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i
Valentine waited at the meeting point on the beach nine miles north of Pondicherry, in British-owned territory. He had managed to find some shade under a palm tree and dozed.
There were fishing boats out in the bay and men with rods on the beach. The ocean kept the whole coast provided with more than could be eaten, and yet a hundred miles inland one bad season would bring people to the point of starvation.
He was roused from his sleep by a drone that grew louder until it filled the air. A dark shape grew in the sky. The Royal Navy troop ship flew in across the ocean. The powerful down draughts from its eight gargantuan rotors stirred up the sea and drove the fishing ships across the water. He saw one of them capsize.
It was only a hundred feet up when it crossed to the beach, driving a sandstorm before it. Valentine turned away and covered his face. The sand stung his skin for a few seconds until the roaring vessel passed beyond the beach and came to a stop above the undergrowth and trees.
The ship descended light as a feather. If a feather possessed roaring rotors and pumped smoke and steam from its four funnels. Valentine had travelled to India aboard the RMS Macedonia sky-liner that carried five hundred passengers, yet this Royal Navy carrier was twice its bulk.
It sported artillery points along its sides, the portholes were armoured and its skin was riveted steel. From its top deck protruded the wings of other craft. It flew a Royal Ensign flag and the name HMS Alexandria was painted on the hull.
It touched down with barely a bump. Valentine could not approach as the down draught from the rotors was still overwhelming, but their whine was decreasing in pitch and volume. A hatch folded out and formed a ramp. Crew members, some armed, disembarked and set up a cordon.
Valentine approached ensuring that he kept his hands visible and open. It was obvious he was a white man but the enemy wasn’t Indian, or even French; it was the Kaiser and his desire to build an empire as great as Britain’s.
He stopped at a non-threatening distance and allowed the armed men to come to him. He answered their challenges appropriately and handed over his identification. One of them went back into the ship while two others kept their weapons at the ready, watching Valentine.
Two more hatches opened and steam artillery carriages drove out. Where there was just one of these armoured machines to guard the entirety of the Fortress, three crawled from the belly of the ship. The self-powered artillery possessed one main gun with a three-inch bore, four smaller guns and two machine guns mounted on the top.
Like everything, they were driven through steam, and utilised the Faraday effect to allow monstrous constructions; each required a crew of twenty to operate the power unit, drive, navigate and man the guns. It was known the Germans had mobile fortresses with crews of over one hundred.
There was no question that war was coming. It was only a matter of when.
Another vehicle descended from the ship. This one lacked any major armament but was long with many wheels: a troop carrier and support vehicle. Finally the whole squadron had disembarked and lined up on the ground.
The air-ship’s rotors had slowed down to the point where the individual blades could be observed. Men were out on the stubby wings checking the control and drive systems. Valentine was so busy watching the activity he did not notice the group of officers walking towards him until they were almost on top of him.
He stood to attention but did not salute as he was not in uniform nor a soldier. The officer in front, a brigadier by his insignia, stuck out his hand. “Mr Crier, Brigadier Stewart. Your documents are all in order, and I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Valentine took his hand and shook it. “Thank you, sir. Glad I could be of some assistance.”
“Well, we don’t always agree with you Foreign Office types, too much diplomacy if you ask my opinion. But it’s always important to give the boys some live fighting experience, so we’re happy to help out when the steel fist is needed. Never know when it’s going to come in handy, do we?”
“I think this might be overkill.”
The brigadier shook his head. “Can tell you’re not a military man, Crier. Overkill for them is underkill for us. If you see what I mean. If we have sufficient force to overwhelm them fast, it means fewer of my chaps are going to get hurt.”
He paused as if he were allowing his wisdom to sink in and then continued. “Will we be taking the froggies along?”
“The French? No, sir, they’ll make their own way in.”
“As long as they don’t get in the way.”
“They’ll stay clear until we’re in control of the area.”
“All right. You’ll be riding in the Unicorn with me; you can advise our navigator as to the exact position of the target.”
With that he turned and, flanked by his officers, headed towards the first of the wheeled vehicles. To the rear Valentine could see perhaps a hundred soldiers climbing into the personnel carrier.
* * *
Coming from the north, rather than the south as he had done on his first expedition, Valentine was not able to give them specific information as to the terrain, but their maps were good.
There was something about these self-powered artillery that he found quite terrifying. They seemed to be virtually unstoppable. They proceeded along the roads initially and made excellent time, as they had an impressive turn of speed.
There was no attempt at stealth. The speed of these vehicles far outstretched what any person on foot, or even on horseback, could achieve. Besides the slavers had managed to keep their location a secret from everyone, so nobody would be running to tell them of the approaching forces.
After a few miles, when they were almost within sight of Pondicherry, the command was given to head inland. Valentine almost failed to make it into his assigned seat in time and had to grab the chair straps to avoid being thrown across the cabin. Once off the road the machines bucked and dipped with every contour of the landscape—but barely slowed.
The crew seemed to take perverse pride in riding out the bumps at the highest possible velocity. Astonishingly, at least to Valentine, once in a while one of them would get up from their chair and walk across the tossing deck. Of course the reduced gravity meant that a fall would not be quite as damaging, and would occur at a slower rate giving time to compensate. However it was not an experience he was willing to try out.
As they approached the low hills in which the slavers’ base was located a command was given of which Valentine could make neither head nor tail.
“Notify squadron. Damp furnaces, switch to Spanish.”
He had been concerned that they were arriving much earlier than the planned time for the attack. They intended to go in at midnight, and it was only beginning to get dark.
Whatever the command meant, the captain received acknowledgement first from his own engine room and then from the signalman as the other machines reported their compliance.
They reduced speed to the point where Valentine dared unstrap himself.
“Want to go up top?” asked the brigadier.
“I wouldn’t mind, sir.”
“Heading up there myself, now we’re being stealthy,” he laughed loudly at his own humour.
He went to a door which a crewman undogged and held open for them. Beyond it was a ladder going up and down. The brigadier stepped across the open space and on to the ladder without hesitation. It was hard to fall when there was so little gravity.
