The twenty-four-hour on-call personal physician that you have on a million-dollar annual retainer is busy attending to another patient.
Sitting on the terrace overlooking Harbour Island’s legendary beach, Alfred Shang marveled at the spectacular sight before him. It’s true—the sand really is pink!
“Alfred, your lobster quesadillas are going to get cold!” the Duke of Glencora piped up, interrupting his reverie.
“So this is the reason you dragged me all the way here?” Alfred said, staring dubiously at the triangular wedges placed artfully before him. He didn’t really care much for Mexican food, except when the chef of his good friend Slim in Mexico City was doing the cooking.
“Try it before you judge it.”
Alfred took a careful bite, saying nothing, as the combination of semi-crisp tortilla, lobster, and guacamole worked its magic.
“Marvelous, isn’t it? I’ve been trying to convince the chef at Wilton’s to replicate this for years,” the duke said.
“They haven’t changed a thing at Wilton’s in half a century—I don’t think there’s much of a likelihood they would ever put this on their menu.” Alfred laughed, picking up a stray lobster chunk that had fallen onto the table with his fingers and popping it into his mouth. His phone began to vibrate in his trouser pocket. He took it out and stared at the screen in annoyance. Everyone knew that he was not to be disturbed on his annual fishing trip with the duke.
The screen read: TYERSALL UPSTAIRS SECURE.
This was his elder sister, Su Yi, the only person whose calls he would take no matter the hour. He picked up immediately, and an unexpected voice said in Cantonese, “Mr. Shang, this is Ah Ling.”
It took him a few seconds to register that it was the housekeeper at Tyersall Park. “Oh…Ling Jeh!”*2
“I was instructed by my lady to call you. She was feeling very unwell tonight and has just been taken to the hospital. We think it’s a heart attack.”
“What do you mean you think? Did she have a heart attack or didn’t she?” Alfred’s plummy Queen’s English suddenly shifting into Cantonese in alarm.
“She…she didn’t have any chest pains, but she was sweating profusely, and then she vomited. She said she could feel her heart racing,” Ah Ling stuttered nervously.
“And did Prof Oon come over?” Alfred asked.
“I tried to reach the doctor on his cell phone, but it went straight to voice mail. Then I called his house and someone there said he was in Australia.”
“Why are you doing all the calling? Isn’t Victoria at home?”
“Mr. Shang, isn’t Victoria in England?”
Alamak. He had completely forgotten that his niece—Su Yi’s daughter, who lived at Tyersall Park—was at this moment at his house in Surrey, no doubt embroiled in some inane gossipfest with his wife and daughter.
“How about Felicity? Didn’t she come over?” Alfred inquired about Su Yi’s eldest daughter, whose house was nearby on Nassim Road.
“Mrs. Leong could not be reached tonight. Her maid said she was in church, and she always turns off her mobile phone when she’s in the house of God.”
Bloody useless, all of them! “Well, did you call an ambulance?”
“No, she didn’t want an ambulance. Vikram drove her to the hospital in the Daimler, accompanied by her lady’s maids and two Gurkhas. But before she left, she said you would know how to contact Professor Oon.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll take care of it,” Alfred said in a huff, hanging up the phone.
Everyone at the table was staring at him expectantly.
“Oh my, that did sound rather serious,” the duke said, pursing his lips worriedly.
“I’ll just be a moment…please carry on,” Alfred said, getting up from his chair. The bodyguards trailed after him as he strode through the restaurant and out the door to the garden.
Alfred hit another number on his speed dial: PROF OON HOME.
A woman picked up the phone.
“Is this Olivia? Alfred Shang here.”