Butterfly Island

by Corina Bomann

  “I think I’ve got enough strength to draw on.” He drew her into his arms and kissed her.

  After lying in his embrace for a while, Diana suddenly got up and slipped into her bathrobe.

  “What’s up?”

  “I’m just going to fetch something.”

  “Sustenance from the kitchen?”

  “The notebook.”

  “Surely not,” he grumbled. “Have you had enough of me already, wanting to go reading that book?”

  “No, but I want to know what happens next. There’s no way I could sleep anyway. Don’t tell me you don’t want to know what happens to Grace and Vikrama.”

  She leaned over him, gave him a kiss, and left the room.

  When she returned with the notebook and magnifying glass, she sat down by Jonathan, leaned against him like a comfy armchair, and read out loud to him in the lamplight.

  “From that moment on, nothing has been as it was before. I creep out of the house at night, meet Vikrama, and we lie together. By day I play the dutiful daughter, patiently bearing my mother’s enthusiasm for George Stockton, ignoring Miss Giles’s advice, and roaming the estate with my little sister.

  Fortunately, there have been no more encounters with Daniel Stockton.

  I admit that I’m secretly pleased to imagine that he’s afraid—afraid that I might have told my father about our little incident. But that pleasure is a double-edged sword, as it is also a constant reminder that Stockton, on his part, has threatened to betray me.

  In the evenings, when I sit by the window and wait for Vikrama, I listen to my inner voice. After our first night, Vikrama brought me a pouch containing herbs, but I haven’t touched it.

  I hate to deceive him like this, but my heart tells me I’m doing the right thing. Isn’t that what the palm-leaf prophecy told me to do?

  We’ve been lying together for three weeks, and it’s completely possible that I’m pregnant by now. I do find this thought unsettling, as I can imagine what my parents’ reaction would be. But on the other hand it gives me a sense of freedom, because that despicable George most certainly wouldn’t want me . . .”

  Diana was disappointed to find that the notes broke off at that point.

  “What do you think? Did she really get pregnant by him?” Jonathan asked, gently stroking her shoulders.

  “It’s possible,” Diana replied. “She didn’t take the herbs, in any case.” She gazed down at her arm, then twirled a lock of her black hair that had fallen loose over her shoulders. “I imagine that Grace and Victoria were very light-skinned.”

  “They were English—as white as milk in tea. No wonder my skin’s so light.”

  “I like ‘milk in tea’—such a lovely description. If Vikrama really was the father of her child, the one she later gave birth to in Germany, some of his blood would be flowing in my veins.”

  “The blood of a kalarippayatu fighter.” Jonathan kissed her neck. “Looking closely at the colour of your skin, I’d wager that his blood has been passed down to your family.”

  Diana reached out and stroked his hip. “I wonder what happened.”

  “With Vikrama?”

  “No, I mean the moment they brought it out into the open. When Grace was forced to confess to her father that she was expecting a baby. I wonder if she told him who the father was?”

  “Probably not. She loved Vikrama; she wouldn’t have risked him getting into difficulty. Her father would have given him a really hard time if he’d known.”

  “So why didn’t Vikrama ever seek her out?” Diana continued, her thoughts drifting to the letter in her bag. The final piece of evidence? “There was a letter I found in the Tremayne family vault. Her sister Victoria wrote to her, saying that he intended to go to her. I assume that ‘he’ was Vikrama.”

  “Perhaps he got cold feet. Or their father saw to it that the foreman made serious trouble for him.”

  “Serious trouble for a kalarippayatu fighter?” Diana raised her eyebrows sceptically and turned to face him. “We still haven’t reached the end, I fear. We’ve revealed part of the secret, but I think there’ll be more to come. We still don’t know what happened next and how these intimate notes came to be in the accounts book.”

  “Well, we still have time. As long as my publisher doesn’t start putting the pressure on . . .”