Valentine followed him up and they emerged in a space fenced off by steel plating. There was room for about five people. There was a crewman on watch staring out into the dusk and scanning the horizon.
Directly behind them were the three other vehicles. Only the slightest wisps of smoke emerged from their stacks, almost invisible in the dark. The engines still continued to huff. Steam emerged from side vents and dissipated into the evening air.
Valentine was curious about the lack of smoke, obviously connected to the “Spanish” but idle curiosity was not appropriate to the situation.
He watched ahead as the machine crushed its way through the undergrowth and smaller trees without changing its course.
Another twenty minutes passed as the vehicles headed into the hills. There was a flashing behind him; the semaphore flags had been dismounted and replaced by signalling lamps.
The vehicle went quiet but they kept moving.
“Electric,” said the brigadier. “Nice, eh?”
Valentine assented.
The vehicles continued to crash through the terrain but now they might as well have been nothing but a herd of elephants for all the noise they were making.
They came to a halt at the entrance to a valley which he and the navigator had decided was close to the one they wanted, which meant their target was most likely directly ahead, over the ridge. Now there were other matters to deal with.
There was little more than a rustling in the undergrowth as teams of infantry were deployed from the personnel carrier. Some set up station a few hundred yards from the vehicles while others, trained in sabotage operations, headed up to the ridge. They would remove any patrols when the time came to move in.
The Faraday device had been switched off to maintain battery reserves and Valentine climbed down the ladder and back into the main cabin carefully. There was nothing to do but wait. He would have enjoyed a few hands of cards but the rest of the crew had duties. He was the only one at a loose end.
The combat screens had been lowered over the windows so that the cabin could be illuminated without the light giving away their location.
He tried not to look at his watch but there was a clock located directly above the main window. It crawled as time passed. He took time over a toilet break outside but the crew were uncomfortable with him delaying and he soon had to go back inside.
The air inside remained very fresh, almost invigorating, which he found surprising but that too was something he was not about to question.
“Are you armed, Mr Crier?” asked the brigadier at about eleven o’clock.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” the brigadier gave him a wide grin. “Waiting’s over. Time for the action.”
“Yes, sir.”
ii
The Faraday was engaged at exactly eleven-thirty. The interior lights were extinguished and the combat shields raised. As his vision adjusted to the dark Valentine realised they were already moving; he barely noticed it.
With only the slightest sound the vehicle crept forward on its electric motors. He assumed the others were following. The deck tilted as they climbed towards the ridge. Scouts had reported back and confirmed the exact course they needed to take, which was slightly to the north of what he and the navigator had thought.
Valentine sat back in his chair. All he could see was star-filled sky. The British had decided to move fast because this was the new moon, where otherwise they would have had to wait another month.
At a quarter to twelve the captain ordered the “Spanish” to be engaged. The steam engines began to pump and power surged through the vehicle and its climb rate increased.
The brigadier was not seated but hung by a strap set in the ceiling. He kept glancing at the clock but said nothing. His job was done. He would not direct the action as it happened; that was for the men on the ground.
They topped the ridge and the vehicle deck became horizontal.
“Strapped in, Mr Crier?” said the brigadier. “You had better be.” There was the sound of sheer delight in his voice.
“Fire up main furnaces, decouple the Spanish.”
There was a pause then the vehicle throbbed with noise and power.
At exactly eleven fifty-five: “Charge.”
The engines roared like a bull elephant, the gears engaged and the vehicle cannoned forwards directly at the slope that fell away into the valley ahead.
“Tally-ho!” yelled the brigadier as they went over the edge. Valentine gripped the arms of his chair in terror. All the weight left him as the machine flew off the edge. His stomach felt as if it wanted to engage with his mouth. Then it crashed into his seat as the machine landed and tilted forward.
For a terrifying moment Valentine thought the whole vehicle would turn over as the rear bounced upward and all he could see was the ground. Then the front drive wheels bit hard and yanked the whole vehicle forwards, slamming the rear back down.
He could see the compound, as brightly lit as it had been only a couple of nights before. Though the big ship was not there, there was a smaller one.
This had been a question he had discussed. A full military assault would endanger the lives of the very innocents they wanted to protect. Contingencies had been set in place but the military objective had been given priority. Thankfully it looked as if there would be no slaves.
“Secondary turrets open fire.”
Valentine could not imagine how the guns could possibly be accurate at this speed and across the rough terrain because the machine was bucking and dipping as it careened down the slope.
The flash from the shot burst across the landscape, closely followed by two more, one from each side. The shells arched down into the valley striking close to the fence. They were high explosive and erupted, shooting stone, soil and smoke into the air.
There were more shots, targeting the fence. It was brought down in several places.
“Cease firing.”
They were halfway down the slope but below them Valentine saw soldiers breaching the fence through the holes that they had made. They moved, paused and fired, then moved again.
Men were coming out of the buildings firing off rounds. Valentine, with the full backing of the Foreign Office, had made it clear that they must, under no circumstances, destroy the buildings. It was vital they were kept in one piece to preserve potential evidence.
This was a concern because there was a good chance that any of the pirate leaders would try to destroy those very same records given half a chance.
They reached the bottom of the hill. The vehicle dug in and raced across the open space. It crashed through the nearest fence without a pause. There was the occasional sound of something metallic striking the vehicle and Valentine realised they were being shot at. There was little chance that small arms could do more than scratch the surface.
The machine he was in had been tasked with disabling any flyer that might be present. The one that was present was a small passenger air-craft of a standard British design, unlike the big one.
Disabling it was simple. They drove into the wing and crushed it.
“Your turn, Mr Crier,” said the brigadier and indicated the exit hatch which was being undogged. Valentine put on his regulation cap so that he would be recognised and not shot at by some trigger-happy infantryman.
He jumped from the artillery engine. The change from reduced to normal gravity caught him by surprise as he hit the ground sooner than he expected. He ended up on his knees but was otherwise unhurt and got to his feet.
A glance around the compound showed him that the pirates were already on the run and attempting to hole up in one of the buildings. He joined some infantrymen racing across the compound attempting to get to the building before the slavers managed to set up any defences.
