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i
“Are you going to tell me why we’re here?” asked Françoise as she helped Maliha down from the carriage.
The hotel had been pleasant. Madras was a much more cosmopolitan location than Pondicherry, a difference that was mostly the fault of French indifference—though the destruction the British had visited on the place had not helped.
“Research,” said Maliha. “Information.”
“About what?”
“Someone wanted to disrupt the wedding; I want to know why.”
“At a hospital?”
“Next door.”
Maliha instructed the driver to remain, as she would be requiring further transport, then strode towards the hospital with Françoise in her wake. The Lady Lansdowne Hospital was an imposing Victorian building of polished red sandstone. It was untouched by any thought of Indian sensibilities, and would have been perfectly at home in the centre of Manchester. Sitting next to it was the office of the Registrar for Births, Deaths and Marriages.
“I’m afraid this will all be in English,” said Maliha.
“I’ll do my best to follow it.”
The doors were oak with stained glass windows depicting scrolls with illuminated writing. Maliha pushed one open and entered the open foyer. The Gothic exterior was repeated inside with pillars, tiles, and wrought iron. On the right was a polished oak cubbyhole for the doorman. He was British through and through, probably ex-Army, sporting an impressive and well-trimmed moustache.
“Can I help you, young ladies?” he said. “The hospital for women of Indian birth is next door.”
Maliha paused to assess the man. She did not think he spoke out of malice; most women could not read so the opportunity for error was high. Instead of becoming angry she smiled and spoke in her most cultivated English, practised in the most prestigious of girls’ schools in England. “Thank you but I can assure you that I am in the right place. I am researching family lineage.”
His change of gears was visible. There was a type of person who responded to the right voice from the right class, even if she did not have quite the right colour, and he was one of those.
“Of course, Miss?”
“Anderson. And this is Mam’selle Greaux,” she said. “If you would be so kind as to direct us to the archives?”
The man gave her directions and they set off through the building. They took the stairs down into the vaults where one of the administrative staff directed them to the shelves for the correct year.
“What are we looking for?” asked Françoise as Maliha lifted down three books covering the right period. She knew Renuka’s date of birth but there was no harm in gathering additional data.
“Anything of interest.”
“How will I know what is interesting?”
“Something will catch your eye.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then there was nothing interesting.”
Maliha started two months before the births and gave Françoise the registry for the month after. “Work backwards.”
They were silent for a while. Maliha ran her finger down each page noting names and children. There were a frightening number of still births, children who died in child birth along with their mothers. Perhaps having a child was not a wise move, although medicine had certainly advanced a long way in the last few years. Françoise proceeded much more slowly.
One of the staff came by and offered to fetch them some water. There was also English tea and some dry biscuits.
Maliha reached the page that should have had Renuka and Balaji’s births. She turned the page expectantly and frowned. She turned back and checked the dates between the pages.
“That’s interesting,” she said, Françoise looked up. “They’re not here.”
She lifted the book so she could examine it more carefully, and checked to see if any of the pages had been remove. They had not.
“It will be a mistake,” said Françoise.
“No, it’s not a mistake. Let me see that book.”
Françoise passed it to her. Maliha flicked quickly through the pages and nodded to herself, then checked the other earlier book they’d brought. She held them together and examined their spines.
“Take a look,” she said to Françoise and laid out the books open side by side.
The woman looked at the open pages and shrugged. “I do not see.”
“Not the individual pages. Look at each book as a complete item.”
Françoise picked up each book and flicked through it in turn, she sighed and looked unimpressed. “I see nothing.”
Maliha laid them out again, closed. “Just look at them.”
Françoise did, and then looked back at Maliha and shook her head. Maliha sighed.
She picked up one of them. “This one, the one that is missing Renuka and Balaji’s births, is different to the others.”
“I see no difference.”
“Look at the handwriting at the beginning, and at the end.” Françoise complied. “Now the middle, look at any page in the book you like.”
There was a long pause while Françoise examined and compared. “They are the same handwriting on each page.”
“Exactly.”
“Why would they not be?”
“Look at the others, they change. It’s the same people filling in the book but they change regularly, every few pages. But this one,” she held it up triumphantly. “The same hand throughout.”
The realisation suddenly hit Françoise. “Someone has copied it.”
“And left out Renuka and Balaji.” Maliha felt the excitement wash over her; at last they were getting somewhere.
“But,” said Françoise. “I think they are the same sort of book.”
“Yes, they look as if they’re the same age. This wasn’t recent.”
“Perhaps the original book was damaged and it’s just a coincidence they missed out those two.”
Maliha laughed. “A coincidence? I don’t believe in them.”
“But why would someone do that?”
“To hide something,” Maliha said. “Come on.”
They took the books back and replaced them. Then Maliha led the way back to the foyer, walking faster than her walking stick would have permitted. They went outside into the sun and then crossed to the hospital and went inside. The two buildings had the same architect but the hospital was built on a much grander scale.
Instead of a doorman there was a woman in uniform at a reception desk. She looked up as Maliha crossed the floor, and pasted a welcoming smile on to her face. It did nothing to improve her rigid bearing.
“Yes, dear? Do you have an appointment to see the doctor?” She looked down at a book on her desk. “We’re not expecting anyone; have you got the right day?”
“I beg your pardon?”
The woman’s head jerked up at the lash of Maliha’s outraged and very English tone. Rapidly reassessing her assumptions, she murmured. “Nobody can see a doctor without an appointment.”
“Do I look as if I am with child?” Maliha said, spreading her arms, for once pleased that her middle was exposed.
“Well...”
“Let’s start again, shall we?”
The woman nodded.
“My name is Maliha Anderson. I am investigating a death on behalf of Commissioner Abelard of the Sûreté of Pondicherry. This is my assistant, Mam’selle Françoise Greaux. And just to ensure there is no misunderstanding, I am neither married nor pregnant—” the woman flinched at the word “—and I am here in a purely professional capacity as an investigator. Is that quite clear?”
“Yes, Miss Anderson.”
“Good.” Maliha allowed herself to relax and spoke in a gentler tone. “Now, I have just been to the Registrar next door and they were immensely helpful, but I have some questions in regard to a birth here a few years ago. So I wondered if there was somebody I might speak to?”
“Of course, Miss Anderson. Perhaps if I were to fetch Matron?”
“Well, perhaps we might not need to bother her yet. If I give you more details you can decide who would be best?” Maliha did not wait for her to agree. “I am looking for a midwife who would have been in attendance sixteen years ago.”
“Oh, that’s quite a long time. I’ll have to get Mrs Wyndham.”
Mrs Wyndham turned out to be a lady of some forty years who worked as a volunteer looking after the administration. The whole hospital was a charity based on a command by Queen Victoria when she heard that Indian women suffered considerably during pregnancy and childbirth.
While they waited Mrs Wyndham went through the records. Maliha realised it had been some time since they had eaten and they really must see about some luncheon when they were finished here.
“The midwife was a Mary O’Donnell. She moved on in 1897.”
“Do you have an address?”
“I can’t imagine she’d still be there.”
Maliha smiled. “It’s the nature of police investigations to follow every possible lead.”