  “You’ve been a real lucky find; you know that?” Diana snuggled up to his chest. “I don’t know how I’m going to thank Michael.”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something.” Jonathan put his arm around her and kissed the top of her head.

  “In the letter, Victoria asked Grace if she’d forgiven her yet,” Diana said after staring out of the window for a while, immersed in his embrace. She had a sudden suspicion, but it was too early to put it into words. “I haven’t told you yet, but I found another letter. Over there, in the window frame.”

  She extricated herself from his arms and left the bed to get her bag.

  “You did what?” Jonathan raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  “I think the letter could have been from Victoria.” Diana handed him the envelope, which felt quite weighty.

  “And you still haven’t read it?”

  Diana shook her head. “No. Somehow I get the feeling that it could be the last piece of the jigsaw. I didn’t want to open it until we’d reached a point where we could go no further.”

  “Well, there’s nothing more in the notebook. Perhaps now’s the time to open it.”

  Jonathan handed the letter back to her, and Diana thoughtfully traced the words By Way of Farewell with her finger.

  “Maybe I should save opening it until it’s our turn to say farewell to this place.”

  Jonathan drew her into his arms and kissed her. “It’s your choice. But I’m almost sure this letter will bring all the pieces together.”

  Diana smiled dreamily, and with a tingle of anticipation passing through her breast, she laid the letter on the bedside table and snuggled up to Jonathan’s chest.

  Although they hadn’t slept a wink that night, they were back in the archive bright and early.

  “This is strange,” Jonathan said. He got up and brought Diana the book he had just been looking through. “This isn’t a normal accounts book, but a list of wages. There’s an R. Vikrama listed here, and given the values at the time, he earned good money as the estate manager. But he vanishes from the payroll in December 1887.”

  “Probably because Henry Tremayne found out who had got his daughter pregnant.”

  “Do you think she would have given that away to them? She could just as easily have blamed Stockton.”

  An idea suddenly occurred to her. “The notebook must have been discovered. Even if it was found before they knew she was pregnant, her descriptions are clear enough and would give them every good reason to throw Vikrama out.”

  “That sounds plausible,” Jonathan said. “But there’s one thing about all this that seems strange to me. Why doesn’t she write about getting pregnant? I would have thought that her father first got on the trail of her secret when they noticed she was pregnant. And if Vikrama had been thrown out by her father because of it, what would have kept him from going to find her sooner—in the letter, you mentioned it was still only a possibility. Why didn’t he ever arrive?”

  “Maybe he never had the opportunity.”

  Diana dropped the magnifying glass in surprise. Without her noticing, Manderley had come through the door and must have overheard their entire conversation.

  “Mr. Manderley, I didn’t see you come in . . .”

  The managing director, dressed today in a beige suit with a red tie, had his hands in his pockets.

  “There’s a good reason for the belief of some people here that there’s a curse on this place. One brought down on the estate by my ancestor as much as yours.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Jonathan in astonishment.

  “I knew it would come to light one day. A secret can be hidden away or so
mehow brushed under the carpet of history, but sooner or later someone will come along who finds it and unearths it.”

  Diana shuddered.

  “We ought to talk about this over a nice cup of tea. Come with me.”

  As the kettle came to the boil, Diana and Jonathan sat down at the table in the common room. It still wasn’t completely clear what Manderley was getting at, but as she had him to thank for apparently bringing them a step closer to the solution, Diana decided to be patient.

  “I have to apologise to you, but I couldn’t resist snatching a quick look at this notebook you’ve been reading.”

  “It was tucked into one of the old ledgers,” Diana said. “I’m amazed no one’s found it before.”

  “Obviously the right person never searched for it,” Manderley replied as he poured water into the teapot and reddish-brown streaks spread like blood into the water. “Preparing Ceylon tea is an art, but you’re richly rewarded with the best possible flavour. This one is from the autumn flush.”

  Once the hot tea had been poured into their cups, Manderley continued. “When I looked at what you had found, I recognised a name that was mentioned. Cahill. He was Mr. Tremayne’s lawyer.”