They reached the wall of the building. Valentine prepared his pistol and headed for the door but one of the infantrymen grabbed his arm. “Only if you’re in a hurry to die, sir.”
Then one of them pulled a cylindrical canister from his belt and pulled a pin out of the top. “These are a bit rubbish, sir, but if it works it’ll help.”
The first man ran to the door and fired through it; the second followed him and pushed the door open and threw the canister inside. Streamers flew out behind it as it went into the dark. There were shots from inside and the second soldier dived out of the way.
An explosion erupted from inside, blowing the door off its hinges, and showering Valentine with broken window glass.
“Follow us, sir.”
They headed inside.
* * *
Within twenty minutes all firing had ceased; the slavers were either captured or dead. And the buildings were intact.
The lights around the compound were still lit. Valentine stepped from the door he’d entered the short time before and crunched down the steps covered in broken glass. The brigadier strode towards him, looking pristine.
“Excellent. Operation completed successfully.”
“Thank you,” Valentine started and then looked up. Two steam carriages were moving into the compound. The brigadier turned at the sound of the engines.
“Aha, your Frenchies. Can’t stand the blighters.”
He strode away, his officers in tow. Valentine walked slowly towards the cars as they approached and turned off to the side. A young man stepped down from the driving position of the first carriage and walked directly towards him. Valentine noted he looked surprisingly thin around the waist. He was fiddling with his driving hat and goggles. His face hidden from view.
As he got closer Valentine realised that the proportions could only be those of a woman, in men’s clothing. She removed her helmet, and her hair cascaded across her face. She lifted her head and brushed back her hair.
“You are Valentine?” said the woman, with a French accent. She looked him up and down with disdain. “I suppose you might be considered handsome but I can’t imagine why she would prefer you over me.”
iii
Father Christophe pedalled his bicycle through the dark streets. The letter from the Anderson girl lay in the bag slung over his shoulder.
He swerved to avoid the barely seen cow standing in the street. There was no moon, just the stars, but light spilt from windows and doorways: Sometimes the muted glow of candles and oil lights, occasionally the harsh brightness of electric, but his attention was on the contents of her message.
She had not been explicit in her accusations but she had mentioned the midwife Mary O’Donnell so it was clear she knew something. Potentially it was something that could ruin his career in the Church.
And she had demanded he meet her in one of the worst districts of the city and so late at night. What choice did he have? He needed to find out what she knew, and deal with it in whatever way seemed the most appropriate.
He found the mosque she had referred to and dismounted. His bicycle would be safe enough and he thought his robes would protect him from all but the most fallen sinner.
He took the alleyway that led down the left side. With buildings closed in on each side it was almost impossible to see anything. His shoes and cassock would need a good clean when he returned. Perhaps he should get one of those hand-held electric lights in case he needed to travel in the dark again. Perhaps have them fitted to his bicycle.
He bumped into a wall. The unexpectedness of it jolted him. He let out an exclamation, and suppressed the sudden panic that engulfed him.
“This way, Father Christophe.” He did not know her voice well enough to recognise it as Maliha Anderson, but there was an English accent in the otherwise excellent French. He looked to the left, the direction from which the sound had come.
She did not sound close by and in the distance he saw a rectangle of grey in the solid black that reached up until it blended with the sky, and against the grey, the dark silhouette of a woman in a sari.
“Mam’selle Anderson?”
“Of course.”
He stumbled along the passage and emerged on to a narrow wharf with buildings on one side, and one of Pondicherry’s wide estuaries stretching out before him, dotted with the dark shadows of boats. He looked around more carefully and a wave of recognition came over him. The woman was standing right on the edge, looking out. She must know. His stomach knotted up.
“It is beautiful, don’t you think?” she said as he came up beside her.
The lights on the opposite bank reflected in the gently rippling surface. The stars too shone both above and below.
There was a flicker of light beside him and he glanced to the side. A small light shone on her uplifted wrist illuminating a small silver watch that was more like a bracelet. It also illuminated her bare midriff and the curve of her upper body, covered with a silk sari of blue and gold.
After all these years he was used to the way the Indian women displayed themselves so immodestly. It did not normally cause the stirrings it once had. But he did not normally stand close enough to smell their perfume. He would have to disclose his weakness at his next confession. The flesh was always so weak.
“Don’t look at me,” she said without accusation. “Do you see the hills beyond the city?”
He looked and marked the undulating line where the stars were cut-off by a raised horizon. “Yes.”
“Keep watching.”
They stood for minutes. At one point, with his attention fixed on the hills, his balance became uncertain and he stepped back from the edge to avoid tipping forwards into the water.
This meant that what he saw was not the bright light as it flashed in the hills but its reflection in the water. The brightness outlined the ridges of the hills and then was gone.
“What was that?” he said.
She turned away from the edge and took a few steps away from him along the wharf. “Battle.”
“Battle? Between whom?” He followed her.
“What do you think of slavery, Father?”
“It is wrong for one man to own another.”
“The Old Testament is full of slavery; it was perfectly normal behaviour.”
“The teachings of Christ say something different. We have learned much.”
“What about the Africans, Father?” she asked in the same relaxed and somehow disarming tone. “Do they even have souls? After all, if they do not then to own one is no different from owning a goat, or a china plate, or a wife.”
“There is no official edict on the matter.”
She faced him. “Do you need an edict to tell you whether someone has a soul? Someone who lives and breathes; who thinks, laughs and grieves; who feels pain, and love? For this, you need an edict?”
He did not reply. One part of him, the part that adhered to the rules, said she was a heathen woman sent to test his faith. The other part knew she was right. But if he cared only for his career there was only one viewpoint he could have.
She turned away from him, walked along the wharf and stopped beside a door.
“Why are we here, mam’selle?” he asked. “Do you wish to purchase a slave?”
“You have been here before.”
“My ministry takes me to many places.”
A light out on the river flashed for a moment and reflected in the whites of her eyes and highlighted the contours of her face. She was a beautiful woman, and unlike the others of her race, she had no difficulty looking him straight in the eye. But then she was half-English.
“How will your God feel when you have not confessed your sin or received absolution before you die?”
“You are the voice of Satan.”