“But you’re working for the French, Miss Anderson,” she said as she copied out the name on to a pad in a clear hand, gave the ink a few moments to dry and then ripped off the sheet.
Maliha shrugged. “My family live in Pondicherry but my father was Scottish.”
“It must be very exciting being a policewoman.”
Maliha folded the paper and pushed it into her reticule. “Sadly not as exciting as you might think. And some of it is quite terrible.”
“Oh, I’m sure it is,” the tone of prurient delight was unmistakable. “Are you staying in Madras long? I have a circle of friends who would love to meet you.”
Maliha stood up, Françoise followed suit. “Unfortunately my air-plane heads back as soon as I’ve completed my investigations here. No time for socialising.”
Mrs Wyndham was quite crestfallen, but Maliha was grateful; she could not think of anything worse than being surrounded by a bunch of women panting for gossip. Then she thought of her grandmother’s bride viewings. No, even they were less unpleasant; at least she was not required to speak.
“Perhaps another time,” said Maliha, which seemed to perk the woman up. Maliha had no intention of returning to Madras.
They took their leave. Maliha made a point of smiling at the receptionist, thanking her for her assistance and saying goodbye; there was no point in leaving someone disgruntled.
As they reached the exit the cry of a baby, new-born no doubt, floated through the echoing halls and made Maliha think of the child she had cut from Riette’s dead body.
ii
Maliha gave the carriage driver the address, but told him to go via somewhere they could eat.
That proved to be a problem. Three women on their own, even if one of them was a Westerner, could not be catered for even in a modern city like Madras. This was still India. They ended up back at the hotel where Amita was allowed to sit with them—after Maliha had made it clear to the Maitre d’ that was precisely what she expected.
An hour later they returned in the cab and were conveyed through the crowded central city streets. The traffic thinned out and the buildings became residential. They had seen better days and while probably originally built for whites were now fully occupied by native Indians; the white middle classes had moved on.
They came to a stop outside an unremarkable set of apartments constructed in a mock Georgian style. All three went inside, and mounted the stone stairs three flights. They followed the numbered doors to the right one. Maliha knocked.
There was a pause and eventually the sound of someone approaching. A bolt was thrown back and it was opened a crack. Maliha saw an Indian woman’s face hidden in shadow.
“Namaste,” said Maliha and continued in Hindi. “I’m looking for Mary O’Donnell.”
“I only speak English,” said the woman. There was a curious lilt to her voice Maliha couldn’t place.
“Mary O’Donnell?”
“She’s dead, God rest her soul.”
Maliha placed it. The accent was Irish. It seemed out of place in such a face. “She’s your mother?”
“She was. She died. Goodbye.”
She went to push the door shut but Maliha put her foot in the way.
“When?”
“What?”
“When did she die?”
“Who are you?”
“Maliha Anderson, I—” and she didn’t know what to say that would make this woman tell her everything she needed to know, “—I’m like you.”
“What do you mean?” The antagonism was unrestrained.
“Mixed parentage.”
“I’m not interested in your pity. Get your foot out of my door before I hurt you.”
This was the moment Amita barged past Françoise and Maliha, and slammed her shoulder into the door. The force flung it open knocking the woman against the opposite wall.
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Amita,” said Maliha and bent down to help the woman to her feet. The room was small but not as bad as some Maliha had seen. She noted the images of the Virgin Mary on the wall, the crucifix and rosary beads on the mantle above the fireplace. And black cloth draped on them and a few photographs in pewter frames.
Amita stood behind Maliha with a dangerous look on her face. “She threatened you, sahiba.”
“Can you stand?” Maliha asked the woman. She nodded but her attention was fixated on Amita as if she was a tiger ready to pounce. Which was not an inaccurate assessment. “I’m sorry about my maid, she’s quite...protective.”
“She’s your maid?”
“Let’s sit down,” said Maliha using one of the straight-back chairs by the table. “What’s your name?”
“Naimh.”
“A good Irish name.”
The woman frowned. “Try looking like me, with that name.”
“I know what it’s like,” said Maliha.
“You think so?” she said. “You come from money. Look at you with your silk and your maid, and your—” she looked at Françoise, “—whatever she is.”
“Associate.”
“Is that what they’re called now is it?”
Maliha frowned. “You think you had it bad? I spent seven years in a girls’ boarding school in England with this skin. At least you could walk down the street and look like you fit in.”
They glared at one another, until Naimh finally took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”
Maliha nodded. “So am I.” She took a deep breath. “When did your mother die?”
“Two weeks ago.”
Naimh stood up and took down one of the frames from under the black cloth and handed it to Maliha. It was a picture of a younger Naimh, perhaps twelve or thirteen, with an older woman with long wavy hair tied back. She was wearing a uniform that was reminiscent of a nurse.
“Your mother?” asked Maliha.
Naimh nodded.
“She was a midwife?”
“She spent her life delivering other people’s babies, but they still shunned her.”
“Your parents were not married.”
Naimh shook her head. “I don’t even know who my father was. She never said; I didn’t ask.”
“But she worked at the hospital?”
Naimh shrugged. “For a time. She said she left because she didn’t like it there. They were all protestants, you see. She didn’t fit in.”
“How did she die?”
“I came home one day, she was lying there—” she nodded at the floor between them, “—she was dead.”
“Yes, but how did she die?”
Maliha saw the tears forming in Naimh’s eyes. “I don’t know. She was as strong as a horse. She always went to church on Sunday. I don’t know—”
Her voice cracked and she sobbed. Maliha remembered how it had been with Barbara Makepeace-Flynn; she glanced at the other two. Amita just stared at her while Françoise gestured her head at Naimh.
Maliha moved to sit beside the woman and put her arm around her shoulders.
Amita came over with one of Maliha’s kerchiefs which Maliha took and gently pushed into Naimh’s hand.
The sobbing eventually turned to sniffles. “I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about,” said Maliha. “The police didn’t tell you anything?”
“Police?”
“You reported her death?”
Naimh shook her head. “I told the priest and he arranged everything.”
“What colour was her skin?”
“What colour..?”
“You came in and found her, what colour was her skin?”
“Pale.”
People were so unobservant. “No, there was more than that, wasn’t there? She was blue-ish round her mouth, her fingers.”
Naimh looked up. “How did you know?”
Maliha didn’t respond; she was examining the floor. She got to her feet and pointed. “Show me exactly where she was lying. Exactly mind.”
Naimh looked at Maliha in that confused way that people so often did.
“Your mother was poisoned. I need you to show me exactly where she was lying when you found her.”
“Poisoned?”
“Yes. I need to know exactly how her body was positioned.”
“My mother was nobody. Why would anyone poison her?”
“Because of something she knew. Now please, if you would lie down the way you found her.”
“I...you want me to lie where she was lying?”
Maliha paused. A year ago she would have pushed the woman, but she had learnt something in the intervening time. “Françoise, would you mind helping my investigation?”
The English was apparently too fast for Françoise to follow, so Maliha repeated in French. “I need you to lie on the floor. Naimh here will adjust your position to the way her mother was lying. Is that all right?”