  He’s read what’s in the notebook. Diana flushed and, strangely, felt as uncomfortable as though he’d been watching her having sex.

  “He was one of my ancestors,” Manderley said. “Our family has been associated with the fate of this plantation for many decades. Even though successive generations have tried many times to leave, to start a new life somewhere else, it’s always drawn them back in the end.”

  “It seems we have something in common.”

  “Yes, I think so. At least as far as Mr. Cahill is concerned.”

  Manderley stood up, left the room for a moment, and returned a little later with a small book.

  “I think you should include this in your research.”

  “What is it?”

  “My ancestor’s memoir. He wrote it shortly before he was committed to the Colombo asylum.”

  “The asylum?”

  “It’s incredible, isn’t it? Serving his master drove him mad.”

  “Have you read it?”

  “No,” Manderley replied. “This notebook was a hot topic of conversation for many years in our family. It was referred to as ‘The Scandal.’ By the time it was found, it was too late to punish anyone. My grandparents locked it away in a safe at our house, and told all the children that it was dangerous to read it. We eventually lost interest, but when you came here to research the Tremayne family history, I was reminded about it.”

  Diana looked at the worn leather-bound book. A few fingerprints could clearly be seen on it, and a couple of ink blots tinged the edges.

  “It’s by the same Cahill who worked with your family. I get the impression it might contain some shocking revelations, but it could also shed a good deal of light on the situation. If there’s anything I ought to know, please do tell me.”

  Their eyes met briefly, then Manderley poured the tea.

  All morning Diana could do nothing but stare at Cahill’s notebook. Jonathan made himself useful by trying to find any references to the lawyer among the documents. The name Cahill appeared in the payroll, and his signature was on the cover sheet of a commercial contract.

  “This signature could be important, to compare the handwriting,” he said, handing her the page. It only took a brief look to confirm to Diana that it was his.

  That evening they went to bed very early. Diana had put the notebook aside and devoted her attention to other documents because she knew she would need peace and quiet—and Jonathan’s presence—to read Cahill’s account.

  Every time Diana looked at it, the thin black book seemed to have an air of malevolence. She didn’t want to know what the stains were that had dried on the cover, warping it in places.

  As she touched it, ready to open it, the room suddenly seemed eerie, even though Jonathan was by her, calmly stroking her back.

  With a knot in her stomach, she ran her hand over the book. Could it hold the last piece of the puzzle? The reason why Vikrama had never been able to travel to find Grace? Why her father had deleted her name from the family Bible? “Do you really think I should read it?”

  “Provided you’re not afraid of the account of a madman.”

  “Who knows what he’s written here?”

  “You’ll only find out if you read it.” Jonathan put one arm around her waist, the other across her shoulders, then laid his cheek in the crook of her neck. “I’m here, in case it gets too horrible. The thoughts of a madman can sometimes be like a whirlpool, dragging you down with them.”

  “That just what I’m afraid of,” Diana replied. “Do you really think Manderley hasn’t read it?”

  “Why would he have lied? Some people simply aren’t keen on delving into the dark secrets of the past. Especially if it’s a secret like I suspect this one is.”

  With a sigh, Diana looked at the little book, then shrugged and opened it.

  17

  The Remarkable Story of John Cahill

  Vannattuppūcci, 1887

  The arrival of the new owner of the Vannattuppūcci estate had put Lucy Cahill in a state of great agitation. As though Queen Victoria were about to appear in person, her eldest daughter, Meg, was scoffing at her younger sisters, hoping her mother would not notice. Lucy did notice, but chose to ignore it. The arrival of a new mistress would open up a whole range of new opportunities for her.

  “I’ve heard that the Tremaynes have two quite delightful daughters. Will you make sure I get to meet them sometime?” she asked her husband. Maybe she would manage to steer Meg into the girls’ circle of acquaintances. That would substantially increase her prospects of finding a suitable husband.