“If I am anything, Father Christophe, I am your saviour,” she said. “By your actions you have brought about the deaths of three people.”
He was not sure about three but he knew he had God on his side. “No Christians. And one of them an evil abuser who will suffer in the deepest circle of hell for all eternity.”
“One of them an innocent child and,” she paused, “you do not know? Mary O’Donnell herself. One of your own.”
His legs felt weak, a vision of her face swam before him, her hair spread out on the grass, lying without shame beneath him, laughing. He reached out for the wall. “Mary’s dead?”
It had been so many years since he had succumbed to her flesh. The joyful sinning. He told himself that it had been to the good, for he understood those who came to confession and told of their sins of lust and fornication. There were those of his order who listened with sinful lusts to such things, but he had experienced them all, and the pain of separation. The separation he had enforced himself though she cried for him to stay. She had even wanted him to leave the order. But it was his calling.
“You loved her.” There was surprise in the young woman’s voice. “I did not know.”
“How did she die?”
“She was poisoned the same way as Riette.”
“Riette?”
“The African girl,” the sympathy in her voice was gone and the hardness was back. “She had a name, Father.”
“Who poisoned my Mary?”
“I have not rejected you as a potential culprit.”
“I loved her, why would I kill her?”
“Perhaps because she was going to reveal the fact you had falsified the birth records in the hospital.”
It felt as if his heart had stopped. As if the whole world held its breath. He thought about denying it, holding on to the bravado.
“I was foolish,” he said in the end. “I was in love.”
“You were trying to protect her.”
“Yes.”
“Because Balaji and Renuka are brother and sister.”
He felt the strength leave him finally; he was adrift but somehow relieved. It was the one sin he had never confessed.
“She told me that the two women were giving birth that night, one of them with twins. The woman with the single child had birthed a boy but he was dead. The woman with the twins had delivered both successfully. My Mary was a good woman in her heart, perhaps too good for this world.”
“So she exchanged the dead boy for the live one.”
“She confessed it to me and I gave her absolution. Then I went to the British records and rewrote history.”
“You shouldn’t have left them out of the records completely.”
“No.”
He jumped as the door in the wall opened. An old man stepped out; he looked at them suspiciously, slid by and headed down the alley.
“There are no slavers here tonight,” Maliha said. “And they will not be trading from here any time in the near future.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the light you saw in the hills? That was the British navy attacking their base.”
In the half-light her face seemed calm, almost angelic. “Have you ever thought of converting to Catholicism?” he asked.
“No. At least in my religion a woman can also be a god.”
He turned as if to go, then back. “Shall I accompany you back to more civilised parts?”
She laughed quietly. “I was never alone, Father.” She looked over his shoulder and he turned. A large woman in a sari emerged from the shadows. “My maid is entirely sufficient for my protection.” He looked at the imposing figure and judged she might well be.
“However,” Maliha continued, “If you would indulge me for one question more. It was Françoise that told you about the impending marriage, was it not?”
“Françoise Greaux? Yes. She became part of the congregation when she came to Pondicherry. She has befriended many of the other ladies.”
“I’m sure she has.”
iv
She almost sounded like Maliha, the same mocking tone, except with a French accent. But she was completely different. She had wavy hair that was probably brown. And her skin was white, of course, and physically more rounded.
She thrust out her hand and he shook it. Her grip was firm, while her sardonic smile lacked any warmth. She was studying him.
“Françoise Greaux. You are Valentine Crier, n’est pas?”
“Yes, but my name is Bill,” he said. “Miss Greaux?”
“Yes, she explained that. And I agree with her, Valentine—” she made the name roll around her mouth as she said it “—is a much more pleasant name than Bill. I will also call you that.”
“As you wish, Miss Greaux,” he said. He pursed his lips. “I cannot say I understand why you are here.”
Behind her three men were disembarking from the carriage. Their bearing, annoyed mutterings and impressive moustaches suggested these were the French officials.
Françoise looked over her shoulder at them. “Well, somebody needed to drive them; they are very backward here. Maliha lent them her carriage.”
“That’s hers?”
“Oui, it is larger than the one I had at home but they are all the same once you know how to increase steam pressure and guide them.” She stared at him again, as if she was tearing off his skin and looking underneath. It made him itch. Then she shrugged and, to his embarrassment, reached inside her décolletage to withdraw an envelope.
“She wrote this for you,” she said. “And asked me to deliver it, which I thought was quite présomptueux. It would seem I am not a suitable replacement for you.”
Valentine frowned; there was something about her remarks that made him uncomfortable but he could not put his finger on what they were. He took hold of the envelope, it was warm, but she did not let go.
“Valentine Crier. If you ever hurt my Maliha I will tear your heart from your chest and feed it to you. Do you understand?”
He nodded in astonishment and she released the envelope. He turned it in his hands; his name was written in Maliha’s neat hand in the middle of the flat side. It was sealed shut. He looked up but the woman had wandered off to the group of French officials who were now in conversation with the brigadier. Valentine saw him look up as she approached and a broad grin crease his face. She lifted her hand; he took it and kissed it.
Valentine shook his head and returned his attention to the letter. He carefully tore it open and slipped the folded note from inside. It wasn’t a letter. There was no greeting or signature, just an address and a time. He glanced at his watch, and then up at the group of soldiers, police and diplomats. The woman was looking over her shoulder at him.
What was it he had said to himself? If she wanted him back she would have to ask. He looked at the note. It was probably as close to asking as she would ever get. She wanted to meet him in an hour, somewhere in a city that he did not know. It could easily take him that long simply to get there. He would have cursed but she would not approve, and she had no doubt done it deliberately.
He looked at the address. She was testing him. How much did he want to see her? She had allowed herself to be touched by the guru and had been angry when Valentine had killed the man for doing it. She had driven him away and now she did this.
She was the most infuriating woman he had ever had the misfortune to know. But this was more than a test, he knew: It was an ultimatum. If he failed to arrive she would decide that he did not want her, that he had no interest in her. That he did not...
Did not what? Love her?
He screwed up the letter and tried to shake the thought from his mind. He looked up at the clouds of stars filling the sky.