The French woman did not look too happy about it. “Her mother is dead, the midwife?”
Maliha sighed, it was always the same, everybody else seemed to need it explaining twice or more and couldn’t handle more than one thought at a time. “Yes. If you wouldn’t mind?”
Françoise complied. Naimh knelt beside her and adjusted Françoise’s right arm. She placed it above her head and had her fold her left arm beneath her. Finally she was satisfied, though there were new tears.
“There was no cup or glass on the floor?”
“No.”
“Was your mother left or right-handed?”
“Right.”
It looked as if she’d fallen from a chair after drinking.
“Not a drop of alcohol ever touched her lips,” said Naimh.
Except Communion wine, thought Maliha. “Very good.” Then she continued in French. “Françoise, could you sit on the chair there and then fall off and into that position, holding this glass? But let go of it when you land.”
Françoise took a couple of attempts to get it just right and the glass went skittering across the floor under the table. Maliha got down on her hands and knees examining the path it had taken. She wetted her fingers in her mouth then rubbed a slight greenish discolouration in the floorboards. The faint smell of bitter almonds wafted up.
She climbed to her feet and gestured for Françoise to do the same.
“What time did you find her?”
“I left early, shortly after dawn and returned in the evening.” Naimh dabbed at her eyes with the kerchief. “She was cold.”
Maliha nodded at Amita and Françoise, and they moved towards the door. “One final thing, did your mother keep the door bolted?”
“Always, we are not popular.”
“But the door was not broken in?”
Naimh shook her head. “It wasn’t bolted so I knew something was wrong.”
Maliha nodded and they took their leave.
iii
Maliha noticed the looks between the air-plane’s navigator and Amita when they disembarked at Pondicherry. She shook her head. It was not that she minded Amita having relations with men. It was Amita’s business. However she knew for certain that most men would be very unhappy to learn of her maid’s true nature.
Maliha thought of Valentine. It was a conversation that she did not think would go down well with him; the fact that Amita was Maliha’s personal maid meant Maliha’s body was known to Amita. Not that Maliha encouraged physical contact, after all she dealt with all her personal matters herself, but Amita helped her dress, and undress.
Valentine was unlikely to understand that Amita was probably more interested in him.
She frowned. What difference did it make? She and Valentine had never been engaged, and never would be. She could choose whoever she wished to be her maid and it was no business of his.
The journey back to the city was without incident.
She wished she had Barbara to talk to. Françoise was pleasant enough but lacked the experience of the older woman. And while she might have a sweet smile and lips, she lacked the incisively logical mind that Maliha preferred. Valentine never took anything seriously but one did not have to spell everything out for him.
She swerved to the far side of the road to avoid an elephant in harness carrying some logs.
She debated the best course of action now. She had established that something had happened during the birth of Renuka and Balaji.
She dropped Françoise off at her cousin’s house. The woman invited her in. There was an undercurrent of desire in her voice. Maliha declined claiming she needed to rest.
When they were in Madras, Françoise had suggested she stay with Maliha both nights in the hotel. Her forwardness surprised Maliha considering the girl had not even kissed another woman a few days before, but Maliha knew it was just an infatuation and had refused. She needed to keep Françoise under control and at a distance. It was hard to think with the woman mooning over her.
She and Amita returned to her grandparents’ house and after a brief visit with her grandmother, just to prove she had kept her word, she went to her rooms where Amita had drawn a bath scented with jasmine oil.
She undressed and sank into it, breathing in the refreshing aroma. Her reverie was interrupted by Amita bringing in a platter with a single letter.
Maliha pushed herself up in the bath and took the letter. Amita passed her an opener. Maliha closed her hand on it absently, studying the handwriting. Slowly she turned it over. There was no sender’s name on the exterior but she knew Valentine’s hand. The postmark stamp clearly said Pondicherry and was timed yesterday evening.
Amita busied herself clearing away Maliha’s used sari, blouse and petticoat.
Maliha slid the letter opener into the top of the envelope and sliced it open with more force than was necessary. The paper, which was not of the best quality, came apart with a satisfying rasp. She dropped the letter opener on to the tiled floor, pulled out the letter and dropped the envelope on the other side.
Dear Miss Anderson
‘Miss Anderson’ is it? Clearly he was over his infatuation. Good.
As she scanned the rest of the letter written in his untidy hand and lacking proper punctuation and even grammar—so like him—she felt her anger boiling up. She climbed to her feet and stepped out of the bath, dripping, on to the floor.
“Amita.”
Amita glanced round and seeing her standing there went for the towel.
“Leave that,” growled Maliha. Amita paused and faced her with fear in her eyes. Maliha brandished the letter. “This is from Valentine.”
Amita collapsed to the floor and prostrated herself, reaching out to touch Maliha’s feet. “I’m so sorry, sahiba, I did not think you would want to know.”
“He says you met with him,” Maliha was helpless to control the anger that poured acid into her words.
“He found me. I was doing as you bid me.”
“And he recognised you and he messed things up?”
“Yes. No. He did not know.”
“He never does.”
“I am so sorry, sahiba, I will pack my things.”
“What?”
“I will leave your service, sahiba, I have betrayed you and failed you.”
Maliha looked at the letter and then at Amita lying on the floor. “Get up, you’re getting wet. Bring me my towel,” she said. “And then you will tell me everything that happened.”
Amita climbed slowly to her feet, taking great pains not to look at her mistress. “Yes, sahiba.” She found the towel and offered it, looking no higher than Maliha’s ankles.
Maliha took the towel, wrapped it around herself and re-read the letter. He was going at things with his usual lack of finesse. Honestly she was surprised he had not gone charging in himself and got himself shot for his trouble. Still she was glad he had not, otherwise she would be missing this piece of information.
She sent for some tea and sat in the window. She read the letter several more times. Then folded it up. Dear Miss Anderson indeed, and he had signed off with Your servant, W A V Crier. He never did like her using Valentine instead of Bill.
Amita served the tea, still acting as if she were about to be beaten.
“Sit down, Amita.”
She promptly crossed her legs and sat on the floor. Maliha thought she would be glad when Amita got over this guilt.
“All right, tell me exactly what happened that night. Do not leave anything out.”
Amita looked worried. “Everything?”
Maliha frowned. “Yes, of course, everything.”
“Yes, sahiba. Everything.” And still she hesitated. A worry grew inside Maliha; was it possible that she was completely wrong about Valentine’s preferences? Did he prefer men the way the General had done? She prepared herself to hear it all.
“Begin.”
* * *
“And he kissed you?”
“Yes, sahiba, I am sorry. Only on my cheek. I know he is yours and not mine. I should not have let him.”
The sun had reached the horizon. Maliha had grown accustomed to the long twilights of England. The way the sun simply fell below the horizon near the equator was something to which she had not fully accustomed. She still expected the evening half-light to go on for hours.
When Amita had described the false love-making Maliha was almost unable to contain her laughter but she managed for Amita’s sake. The poor thing was so embarrassed about having “taken” her man. And it was so like Valentine; he was like a puppy blundering into a table leg.