  “Sometime, I’m sure,” Cahill murmured, not raising his eyes from the newspaper, the coffee cup in his hand hovering over the table.

  It was not a newspaper article that had gripped him—he was using the newspaper as a cover to give himself chance to think, as he had done so often during the previous weeks. What would he say to Henry Tremayne? The death of his brother must have shaken him badly. Could he perhaps be planning to sell the plantation? Or would he be kind enough to place its management in Cahill’s hands?

  “Sometime?” Lucy’s voice sliced through his thoughts. “Aren’t you concerned about our children’s future?”

  “I didn’t know that our children’s future depended on the Tremaynes.”

  “It would certainly make a difference!” his wife insisted. “If you were to set things up right, Meg and Sophia could be moving in the best possible circles.”

  As the argument had crept up like a monsoon storm and was likely to become a similarly heavy downpour, Cahill deemed it better to put his paper away and set down his coffee cup, the contents of which had long since gone cold.

  “Darling,” he began, well aware that it was no use pitting himself against his wife. And he wanted to avoid adding to his inner turmoil before going to Colombo to greet the new arrivals. “As soon as I see a possibility, of course I’ll make sure that you’re introduced to the Tremaynes. But wouldn’t it be better if I weigh these people up myself first? If they’re friendly and easy to get on with—and I’m including the daughters in that—we can introduce our daughters to them in no time.”

  Thinning her lips, Lucy nodded. This answer had not satisfied her, but she knew it was no use rushing things. Cahill was not a man to be rushed.

  On the way to Colombo, Cahill kept wondering how many of his former employer’s secrets he should reveal. Not the whole truth, since he was the only one who knew it. No, sometimes it really was better to let sleeping dogs lie. Tremayne had to concentrate on keeping the plantation going. The dark stains on his brother’s clothing had been buried with him; it was surely not necessary to dig them up again.

  The man he encountered in the harbourmaster’s office was the precise opposite of his brother. Blond, a little plu
mp, with blue eyes and a light shadow of a beard—and yet a gentleman through and through.

  “Welcome, Mr. Tremayne. I’m glad that you and your family have reached Ceylon safe and well.” The two men shook hands, then went into the office. Cahill felt a little uneasy the whole time. It was a strain to speak about the deceased Richard Tremayne. Over recent weeks, he had all but forgotten the dead man’s face. But of course, Henry Tremayne was expecting an explanation of the incident. As he spoke, Cahill relived in his mind’s eye the sight of the plantation owner’s shattered body being brought back to Vannattuppūcci. How the workers had lined the road to pay their respects to their beloved master.

  Cahill, who was of a more delicate disposition than most would suppose, had felt sick from the sight of so much blood. But he had observed how the remains of Mr. Tremayne were prepared as well as possible for his funeral.

  Although he was a Christian, Tremayne had made it known that he wished to be cremated according to the Hindu tradition, and his ashes scattered over the sea. This had appeared completely practical to Cahill, saving him as it did the effort of having his body transported back to England, which would have taken many weeks. Instead, he had sent Henry Tremayne a telegram to Tremayne House, and subsequently sent him a letter, in which he explained that his brother’s will had specified he would not have a gravestone.

  He was unable to answer the question of how far the police investigation had gone, but he knew that no one would care any more about a dead man whose ashes had been scattered at sea. At the end of the conversation, Tremayne invited him to lunch, a gesture he really appreciated since his stomach had been rumbling for a long time and it was a long way back home to his wife’s kitchen.

  Everything was going swimmingly. The workers finished the essential renovation works, and Cahill was soon able to give his new employer the news that there was nothing more to stand in the way of the family moving into Vannattuppūcci.

  Now he saw Mrs. Tremayne and her daughters for the first time. Wonderful daughters, he found—the eldest in particular was adorable. One day, she would be mistress of the plantation, and although he had rejected his wife’s suggestion a few days ago, he now heard her voice again in his head. Maybe it would indeed be possible to bring his own daughters into contact with these girls.