“Oh Christ!” he yelled and ran for the steam carriage. The French officials and brigadier stared at him as he ran past. He yanked the driver’s door and was surprised to find the seat inside filled.
“Other side, Valentine. You don’t know where you’re going.” The Greaux woman must have gone aboard while he was troubling over the note. “Très romantique,” she said, and slammed the door closed. He wasn’t sure if she was being ironic.
He ran around the front of the vehicle and pulled open the door. The engine thumped hard and the machine began to roll as he clung to the handle. He clambered up, the transition from normal gravity to lightweight carried him through so he almost landed on Miss Greaux.
“Hold on tight, Valentine. It is going to be a bumpy ride.”
With the vehicle’s electric lights illuminating the ground ahead, she engaged the highest gear. The carriage tore across the open field and out on to the track. With Valentine hanging on for dear life.
“Of course,” said Miss Greaux. “If I were to get you there late, I might have a chance with her une autre fois. But then, she tests me also.”
Once again Valentine found he could not make head nor tail of the strange Frenchwoman but the drama of the ride soon occupied all of his attention.
* * *
The steam carriage rocketed down an empty street, juddering across the stones. There was a moment of terror as a cyclist appeared from nowhere. Miss Greaux responded smoothly and drove around him. Then proclaimed in surprise. “That was Father Christophe, I am certain.”
The journey came to an abrupt stop in a dead-end. Grateful to be on solid ground, Valentine staggered away from the steam carriage into the shadowy heart of Pondicherry. He had never been here before. He looked at his watch but there were no lights and he could not see the time.
Miss Greaux had instructed him as to which way to go. He edged down an alley, took a left turn and exited on to a narrow wharf no more than a yard wide. Across the water he could see the hills from which he had just come outlined against the stars. Their apparent tranquillity was at odds with the state of his mind.
A muffled woman’s voice penetrated the silence. “Your mission was successful then.”
He jerked his head round to the right, where the voice had come from, but there was only darkness and an open door leading into the blackest shadows.
“Maliha?”
“In here, Valentine.” She sounded distant.
He readied the gun, his electric torch, then moved towards the door. It was impossible to see into the interior. He slipped through the gap and stood to the side, out of the way of the small amount of light that filtered in.
There was insufficient light to see anything except the vague shapes of pillars. There was no option but to switch on his electric torch, though it would make him a target.
He pointed it at the ground, but continued to stare ahead, and clicked it on. Electric torches were not powerful but in this deep blackness the light was like a flare and lit up the space with reflected light.
He breathed in with a gasp. A cage filled the middle of the space, its black bars running from the floor up eight or ten feet, then across. Inside a woman stood with arms stretched upwards, chains attaching her wrists to the bars across the top.
He did not run to her. He stared around trying to see if her captors were in view.
“There are no enemies here, Valentine.” Her voice sounded strained. “You can put up your gun, but leave your light on.” There was a pause. “Please.”
She never said please.
He hesitated but there was still no movement around them. He knew no force on earth could make her lie. If she said there was no one, then they were alone.
He uncocked the pistol and put it away. Keeping the torch pointing down to illuminate his steps, he walked towards her. He stopped at the bars, raised one hand and placed it on the cool metal. She hung from the manacles, arms at full extent, the folds of a sari looped across her shoulders and hanging down across her otherwise unclothed body.
He had seen her naked before but that had been through a haze of fury. She was naked beneath the cloth and the light showed the curves of her body. A wave of something like sorrow went through him; she was doing it to herself again.
“What is this, Maliha?”
“Experience.” Again her voice caught in her throat. The way she was strung up meant she could not speak properly.
“Why would you do this to yourself?” He had not intended the words to come out like a pained hiss but it seemed he had no control of his own voice. He looked around and saw the entrance to the cage.
“I have to understand.” Each of her words seemed to come out as a pant.
He pulled the metal gate open, its hinges grinding with rust. He slipped inside. Now his light penetrated the cloth and he could see her naked body beneath the folds.
“On the floor.”
Did she want him on the floor? He looked down. No. There was a bamboo cane a metre long lying near her feet. The past months had taught him things about the world he wished he did not know, and he knew what this meant.
“No.”
“Do it, Valentine.”
“No.”
“You must.”
“No, Maliha. There is no must. I will not do it. I won’t hurt you.”
She tilted her head in his direction, the first time she had moved. It must have been an effort. “Won’t hurt me again.”
His anger flared. “I was protecting you. Why do you refuse to understand that?”
Her head sagged back and she looked down. “I do understand.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I know.” She seemed tired, almost broken.
He shook his head. “Can’t somebody else?”
There was a long pause and she forced her head round again. “I trust only you, Bill.”
He stared at her with her hair hanging forward and hiding her face. He reached down and placed the electric torch on the ground. Its beam cast a curve across the ground, and tiny stones threw long shadows. He picked up the cane. It was lighter than he expected. He grasped the other end and it flexed between his hands.
He moved around to her side, the shadows from the light curved around her. He could have counted the vertebrae of her back.
“Hurry up.”
He almost smiled at the return of her waspish tone. He would have if numbness had not spread through his body.
“How...” his voice choked, he cleared his throat. “How many?”
“I’ll tell you when to stop.”
“Why me?” he almost shouted in desperation.
“Because—” her voice cracked, “—because I love you.”
And he did not know what to say. He hesitated.
“Bill, please.”
Goaded by her plea, he drew back his arm, looked across the smooth undulations of her back, braced himself and struck.
She jerked, then shook her head. “No. Harder.”
“For God’s sake, Maliha.”
“Do it harder,” she cried, then sobbed. “Hurt me.”
Without thinking, he lashed out. The cane buzzed through the air and snapped against her skin. Her choking cry jammed an icy knife between his ribs and into his heart. There was a movement outside the cage. Valentine snapped around and reached for his gun.
“No, Amita. I told you, I have to do this. He has to do this.”
Valentine looked into the face of the maid through the bars, and saw enough anger and hate directed at him to fill a life of revenge. But she backed away into the shadows again.
“Again, Bill. Harder.”
He took up a better stance. Now he had done it once it seemed easier to do it again. He weighed the cane in his hand and whipped it against the naked skin of her back. Her cry resolved into one word. “Again.”