And he had kissed Amita. Maliha smiled to herself; that too was like him. The two of them had shared something so intimate and he had shown his gratitude in a way that meant something.
But she still did not forgive him for killing Guru Nadesh and stealing her prize.
She stood up and realised she was still only wrapped in her towel. Grandmother would be calling her down for an evening meal soon.
“Stand up, Amita.”
She did so, again only staring at Maliha’s feet.
“Look at me.”
Amita failed to do so. Maliha took a step forward and into her line of sight. “Look at me.”
Amita glanced at her face for a moment then looked away. “I am angry you did not tell me what happened but I understand why you did not. As it is, the outcome was satisfactory so we will not dwell on it.”
“Yes, sahiba.”
The gong for dinner rang out, but instead of simply ringing twice, it rang again and again like an alarm. Maliha looked down at her state of undress. “Go down and find out what’s happening while I get dressed.”
She opened the door to the dressing room, went through and pulled on the clothes that Amita had laid out for her. The sound of the gong continued for minutes. It was quite irritating, since everyone in the house would know by now.
Maliha threw the pallu over her shoulder, slipped on her sandals and headed downstairs; there was a crowd of servants around the gong and it was Maliha’s grandmother striking it.
The wall of servants parted as Maliha reached the bottom. Her grandmother was hunched over the gong, the hammer in her hand, striking it again and again. Maliha reached out and took hold of her wrist. Her grandmother struggled against the resistance until she seemed to realise someone was holding her wrist. Silence fell.
“Grandmother?”
The old woman—and suddenly Maliha realised that she was old, as if she had never really seen her before—turned and looked at her. She recognised Maliha and the deadness behind her eyes flamed into anger.
“It’s your fault!” She pulled her hand free and tried to hit Maliha with the hammer. Amita’s hand appeared and stopped the blow from landing. Amita snatched the hammer from the old woman’s hand and released her. Her grandmother struck Maliha on the cheek.
“You did this!” Slap. “You, your shameful mother and that father of yours.” Slap.
Then she broke down in tears. Maliha stepped forward and put her arm round the old woman and guided her into one of the reception rooms. And shut the door on the servants.
“What’s happened, Grandmother?”
“You had to interfere; you had to make waves.”
“Tell me what’s happened? Is it Grandfather?”
“I’m sure you’d be happy if it was.”
Maliha controlled her temper at the complete lack of logic. “Just tell me what’s wrong, Grandmother.”
“Savitha.”
“What about Auntie?”
“She has been arrested!”
“What? Aunt Savitha?”
“Yes, Aunt Savitha. You disgusting chit, I am ashamed to have birthed the daughter that birthed you!”
“Grandmother, just tell me, why has Aunt Savitha been arrested?”
“She has killed her husband.”
iv
Maliha engaged the brake and vented the excess pressure. Amita handed her down from the carriage. There was a crowd of people outside the gates of Aunt Savitha’s house and the policeman on duty took some persuading to let her through.
Every window glowed with light, and lit the family and servants weeping outside the building, or standing with a look of horror etched into their faces.
Renuka ran up to Maliha and flung her arms around her. Maliha stroked her head. “I need to go inside. You must stay here and look after your sisters.”
Her cousin clung for a moment then released her but stayed with Maliha as she walked up the steps into the building. Maliha paused at the top and Renuka grabbed Maliha’s hand again; her eyes were red with weeping but her face was dry. Maliha hugged her. “Stay with your sisters.”
She pulled herself away and went into the brightly lit foyer. She glanced around. It was empty, no police on duty. But Maliha knew where they were. She headed through the building towards the courtyard.
One of the French police stood next to an opening in the wall, where there had been no door before. He watched her as she crossed the courtyard to the holy plant, slipped off her shoes, and touched a leaf. There was a formless prayer in her mind. She would have to make it all come true herself anyway.
She put her sandals back on and went to the opening. The young policeman stretched out his arm to bar her way.
“You can’t go in, mam’selle.”
Amita loomed over her shoulder.
“I am Maliha Anderson, I am investigating the death of the girl at the wedding here last week. This is related, and your Inspector Abelard was quite clear that I could carry out my investigations.”
She did not speak aggressively but with a firm tone that would brook no disagreement. “This is no place for a young woman, Mam’selle Anderson. There was been a murder.”
“Which is precisely why I am here. Must I contact the commissioner?”
His control of the situation had been tenuous at best. He stepped back.
“Stay here, Amita.”
Maliha stepped through into a short corridor. The walls were white-washed and there was a slight smell of carbolic acid. Almost clinical.
She turned back and examined the door. The locking mechanism was a simple bolt that pushed through into the solid wood of the door which had been faced with stone to match the exterior. The mechanism could be operated from the inside by a lever. There must be a similar one accessible from the outside.
It was only a few paces to the door at the other end. This one required a key but again was solid but not complex.
She took a deep breath and hesitated. It was not the thought of seeing her dead uncle that concerned her; she had seen enough dead bodies in the past, and even examined them. It was what else she would find. When she discussed “de Sade” in such casual tones with the French Doctor or with Françoise, she was hiding the horror she did not allow herself to feel.
She pushed open the door.
Everything here was also white. The light from the electric lamps shone with a bright sterility. It was all white except on the floor between the manacles where the dark stains of blood and other bodily secretions, from the years of torture, could not be washed away. She touched her hand to her neck as a wave of cold went through her.
There were manacles driven into the floor and matching ones that hung from the ceiling. On the wall was a cabinet carrying a range of canes, whips and even a cat-o’-nine-tails. On a fold-out section of the cabinet was a wooden block with a selection of knives, a cut-glass box containing needles three inches long, and a second block of thin metal skewers, one missing. In a corner there was a sink with a tap and cleaning materials.
It was easy to dismiss the activities of her uncle when you thought that it was hidden away, such care was taken to keep it clean, and it was not his particular desire to kill anyone: merely inflict some pain that could be easily forgotten. But Maliha could see the years of agony given both willingly and unwillingly.
But it was the armchair with a small table and selection of drinks, probably alcoholic, that made her skin crawl and the hate well up in her. It faced the manacles in the centre of the room, and she knew why it was there. So he could sit in comfort and inspect his handiwork while his wife, or his slave-gift, hung there, weeping from the pain while their blood stained the floor. Their skin pierced and flayed as their body’s nerves screamed.
Even if his intention was not to kill, how close would he come to causing death to satisfy his desires? And there he now lay with his own blood staining the whitewashed floor.
She shivered and felt the bile rise in her throat.
There was a man in a suit standing beside the body, but he was staring at her. He was in his thirties.
“Mam’selle? Perhaps you should not be here?”
She took a deep breath and calmed herself. “How did he die?”
“And you are?”
“Maliha Anderson,” she stepped across to her uncle’s body. Uncle Pratap wore the Western suit he affected to give himself a better image and to separate himself from the common people. “Is there no doubt my aunt killed him?”
“You are Maliha Anderson?”
She looked him in the eye. “You were expecting someone older.”
“Yes, I was. Not such an attractive and young woman.”
“And my physical attributes are relevant to the case in what way? Monsieur...” she allowed her words to trail off expectantly.
