stood there next to a devotee who was lighting a stick of incense at the altar, the statue looking fiercely down upon them.
“This fellow chimes with me somehow,” said Forster quietly, gazing at the statue.
“Once in a lineup, possibly?” whispered Lili.
“More like a dream…” said Forster, still serious. “Mow Fung talked about a friend of his in China, some sort of fighter. Maybe that’s the source of it.”
A genteel voice came from behind them. “Ah, Detective Forster, I am pleased to see you admire the statue of our patron deity.”
They turned, to see a distinguished white-haired gentleman with a short, trimmed beard, standing there in a modish business suit.
“Mr Lee,” said Forster. “So nice to see you in your temple rather than your office. It completes my picture of you. Please meet my friend Miss Lili Chan, who has been the subject of both our researches recently.”
“Enchanté, Miss Chan.” He bowed graciously.
“Enchantée, Monsieur,” said Lili.
“This,” said Lee Kong Wing, “is Kuan Ti, a warrior from long ago. In Buddhism he became an enlightened being, and is the patron of loyalty and brotherhoods, and god of all honest merchants. So he is a fitting guardian for our See Yup Temple, which aims to help our countrymen working in the colonies.”
“Pleased to know you, sir,” Lili said, looking up at the statue.
Lee showed them into a utilitarian office, and they took seats facing him across a desk. “Here are some particulars of See Yup’s ‘researches’ Detective Forster mentioned, which led us to believe you may be the beneficiary we sought via the Police Gazette,” he said, sliding a folder gently across the tabletop to her. “Detective Forster has kindly consented that the contents should be confidential between you and me, as See Yup Elder, alone. Kindly advise me if they do in fact refer to you.”
There were several to-and-fro communications in Chinese, including some that recorded the attempts to trace the whereabouts of a half-blooded woman named Chan Lee Lung; initially thought to have been a murder victim in San Francisco, she was subsequently sighted on the Australian and American Mail Company’s ship City of Melbourne, travelling under the alias of one Suzon Chabrier, supposedly a French dancer. That observation had been communicated to the Four Counties of southern Guangdong, her place of birth and upbringing, as well as the home base of the See Yup group, which had been able, largely on account of her distinctive mixed heritage, to establish the context of her emigration to the United States, along with details of her activities there and her association with a Madame Ah Toy, who was now enjoying a peaceful retirement in her later years and who had expressed her dear wish to locate her cherished protege, with the object of thanking and rewarding her for her years of dedicated service in the arts and culture association she had founded. Lili stifled a laugh by converting it to a fake teardrop, which she concealed with two fingers and a sniff. Forster, who had positioned himself discreetly away to preserve her privacy while reading, heard the sound and quickly turned to pass her his pocket handkerchief.
“I am indeed the one whom you seek,” she said to Lee, upon hearing which he passed a sealed manila envelope to her. The letter inside read:
My Sweet Child, Chan Lee Lung
You can imagine how I wept when I was informed that you had been taken from me, cruelly murdered by that reprehensible Fang Jing Dock and his evil cohorts.
Yes, I can imagine…
And now, after this interval, to find that you were spirited away and are indeed alive and well in a distant land. Praise the Lord and Hallelujah, that my daily tears of grief have given way to ones of joy and anticipation, now being on the cusp of reuniting with you once again.
Hallelujah, indeed…
It is now my dearest desire to reward you, both in celebration of finding you, and as a thanks for your devotion to me during your time in San Francisco, which I had thought myself forever robbed of the opportunity to do. As you know, dedicated to my career in philanthropy and the arts as I have forever been, I was never blessed with child, my dearest Chan Lee Lung, apart from you.
Hmm…
Thus I now weep sweetly again, and wish to call you my dear daughter, and to become truly your beloved mother, in lieu of the woman who betrayed her sacred duty to you. I beseech you to reply to my letter. Not having a daughter of blood to whom I might bequeath my fortune and estate, I desire to leave everything to you my dear girl, and only require your temporary return, both to smother you in maternal kisses, and arrange the necessary formalities.
Uh-uh, there’ll be no smothering, thank you…
There is one tiny additional detail. After that villain Fang absconded from my association (with his venom and deadly threats), I discovered that he had made off with a bauble of sentimental, though not pecuniary, meaning to me: an imitation gem that had been left to me by my own dear mother – soon to be your grandmother, indeed – which we play-acted had come down to us from French nobility. It was my single inheritance, this otherwise worthless piece of paste, yet I cleaved to it dearly as a remembrance of my own beloved mama.
I am delighted to have learned that you have at last found a peaceful life in a provincial town of Victoria, away from the long hand of Fang’s vengeful cohorts. I pray, then, that you will advise me that this modest gem is in your possession, and will undertake to bring it with you to America, whereupon we will be able to undertake the procedures as described above…
&c, &c
Madame Ah Toy
Mr Lee had arranged for a hansom cab to call at the temple at noon to return them to the city. Lili was pensive, tapping Ah Toy’s letter, which rested on her lap. There was little in it that caused her any particular elation or consternation, though she presumed that Ah Toy’s “bauble” might well have something to do with Kaminski’s interest in a certain gem. She had dismissed Ah Toy’s effusive and heartfelt offer of an inheritance in exchange for the gem as soon as she read it. The very thought of it now stimulated mirth – leaving aside Ah Toy’s little hint about her whereabouts in the Wimmera. How had she found that out? Certainly not from the tight-lipped William.
Forster had left her to her own thoughts, but spoke when he noticed her quiet laugh.
“I trust that nothing in the correspondence has upset you?”
“No, not in the least, though it has set in play many conflicting memories of long ago. Let me thank you very much, William, for arranging this meeting on my behalf, and for looking after me through it all.”
“You don’t know what a pleasure it has been for me,” he answered, as they were re-crossing the Yarra. “I have to return to the police station, before going home to change, but I would be honoured to provide you with a sounding board if you feel like unburdening yourself of anything that might be worrying you. Perhaps over dinner?”
“You know,” she said with a smile, “that might be quite in order. But I wouldn’t mind emptying my mind of the whole lot of it, for the time being. I wonder whether you might be of a mind to escort me to a performance of The Pirates of Penzance, which I noticed is showing tonight at the Melbourne Opera House, along the street from my hotel? Then, perhaps, a bite afterwards. My treat, I insist – a humble gesture for everything you have done,” as she laid her hand on his wrist.
From the draft novel Stawell Bardo © Michael Guest 2026
Furin Chime Press 