He did not count. All he could think about was the cane, her back and each of her screams that cut him to the quick. He felt tears on his cheeks. He watched as the red lines multiplied and criss-crossed her back. A trickle of blood seeped from one wound, and her skin grew darker where it bruised.
If he hesitated too long she would hiss “Again”. He struck and he struck. And she screamed.
When she finally uttered the words “Oh god, stop, please stop now” it was a reprieve from the gallows. He dropped the cane as if it were red hot and threw himself in front of her. He put his arms around her waist, careful to avoid the injuries. He lifted her to reduce the strain on her arms. She was so light. Amita untied the chains holding the manacles and Maliha fell limp across his shoulder, the chains rattled down beside them. He collapsed into a sitting position on the naked stone and cradled her.
She sobbed as Amita unlocked the manacles. Amita brought out some oils and lotions that she gently applied to Maliha’s back and then her wrists. If Valentine had not known Maliha so well he would have been shocked at how well she had prepared.
Shadows moved beyond the cage. Valentine realised there was someone else there and looked round. It was the Greaux woman, her face streaked from weeping.
He was surprised at how he felt none of the usual embarrassment holding Maliha, naked, in his arms.
Amita touched his arm, and he looked up. She nodded and gestured to the door. With the maid’s strong arms for assistance, he struggled to his feet still holding Maliha. She was not asleep, just looking into his face without a word.
The maid adjusted the cloth to ensure her body was covered and they made their way out. The French woman pulled back the door and he stepped through into the cool air.
They returned to the steam carriage.
* * *
The French woman drove carefully through the dark streets and they arrived at a house with a wide gravel driveway.
Valentine followed Miss Greaux to a room with covered furniture. She pulled the sheets off the double bed and Valentine laid Maliha down. She had gone to sleep on the journey and, though she now slept in a bed, he found himself unwilling to leave her.
There was a chaise longue under a sheet. He pulled the cloth back, lay down so that he could see Maliha, and pulled the sheet over himself. Amita bustled about for a short while and Valentine fell asleep.
v
A child cried somewhere nearby. It penetrated Valentine’s sleep and brought him awake in a bright room with sunlight diffused by drawn curtains. Valentine was no expert but he thought it was quite a young baby. After a few moments the crying stopped.
He rubbed his eyes and sat up stretching his stiff limbs. He looked across at the woman lying in the double bed. Maliha. The night’s events flooded back and he felt nothing but contempt for himself.
The door opened and Amita came in carrying a tray. She deposited a cup of tea and a plate of toast beside him without even acknowledging his presence. There was a second cup and plate on the tray, and a small pot of ointment.
Valentine stood up. He felt sweaty and the grime of being unwashed since before the battle last night. “Amita.”
She turned back to him, her gaze downcast like a good Indian woman.
“Let me.”
At which Amita looked into his eyes, almost as if she might defy him. She turned away, moved to the bed and placed the tray on the side table away from Maliha and stalked from the room.
Valentine went to the bed. He knelt on it and pulled back the counterpane. She was naked beneath it but all he could see were the red lines across her back. In places the skin was broken and had bled. There were dried streaks and scabs. The welts were red but her dark skin turned even darker and blue with bruising.
“Admiring your handiwork?” she said.
“I am so sorry.”
“I did not give you a choice.”
He hesitated. “There’s always a choice.”
“So why did you choose to do it?”
This time the words came easily but he held them back for a long time, until they would not be denied. “I didn’t want to lose you again.”
That seemed to satisfy her and she fell silent.
Valentine reached back, took the jar of ointment and unscrewed it. A refreshing scent of herbs emanated from it and it had a smooth consistency, even if it did look a dirty shade of green. He took some on his fingers and gingerly pasted it on one of the less inflamed marks. She shivered.
“That feels good,” she said.
He continued to lave the mixture onto her skin, though she jumped when he covered the broken skin. They said nothing. He found that now he took the opportunity to look at her skin, the undamaged skin, it was a very attractive colour. She lay on her left side, her right leg forward so she was lying almost face down. He could see part of the old scar on her left thigh.
After a while she said. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I made you do it?”
“No.”
That answer satisfied her too and she fell silent again. He finished and screwed the lid on the pot.
“Thank you,” she said. Moving with extreme care, she sat up in the bed with her back to him, making no attempt to cover herself. “Would you mind opening the curtains?”
He climbed off the bed. His legs were stiff from kneeling so long. He made his way across to the window and let in the sunlight. He turned to see Maliha walking towards him. She had wrapped some material around her waist but her entire upper body was exposed. He turned away quickly and looked out the window. It was all very well treating her lying down when she was unwell but to see her walking around unclothed was a different matter altogether.
She came up beside him. He glanced sidelong at her, surprised at how small she was. There was something about her presence that always made her seem taller. She took hold of his hand and lifted his arm. She ducked under it and laid it across her shoulders. She pressed herself against him, her arm around his waist.
“You’re embarrassed,” she said. “Don’t be.”
The baby cried again, the sound muffled by the closed door.
“I will try not to be.” Although having Maliha so close this way was...difficult. He looked out of the window. Beyond a garden area there was a beach, and the sea.
“Where are we?”
“Françoise’s cousin’s house, apparently. Though I’m not entirely sure how much I can believe anything she says,” she said. “But there’s no one here that will cause us any problems. At least for the time being.”
“Is the baby hers then?”
Maliha laughed. Valentine liked it when she laughed, it was so rare. “No, not hers. Definitely not hers.” Her humour seemed to last as something went through her mind. “I suppose the baby’s mine.”
“Yours, but...?” he trailed off, this was getting into a dangerous subject area.
“No, there has not been quite enough time for me to have conceived and birthed a daughter.” He frowned. That was the Maliha he knew, the one that took pleasure in making him feel awkward. He could almost forget the fact that if he glanced down he could see the beautiful curves of her body. “No, but I am the closest thing to a mother she has. And I haven’t been a very good one. I shall have to do better.”
He heard the door open and panicked. He seriously considered tearing down the curtain to cover Maliha’s body.