He grinned in what she imagined he thought to be a winning way. “Detective Gerard Belleville.” He put out his hand to shake hers, across the body. She looked down at her uncle. The blood seemed to be coming from his abdomen.
“You are not married, detective.”
He withdrew his hand. “How did you know?”
“Woman’s intuition.” Along with the rank smell of sweat, his greasy and unkempt hair, the overall impression he gave was that he wanted to touch her, intimately. He was so despicable even Grandmother would have sent him on his way.
She squatted down to peer under the body. She lifted up his blood-soaked jacket. The blood furthest from him had dried, but under his body it was still sticky. News travelled fast; he was less than two hours dead.
“Is there a murder weapon?”
“I think he’s lying on it.”
She looked up at Belleville to see his eyes scanning her breasts. “And there’s no question my aunt committed the murder?” She repeated.
He shrugged and dragged his gaze up to her face. “She confessed to it.”
Maliha nodded and looked back at the body. “Are you going to turn him over?”
Belleville bent over and grabbed the jacket. He rolled the body away from her. Her uncle’s shirt, tie and jacket were drenched in blood that made the cloth hang heavily—where it wasn’t glued to his skin.
She pointed at the wooden handle that matched those of the skewers. It was buried to the hilt in his abdomen but tilted upward. In her mind’s eye she followed the path of the metal through his stomach, diaphragm and into the heart. The shirt was pierced in many places, but the last thrust, where her aunt finally released her grip on the weapon, was probably the one that killed him. He had suffered for a while. Maliha felt a certain satisfaction in that knowledge.
“That would do it,” said the detective and let the body drop back. “His very own torture chamber. Do you think he killed many people in here?”
“He didn’t kill anyone,” said Maliha. “He just destroyed their lives.”
Maliha looked around the room again. She realised she was standing on the blood-stain. A shudder ran through her and she stepped back. She reached down and ran her fingers across it. The fact that there was no difference in texture between the stain and the rest disturbed her. She felt there should be some fundamental quality that could be sensed where someone’s lifeblood had been spilt. She felt sick again as images of the two women pushed into her mind.
She suppressed the thoughts. She would betray Riette and Aunt Savitha if she did not think clearly. She did not imagine her uncle had allowed Riette to roam free in the room when he was absent. There was no cot or pallet but there was a pot for night-soil next to a single manacle set in the wall on the opposite side of the room to the tools of his sadistic hobby.
The manacles were unlocked and took a simple key. It would be easy to pick if one had the right equipment. Or the key. Somehow Riette had escaped the manacle, passed through the door lock and out into the courtyard at exactly the right moment to drink the same poison as had killed an Irish woman in Madras.
“Sick.” The detective said. She glanced up to where he stood examining the whips. She watched him as he almost caressed the strips of the cat. He glanced over at her and grinned.
Rational thought was subsumed in a terror that leapt from her heart. She had barely sufficient control to walk from the room instead of flee. She maintained a semblance of poise until she reached the courtyard then ran from the house.
* * *
Maliha was not entirely sure how it happened but she dropped Amita off at her grandparents’ house and now found herself parked outside Françoise’s home, in the dark. Most of the lights in the house were off.
She told herself that she had not come here because her uncle’s torture room had disturbed her, but she always knew when someone was lying. She imagined Riette strung between the manacles being lashed until she bled. And then her aunt hanging there, willingly, letting her husband kill her by stages. Learning to want the pain. Maliha shook her head. How could anyone want such a thing?
She realised she was crying. She needed someone to hold her. She was adrift while the only members of her family who cared for her were deep in their own grief. She wanted her mother, or her father, or Valentine. He was in the city somewhere, perhaps if she could find him—she pushed him from her mind.
Françoise was here, now.
Maliha almost tumbled from the carriage, and stumbled as she climbed the stairs. Her left thigh had the ache in it she had all but forgotten. She told herself she was just tired, and while that was true, it was not the whole truth.
Françoise opened the door. She saw the look on Maliha’s face, took her by the hand and drew her inside. The French woman pushed the door closed and took Maliha’s hands in hers.
“What’s wrong?”
Maliha shook her head.
Françoise took Maliha’s face in her hands and placed a gentle kiss on her lips. Her right hand snaked round Maliha’s neck while the left slipped down, under her sari and round to press against her bare back, crushing the two of them together.
Maliha relaxed and allowed her arms to encircle Françoise’s waist. She could feel her hips beneath the heavy fabric. Maliha’s arms tightened as if trying to force the two of them closer. She felt rather than heard a gentle growling noise from Françoise that made Maliha’s tongue tingle. She was desperate for the physical contact and to feel Françoise’s skin against hers.
Françoise released her. Maliha felt adrift again but Françoise took her by the hand and drew her through the hall and up the sweeping marble staircase.
“The servants?” whispered Maliha.
“Nobody is here but us.”
She led the way up to the first floor and along the polished wooden floor. The light from a bedroom flooded out into the dark hallway but Françoise extinguished it with a flick of the switch as they entered.
Maliha pushed the door shut, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. Françoise was in front of her again and kissed her lightly. Françoise pulled the sari’s pallu from Maliha’s shoulder then untucked the rest of the cloth from her waistband and let it fall to the floor.
Standing in the pool of silk Maliha felt more undressed than she did in front of Amita. Françoise kissed her neck, and then bit her, sending a spark of energy through her. Françoise’s hands brushed along Maliha’s arms, down her back, across her stomach. It seemed that Françoise was never still. Then the older woman stepped in close. Her arms embraced Maliha again and Maliha felt the warm lips pressed against hers again.
Maliha parted her lips and allowed the other woman’s tongue to enter her mouth. She felt a pain, not physical, but as if her heart were breaking, as if she had lost everything, and Françoise was the only thing left in her life.
As Françoise stepped away again Maliha discovered her blouse was unhooked. She removed it and let it fall. Françoise placed a kiss on Maliha’s lips and stood back. She took Maliha’s hand and pulled her to the bed, gave her a gentle thrust against her collarbone and Maliha sat.
A little light filtered in from the outside. It highlighted the curves of Françoise’s body in peaks and shadows. Françoise turned her back on Maliha.
“Unlace me.”
Without thinking about what it meant Maliha pulled the bows and loosened the cords of the dress, then unhooked it. She helped Françoise lift the skirts up and over her head. The material brushed against her breasts, making her shiver. Françoise threw the dress to one side and now, also bare from the waist up, faced Maliha. Without any apparent sense of embarrassment, Françoise hooked her thumbs into her underskirt, slid it to her ankles and stepped out of it.
Maliha had seen naked girls before at school, and in better light than this. But here it was as if the air was filled with the electric, so unlike the way it had been with the Guru. With him it had been so planned. Here there was passion.
Françoise reached out her hands. Maliha stood, feeling curiously awkward as she was not yet naked. Françoise caught her hands and brought her close. She stroked Maliha’s cheek, then her hair. They moved closer. Their bare skin touched. Maliha jumped. Françoise laughed. She crushed her body against Maliha’s and nibbled her neck.