“Oh, am I interrupting?” said Françoise. Valentine felt as if he was going to die of shame.
“No, Françoise, we’re just talking.” Maliha said, as if they were discussing the weather on the promenade.
“You have no clothes on,” hissed Valentine.
“I am not entirely naked,” she said. “And, seriously, I could not wear anything above the waist at present. You were quite thorough. I need time to heal. Besides,” she continued, “it’s nothing Françoise hasn’t already seen.”
“I think I should not stay,” said Françoise. “I do not think Monsieur Valentine is ready for a ménage à trois.” There was a throaty laugh followed by the door closing.
Valentine felt as if the world had collapsed on him. Too many thoughts; too many ideas; too much of everything.
Maliha extricated herself from his arm. “Do you want to sit down?” She pulled a sheet off a hard-backed chair next to the window and almost pushed him into it which put his gaze on the same level as her breasts. Thankfully she moved away and sat on the chaise longue, perched on the edge, with her legs crossed. She stretched then winced at the pain.
“What do you want to know?” she said.
“This Françoise...”
“What about her?”
Damn woman. She was deliberately making this as hard as possible. “You and her?”
Maliha sighed. “Yes. Just once. She seduced me—but I allowed it; I could have said no.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I was upset. I needed someone,” she paused and looked at him. “And you weren’t here.”
“You drove me away.”
“I was wrong,” she said.
Words he never expected to hear from her mouth. “Last night you said you loved me.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Was that just to make me do that—” he waved his hand at her, “—to you?”
“No.”
He felt his heart crash. It must have been written on his face.
“I mean,” she said. “I didn’t say it just to make you do it.”
“Which means what?”
She shook her head. “Are you completely lacking in any comprehension of logic? It means I love you, William Albert Valentine Crier. I love you.”
There was a muffled cheer from just outside the room. It had a French accent.
She glanced at the door and smiled, then looked back at him. “Do you love me?”
The words fell from him without a moment’s thought. “I think I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you.”
The smile that grew on her face was the most beautiful he had ever seen. “Will you forgive me?” she asked.
He stood up and crossed the room to where she sat. His stride so purposeful that a flicker of worry crossed her face. He took her hands and drew her to her feet.
He leaned down to her upturned face and kissed her.
She pressed her body against him. He placed a hand on her waist and the other on her shoulder to avoid her injuries. Her tongue pressed between his lips. He opened his mouth to her and closed his eyes.
vi
It had been a week since the attack on the base of operations of the slavers. Maliha’s back had healed to the point where she could wear a sari blouse that Amita had modified to reduce the material at the back. But it still chafed and made her back itch. If she wore it too long the worst cuts became inflamed again.
She rested her hands on the stone balcony wall, where she had first seen Riette, and looked down into the courtyard. The guests were assembling below. One group consisted of her grandparents, whom she had not spoken to in nearly ten days, with Renuka.
The commissioner stood with Françoise and Valentine. She had offered to call him Bill, as an olive branch for all the pain she had caused him, but he said he preferred Valentine. He was lying, of course. But it was a way that he showed his forgiveness. There had been other ways too, and she smiled.
There was a commotion below and Aunt Savitha was brought in flanked by two policemen. Police always overreacted, she thought. Her grandparents turned away but Renuka wept at her mother’s condition.
Maliha looked at her watch; she would like to start soon but there were still two guests expected. Still, she should get down so that she was ready. There was a full length mirror in the zenana. She looked at herself. Amita waited in the background and would have corrected anything about her that was not perfect.
She knew some of the marks on her back were visible and there would be some permanent scars, but she was not ashamed of them. Valentine tended them every morning and evening. She smiled again at his gallantry. He slept on the chaise longue every night, and though he had become accustomed to her semi-nakedness he had not taken advantage. It was something she looked forward to.
With Amita in tow, Maliha headed out and downstairs. As she descended the final flight the front door opened to admit Father Christophe and Naimh O’Donnell. She was dressed in the same threadbare sari as before. But Maliha already knew what she was going to do about that.
She allowed the latecomers to go first, escorted by one of the staff, and paused for a suitably dramatic amount of time before heading through and out into the sun where the groups were now seated in a rough semi-circle.
They had decided that Maliha would speak in French while Françoise translated into English for Valentine and Naimh. That had been another revelation for Maliha; it seemed Françoise’s concept of truth was very loose—it was whatever suited her at the time. And it had been convenient for her to pretend that she did not speak good English. Yet somehow Maliha could not bring herself to dislike the woman. Despite her many—very many—faults, she had a sense of justice, even if it was quite self-centred.
Her grandmother noticed Maliha enter. “I might have died of shame for all you care,” she said in Hindi.
Amita leaned towards Françoise and Valentine, translating the Hindi into English. A momentary smile crossed the commissioner’s face, then he composed himself.
“We are speaking French, Grandmother.”
“I do not even know why you have dragged your grandfather and me to this cursed place.”
“French.”
Her grandmother crossed her arms and ceased speaking.
Maliha took a deep breath. “Commissioner Abelard has been kind enough to allow me to bring you all together so that we can resolve the mystery of four deaths.”
There was a stir. “Four?” asked the commissioner.
“Yes, sir, there are four deaths. The first was a tragedy that began this whole affair, two are murder and one, well, that is up to your discretion.” She paused; she had their attention.
“The biggest difficulty in this case has been the question of why.”
“Why the girl was killed?” asked the commissioner. “She was poisoned, was she not?”
“She drank poison, yes, but no, monsieur. Why did she do it during the wedding?”
“The girl, Riette, had been purchased to provide a body so that Uncle Pratap could satisfy his desires. His wife, Aunt Savitha, had suffered a permanent injury from his years of abuse and if she was beaten again she might die.”
Grandmother got to her feet and made to leave. “I will not hear this.” With all eyes on her she got as far as the door but the two officers did not let her pass. No one said anything. She returned to her seat. “I will stay for the moment.”
“Because a replacement needed to be found Aunt Savitha bought a slave girl so that Pratap would not beat his daughters.”
She glanced at Renuka who was staring at her mother. “It would have been all right mother, I am strong; you should have let him beat me.”
“How could I? You knew nothing.”
“Of course I knew, mother.”
Maliha glanced at her grandmother who held her gaze for a moment then looked away. They all knew. Maliha turned to Savitha.
“But there was something else, wasn’t there?”
Savitha looked down at the ground. One shackled hand gripped the other squeezing it tight, digging the nails in.
“You wanted it. Needed it.”
“No!” shouted Grandmother. She was on her feet. “Tell them you did not want it, Savitha. Tell them!”
“But I did, mother. It was the only attention he ever gave to me. Those times alone together became precious to me.”
Grandmother stood with her mouth open until her husband gently pulled her back into her seat.
Maliha stalked over to where her grandmother sat. The old woman deserved one more slap in the face. “How did Savitha know where to get a slave, Grandmother?”
Grandmother looked flustered. “How would I know?”
“You told her,” said Maliha. “It was you that went to the devadasi and found out. Then, when the girl killed herself, you went back to bribe her to keep her mouth shut. Are you aware, Grandmother,” said Maliha with a certain relish, “that suppressing evidence is a crime?”
Her grandmother’s angry silence turned to fear and Maliha turned her back on the old woman.
“But still this does not answer your question, Mam’selle Anderson.” The commissioner pointed out.
“Not yet. Remind me, Commissioner, the poison that Riette drank. What was it?”
“Cyanide.”
“And in what form?”
“Green paint.”
“Scheele’s green. Renuka?”
The girl looked up in horror. “My green paint? I knew I had not used so much.”
“You did not approve of the African slave, did you? You just said that you would have let your father beat you rather than have her there.”
“I did not kill her.”
Maliha faced her directly. “How long have you known what your father did in the secret room?”
“She has never known,” shouted Savitha. “None of the children knew.”
“Of course we knew, mother,” said Renuka. “Do you think we have not eyes or ears?”
“And you knew about the girl?”
Renuka nodded while Savitha wiped away fresh tears.
“So,” said Maliha. “You could have given her the poison and arranged for her to get out during the ceremony?”
“But why would I do that? Why would I stop my one way of escaping? I would go to my husband’s family. I would be safe from my father.”
“Because you would be able to take your mother’s place and save her life. Would you not give up your life for your mother?”
“Of course, but—” Renuka looked around at the others pleading with them “—I did not do this.”
Maliha said nothing. The commissioner looked pleased and seemed about to get to his feet.
“I did it,” came Savitha’s voice drifting quietly through the courtyard. “I gave Riette the poison to drink. I told you that.”
Maliha looked at her. “Yes, you did. And you killed Mary O’Donnell the same way.”
The commissioner looked confused. “Who is Mary O’Donnell?”
After Françoise had translated Naimh stood up. “Mary O’Donnell was my mother; she died three weeks ago.”
“She was poisoned with cyanide,” Maliha added. “During the last trip that Savitha and Renuka made to Madras to see Balaji’s family before the wedding.”
Renuka’s had went to her mouth. “When she left me with Balaji’s family.”
“I know nothing of this murder,” said the commissioner.
Maliha nodded for Naimh to sit. “She was murdered in Madras, but they are poor and outcasts, and there was no real reason to think it was murder so the death was not investigated. The murderer had been let in, poisoned her and cleaned up. There was no obvious sign of foul play. I found traces of the poison, and green colouration, in the floor.”
“I am representing the British Crown in this matter,” said Valentine. “But we will not interfere with French justice.”
“We cannot try her for a murder in Madras,” said the commissioner.
“No, but she killed her husband,” Maliha said.
“It was a crime of passion and, it seems, entirely justified,” said the commissioner. “She will not receive the death penalty for that.”
“And Riette?”
The commissioner nodded. “It is possible that case might not succeed.”
Valentine butted in. “In that event we would want to extradite her to stand trial for the murder on our territory.”
Maliha frowned. This was getting out of hand and off the subject. “Gentlemen, are you not curious as to why my aunt chose to disrupt the wedding in such a dramatic way?”
They ceased their discussion. Valentine flashed a smile of apology.
Maliha turned to her aunt once more. “Renuka has a brother, does she not?”
Grandmother had apparently recovered. “Savitha has never been able to produce a male heir.” Her tone was one of disgust and disappointment.
“That’s not correct,” said Maliha turning on her grandmother. “Renuka had a twin brother.”
“He was weak. He died.”
“No, he did not,” said Maliha. “Mary O’Donnell was the midwife when Balaji’s mother birthed a dead son, and Savitha had living twins. The woman realised she could swap the dead child for a living one and both families would be happy with a living child.”
“What value is a daughter?” Grandmother only realised what she had said when Renuka stood up and moved away from her, taking up a position next to her disgraced mother. Maliha looked at her grandmother with a calm disgust.
“You are a daughter,” she pointed out. Her grandmother settled back in her chair and studied the tulsi. Perhaps she might gain some enlightenment from it. “Besides, Mary O’Donnell was a Westerner, she did not understand.”
“It was Françoise who had ingratiated herself into the family—” that earned her a swift frown from the French woman, “—and learnt of the impending marriage. She mentioned it to Father Christophe, who knew what had happened with the babies because he had received confession from Mary O’Donnell.” Maliha took a deep breath and turned to her aunt. “And he told you, didn’t he, Auntie?”
She nodded.
“So it is my fault?” said Françoise in horror.
“And if you had not done it Renuka would be married to her brother, and that would be very bad indeed, especially if they were found out.”
The non-natives looked confused, while the Indians were horrified.
“Ritual suicide at best, stoning to death perhaps,” said Maliha, she turned back to Savitha. “So you convinced Riette to kill herself during the wedding. You had access to the room and the shackles, so freed her before it started.”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell her the truth? Did she do it out of a sense of honour?”
Savitha shook her head. “I told her it would be the best way to revenge herself on Pratap.”
The commissioner stood up. “I do not think you will be requiring an extradition, Monsieur Crier.” He nodded to the uniformed officers and they came forward to collect Savitha. “The girl may have taken the poison voluntarily but she was tricked and that is murder in my book.”
He walked over to Maliha and held out his hand. She took it and he bowed over it rather than shaking it.