Françoise hands caressed Maliha’s bare skin. They were always moving, tracing across her skin. Maliha’s mind buzzed with feelings she had never before experienced. Françoise pulled away again, their skin separated reluctantly and Maliha realised they were both sweating.
Standing back from Maliha, Françoise regarded her. “Nakedness is truth. Shall I remove your petticoat?”
Maliha hesitated. Françoise smiled and fell to her knees. She grabbed handfuls of the petticoat on each side and yanked it down. Maliha looked down at the top of Françoise’s head as she knelt before her.
“I promise I won’t try to kill you,” said Françoise. Maliha felt a moment’s pain at her words. Then Françoise leaned forward and kissed her.
* * *
Maliha woke at the sound of a shutter banging somewhere in the house. She lay on her back listening to the wind in the trees and staring at indistinct shadows playing across the ceiling. Her hand prickled with pins and needles. As she attempted to lift her arm up to rub her fingers, she realised her arm was both numb and trapped. She turned and saw Françoise on her side, watching her.
“Can I have my arm back?”
Françoise pushed herself up on her elbow. She was naked and her curves were like the shadows and highlights of a charcoal drawing. Maliha awkwardly pulled her unresponsive arm out from underneath her.
“It’s gone to sleep.”
In an easy motion Françoise move into a kneeling position and gently took Maliha’s arm.
“Here, let me,” she said. Maliha did not protest and Françoise massaged from the fingertips along the forearm and back. The arm stung as sensation returned.
“Renuka said you came back to Pondicherry because of a man.”
Maliha felt odd thinking about Valentine when she had been enjoying earthly pleasures with someone else. Françoise had taken her lack of response as an affirmative.
“What is his name?”
“Valentine.”
“A good name for a lover.”
“We weren’t lovers. We barely even walked out together.”
“And yet you came back. Did he hurt you?”
“No. Yes—” Maliha broke off in confusion. She gathered her thoughts. “No. He did not touch me.”
“Did he torture your mind?”
“No. He is a decent man. A good man.”
“And still you came home?”
Françoise stopped her massage and placed Maliha’s arm so it encircled Françoise’s back as she leaned forward so her face was directly above Maliha’s.
“So it must be that you prefer women to men?”
Maliha did not reply but pulled Françoise down until their lips met.
v
The Sûreté in Pondicherry was another new building, perhaps only twenty years old. There were few old buildings in the city.
Maliha stopped her carriage just beyond the main entrance, beside a bicycle leaning against the wall. She was alone and wearing the same sari as she had yesterday. The night with Françoise had been...not what she was expecting. She smiled at the memories of physical pleasure that had purged the horrors of Pratap’s torture room. Françoise had been surprisingly skilled and quite inventive.
Maliha climbed the stairs and pushed her way into the interior. The building lacked grandeur; it was utilitarian and small. There was a uniformed French policeman at a desk.
“Good afternoon, Miss, can I help you?”
“Maliha Anderson, to see Savitha Ganeshan please.”
“Please wait.” He indicated a line of chairs against the wall. She went and took a seat. The policeman disappeared into the back. He returned in a few moments, threw her a momentary smile that contained no emotion, and sat down to continue with whatever it was he was doing.
She waited. The place was quiet.
A door somewhere opened and closed; the sound echoed through the building. Footsteps. And Commissioner Abelard came out from a side corridor.
“Mam’selle Anderson.” She stood up as he approached and he shook her hand. “Please, come.”
She followed him back the way he had come and through a door into what she assumed must be his office. His desk was a pile of documents. “Please, sit.”
She sat and he followed suit.
“A serious business.”
“I find it hard to believe my aunt killed her husband.”
He shrugged. “Yet it is so, she has admitted it. And explained why.”
“She feared her husband would beat her daughters.”
He gave a sad smile. “You already know. I thought you might.” He leaned forward. “I believe I owe you an apology, Mam’selle Anderson.”
“If it’s that you thought I was incapable of successful investigation, you need not apologise. I am quite used to it.”
“Even so, mam’selle, I am sorry for underestimating you.”
“When can I see her?”
“Soon,” he said and searched through the papers in front of him until he found a letter. “But there is something else. I have received a letter from the British Foreign Office. They would like our assistance in removing, as they put it—” he squinted at a place halfway down the letter, “—removing a stain on the honour of France.”
“Smugglers and slavers.”
“You know of this also?” he shook his head. “Mam’selle Anderson, I do not quite know whether to applaud you or exile you. We had a quiet city here until you arrived and now you turn it all upside down.”
She frowned at him. “It was already upside down, Commissioner. I am turning it the right way up.”
He paused as he absorbed her admonition then grunted in acknowledgement and stared at the letter again. “I will agree to their request, of course. What with our Entente Cordiale and the fact they have a much bigger army than my few officers, I can only agree. Still, they will be the ones getting their men killed. We will simply observe.”
“I would like to be there.”
He raised his eyebrows then shrugged again. “Very well.”
“Can I see my aunt?”
He got to his feet. “This way please.”
* * *
A prison cell is a prison cell. There are no pleasant ones. Aunt Savitha sat on her bed and stared at the wall.
Maliha sat beside her, not knowing what to say. Their last conversation kept replaying through her mind. The one where she had given her aunt no options.
“I have brought shame upon my family,” said Aunt Savitha.
The words did not echo in the small room, but echoed in Maliha’s mind. “I am at fault, Auntie.”
“No, Maliha. You did the right thing.”
“If I had given you another option...”
Aunt Savitha touched Maliha’s hand, spreading out her fingers and intertwining them with her own. “Then I would have died and my daughters would have suffered his cruelty.”
“And instead they will be shamed by a mother who killed their father,” said Maliha. “They will hate you.”
“Better that.”
“And you will be dead.”
“That will make it easier for me to bear the guilt.”
Maliha heard the strained levity in her aunt’s voice and sighed.
“Do not be sad, little Maliha. Think that perhaps I have rid the world of someone who brings pain to others. Just as you do.”
Maliha smiled at her aunt. “You must tell me exactly what happened, every detail.”
Savitha tensed and looked down but nodded. Maliha allowed her the time to gather the strength to speak.
“Over the years I have come to know when Pratap must relieve his...need. He angers more easily and strikes the children,” said her aunt. “When he lashed out at Purvaji yesterday morning and lost his temper at the servants I knew the time had come again. I did not forget what you said, Maliha, but what choice did I have? I am his wife.”
Though anger boiled inside her Maliha kept her thoughts to herself.
“In the years that I succumbed to his will, we made a private language that would tell him that I was ready for him. I said the words to him and he became himself again. Excited that once more he would have me as his offering.”
“Offering?”
“My husband believed he had been cursed by the gods and only by giving the offering of pain and blood, from someone he cared for was better, only then could he prevent the curse from coming about.”
“And you believed this?”
She nodded. “What if it were true, Maliha? How could I tempt the gods?”
But Maliha was barely listening. She recalled a time when she had visited with Aunt Savitha and Uncle Pratap. He had used a stick to punish Renuka and Maliha. He had whipped their hands until they were cut. Then hugged them and given them lime-flavoured water to drink and made them laugh with silly antics. Though she had been only eight she had thought it strange. And painful. She absently rubbed her hand.
“I’m sorry, Auntie, please continue.”
“The girl, Riette, she did not love him of course. Nor did he care for her. So he beat her and cut her, so there was more pain and blood. I tried to comfort her as best I could, but it was my fault.”
Maliha realised they had become side-tracked. There was little doubt her aunt would avoid speaking of what she had done. She must be redirected. “What happened yesterday?”
“I went to the room.”
“I’m sorry, Auntie, I must ask: The room cannot be a secret to the servants?”
“The room is not a secret inside the house, but what happens there is a secret to most.”
“Renuka?”
Aunt Savitha shook her head vehemently. “No, we have kept it from the children.”
Maliha thought of Renuka’s reaction at the sangeet. She knew.
“Please continue.”
“When we got to the room, Pratap wanted to chain me as he had done to Riette, but always before I had simply accepted his beatings. I am his dutiful wife; I would not stop him doing what he must.
“But your words had made me strong. I said he need not bind me and that he must take care, otherwise he might kill me and then he would have no one to protect him from the curse.”
Aunt Savitha tensed, and her voice hardened. “Then he laughed. He said that would be no problem. He knew I might die, so he had already discussed with Grandfather that he would have you, Maliha. He would marry you, by force if necessary, and the gods would be doubly pleased that a disobedient woman was brought to them and tamed.”
She began to breathe hard. “And when he said so, I had such an anger in me that I have never felt before. You are my niece, you are strong and I would never let him touch you the way he touched me. So, while he laughed, I took up one of his blessed tools, and I looked him in the eye. Yes. I looked my husband in the eye and I saw fear in him. So I stabbed him. But he did not fall. So I stabbed again, and again, and again. And then he fell.
“And I had his blood on my hand.”
The cell absorbed her panting breaths. She held her hand up as if she gripped the weapon and stared at the imaginary skewer. Then she returned to herself, dropped her hand and blinked. “I did it to save you, Maliha, because you are the avatar of vengeance.”
Maliha tutted to herself and changed the subject.
“Was it you who let the girl out, the night before when I visited?”
Aunt Savitha looked at her and nodded. “We practised the plan.”
“You said that you bought the girl, Riette.”
“Though it is against the law to own another human being, yes, I bought her as if she were a goat and gave her to my husband to use.”
“And she spoke English?”
“Only a few words. We made a language between us.” A pained look came across her aunt’s face. “But when she cried out, or cried afterwards, she spoke then. Her language was something I did not recognise.”
“It was not French?”
“No. I do not think she understood French at all. Perhaps it was from her native Africa? What language do the black people speak?”
“They have as many languages as we do,” said Maliha distractedly. She was thinking. There were Germans in Africa and also the Dutch. She could not speak Dutch but they had been taught German in school. “Did the language she spoke sound like this?”
Aunt Savitha looked up in surprise. “It was like that.”
Maliha summoned the memory of the Dutch trade attaché she had met on various occasions a few months before. Including the time when he had planned to kill her and Valentine. She tried to speak German using his Dutch accent. “Please stop, please don’t hurt me anymore.”
Aunt Savitha nodded. “Yes, yes, that was it. Like that.”
“She was from South Africa, somewhere occupied by the Afrikaans—they are Dutch in origin. Probably from the city otherwise she would speak her native African tongue, especially when in pain.”
Her aunt winced at the mention of the torture the girl had undergone. Maliha knew what her aunt had done was wrong, but she had endured her uncle’s mistreatment for fifteen or more years. Maliha might not understand why anyone would endure it without doing something about it, but she could understand wanting to save her own flesh and blood.
“People talk about the things you have done, Maliha,” said Aunt Savitha. Maliha took a deep breath, suppressed the anger deep inside, where it always boiled, where she had always been able to keep it.
She turned to face her aunt, under control.
Her aunt prostrated herself and touched Maliha’s feet. “You will avenge this girl’s death, yes?” She emphasised the word avenge and did not move from her prone position.
Maliha felt awkward. It was wrong of an elder to behave this way towards her, as if she were a guru or, heaven forbid, a goddess—damn that foolish priest. But she knew what her aunt was waiting for. She had to give her blessing. If she did it then she accepted the honour her aunt had given her, but if she did not she would destroy what little remained of her aunt’s self-respect.
She reached down and touched her aunt’s head.
Her aunt got up from the ground but squatted to one side, as if she did not deserve to be on the same level as Maliha, or as if Maliha were a guru. She kept her gaze averted and awaited for Maliha to speak.
“Riette was well fed and her wounds tended.”
Her aunt waved her hand in front of her as if warding away the guilt. “I did what I could.”
“Did she repeat any words?”
“Many times after she was beaten, she would say Ik bennit vammin moder, and she would cry out to Marten.”
The name Marten was clear enough, Maliha thought: someone she cared for, perhaps the father of the child. And the other phrase might be I am not my mother, which was interesting but dealt with matters before she had arrived in India, so not directly relevant to the case.
“When did Grandmother and Grandfather know of Pratap’s vice?”
Aunt Savitha’s hesitation told Maliha everything she needed to know.
“When we were first married, I asked my mother whether Grandfather beat her. That was when I learnt Pratap’s needs were not like those of other men. I showed my mother what he had done and begged her to let me return home. She refused me.”
Maliha stood up and faced the wall. She ground her fist against it. If Grandmother had been here now Maliha did not know what she would have done to her. Her heart felt like it would burst with the anger in her. Why did everybody lie? Didn’t they know she could see through it?
She needed to see Françoise again. Right now.
vi
She drove back to Françoise’s house at break-neck speed.
Anger fed her every action. She slammed the controls, swerved at high velocity past obstructions. More than once pedestrians had to leap from her path as she yanked on the steam whistle and ploughed through the crowds on the street.
It was barely mid-day and the sun’s heat poured down, fuelling her temper.
Never had she felt such anger and she did not care. She thought about her grandmother and how much she would love to wring her neck like a chicken’s. To condemn her own daughter to a lifetime of pain and misery, and then finally to force her into the position where all she could do was take the life of her husband.
She slammed on the brake lever and the wheels locked. The clutch mechanism barely engaged in time, threatening to shred the teeth from the cogwheels as the vehicle slid to a stop on the gravel before the quiet house.
The curtains were still drawn on all the windows. Not a servant moved, not a gardener, not a maid, no one.
Maliha stormed up the steps and slammed through the front door. It crashed back, echoing through the dark house.
“Françoise!” yelled Maliha. The woman emerged cautiously from the passage that led to the kitchens. She had a half-eaten baguette in her hand, and wore a silk dressing gown that did little to hide her shape.
“Maliha?” she said. “What...why are you here?”
Maliha stormed across the tiled floor and glanced through one of the open doors into a reception room where the furniture was covered with white sheets. She closed on Françoise—who looked like she was about to bolt.
Without a word she ripped the filled baguette from Françoise’s hand and tossed it across the hall. She grabbed Françoise by the wrist and yanked her up the stairs, along the landing and into the bedroom. She pushed her on to the bed and slammed the door. She turned the key.
“Take off your clothes.”
“Why should I?”
“Because, as you said, there is truth in nakedness.”
“I will not.”
Maliha stalked across the room like a thunderstorm. She grabbed Françoise by the hair and crushed their lips together, then pulled her head back and slapped her across the cheek. “Take them off or I will rip them from you.”
“All right!”
She reached for the belt, keeping her eyes on Maliha. It was too slow. Maliha yanked Françoise to her feet, pulled the dressing gown off her shoulders and down to the ground taking the belt with it. She gave Françoise a violent shove so she fell backwards on to the bed. Maliha grabbed her bloomers and pulled them off her.
Françoise finally pulled herself together and retreated across the bed. She grabbed a pillow to cover herself. “What is wrong with you?”
Maliha threw off her sari and underclothes, then crawled on to the bed. She loomed over Françoise. She kissed her hard as if inflicting a wound.
“Now there will be no more lies.”
“What lies?” Françoise’s voice betrayed her uncertainty. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Who are you?”
“What kind of a question is that?”
Maliha slapped her again, hard. “Do you know how much I am tired of lies?”
Françoise raised her hand to her cheek. “I am Françoise Greaux.”
Maliha grabbed her by the hair again and pulled her head back. Maliha leaned over her. The pillow between them prevented their skin touching. “There is nobody living in this house. There are no servants; there is no cousin. Just you. So I ask you again. Who are you?”
“My name is Françoise Greaux,” she hissed. “And this house belongs to my cousin.”
“But he is not here.”
“No.”
“And the servants?”
“They do the minimum as the family is away.”
“Why did you seduce me?”
“I recall that it was you that kissed me first, Maliha Anderson.”
Maliha tightened her grip in Françoise’s hair and pulled her head back further, exposing her neck. “And then you seduced me. When I was vulnerable and needed someone to be considerate, you brought me to this bed.”
“I did not notice you protesting,” said Françoise. “At any point during the night.”
Maliha kissed her hard again. Pushed her tongue into the woman’s mouth. Françoise accepted it and responded.
Maliha pulled away and sat back. She rested her hand on Françoise’s thigh.
“Why are you here?”
“The same reason you are.”
Maliha almost snarled. “I don’t mean here in this bed.”
Françoise pushed herself back, sliding her leg from under Maliha’s hand. She sat up letting the cushion fall away. She leaned back against the pillows bunched up behind her. She scratched her shoulder. “Neither did I.”
“What are you talking about?”
Françoise sniffed derisively. “You need me to explain it to your great intellect?”
Maliha frowned. She felt the urge to slap her again. She found it gave her pleasure and she thought of Pratap.
“You are running away, Maliha Anderson,” said Françoise quickly, to forestall any further violence. “Just like me, only I’m not afraid to admit it.”
“Really? And what am I running from?”
“The same thing as me, only for a different reason.”
Maliha felt her blood run cold, and the anger within her turned to ice.
“I am not running away.”
“Of course you are,” said Françoise. “You’re running from your Valentine.”
All Maliha’s senses seemed to cease their natural function. She felt as if she could not move. But Françoise continued.
“And I am running from a man as well.”
“Why would you run from a man?”
Françoise looked away, slightly embarrassed. “I did lie to you about one thing.”
Maliha felt a small spark of triumph, but it did not burn into a warming flame. She remained numb. “What did you lie about?”
“When you asked whether I had kissed another woman as a lover,” Françoise said. “I said I had not but I have, of course.”
“That explains...much.”
Françoise laughed. “You British are so understating.” She looked directly into Maliha’s eyes. “Listen to me, Maliha Anderson. I am very experienced making love with women, I have had a great deal of practice, and I have been greatly admired for it.”
“So when I spoke of kissing—”
“I really could not believe my luck.” Françoise folded her legs under her and knelt forward beside and facing Maliha. She put her arms around her. “But I was disappointed to find that your heart was not to be mine.”
“I am not running away from Valentine—”
Françoise silenced her with a kiss. “Stop lying to yourself, little Maliha. I am allowed to lie, that is my nature, but it is not right for one such as you.” She ran her fingernails from Maliha’s neck to the tip of her breast. Then withdrew her hand with a sigh. “Such a pity.”
“A pity?”
“I rather liked this version of you. So firm, so angry, even the violence—” she touched her cheek again and smiled, “—quite stimulating. I am usually the one who leads. It made a most refreshing change.”
Maliha found her anger had dissipated, leaving her empty, tired and sad. She reached out and put her arms around Françoise’s waist, and rested her head against the woman’s shoulder. She ran her hand along Françoise’s arm just to experience the soft cool skin and the tiny hairs. She liked Françoise and was sorry she had hurt her. “I could stay this afternoon,” she said, then wondered if she might be misunderstood. “With you. Together. In bed.”
“I love your hair,” said Françoise and ran her fingers through it. “I think perhaps I may be a little bit in love with you, Maliha Anderson. But you are not like me. You do not love women. And as much as I would enjoy dallying with you, I do not think it would be fair of me to take advantage of you.”
Maliha smiled. “Again.”
“Yes,” said Françoise. “Unfair for me to take advantage of you, again.”
Then she sighed. “You are the sweetest thing, Mam’selle Anderson, but you must go. Before I change my mind, tie you to the bed, and make love to you until you cry for mercy.”
Maliha blinked; after the previous night she had some idea of what that might mean. She could almost imagine it.
Françoise laughed again. “You are incorrigible.” She pushed Maliha hard so she tumbled to the edge of the bed and barely saved herself from crashing to the floor. “Put your clothes on and get out.”
Maliha stood reluctantly, fished her petticoat from the floor and slid into it. She fastened her blouse then set about organising the sari. Françoise merely watched.
“You did not tell me who you were running from,” said Maliha as she wrapped the sari around her waist and pleated the pallu.
“I am betrothed to a man,” said Françoise indifferently. “I will not marry him, of course, but my family is quite insistent.”
“Is he a good man?”
“Oh, I like him well enough.” Françoise got off the bed and went to the window. She stretched and Maliha could see her muscles working under her soft curves. “But let us say he would curtail my activities. And I really am uncomfortable with men’s—” she waved her hand “—things.”
Maliha ensured the sari was tucked firmly into her waistband, located her sandals and slipped them on.
“Do you want to continue accompanying me on the investigation?” she asked.
Françoise turned round. She seemed so comfortable in her nakedness. “I would like to do that. If you do not object to my presence and if your Amita does not mind.”
“I will explain the situation to Amita.”
“Really? You would explain this,” she pointed at the rumpled bed, “to your maid?”
Maliha was not about to reveal Amita’s secret, so she just nodded. “Oh yes, it will be entirely appropriate.”
“As you wish,” Françoise shrugged. “When will we see one another again?”
“Would I be right in thinking you can drive a steam carriage?”
“Oh yes, my father owns one similar to yours.”
“Then I will collect you at nine this evening, Miss Greaux,” said Maliha with a hint of a smile in her voice. “But I suggest you wear durable clothes and the strongest shoes you possess.”
“An adventure?”
“I imagine it will be.”