But Renuka was right, since those last days at school she had become an avatar for what was right. And whatever it was Maliha had seen happening in the courtyard, it did not represent justice.
If she had been back in Ceylon she would have consulted with Inspector Forsyth who would have been curt and sarcastic, and then pursued the issue. And she would have talked to Barbara who would advise, or perhaps just listen.
Valentine would have followed her anywhere and done anything she asked of him. And even if he had stolen her victory from her that last time, at least there was still the vengeance. She shook herself. Ridiculous, she was no more an avatar of some mythical god than Amita was a ballet dancer.
“Amita,” said Maliha. “When we get to the wedding, I need you to ask the servants something. But you’ll have to be delicate about this one I think.”
* * *
The horse-drawn carriage came to a stop in front of the house. Its white walls combined traditional Indian design with Roman columns to make it all the more imposing. She allowed her grandparents to descend first and then followed them in. The place was crawling with servants: more ostentation to show the guests just how rich the family were.
While her grandfather went off with the other men to witness the finalising of the dowry arrangements, Maliha and Grandmother went through into the suite of three reception rooms. They were already well filled with guests and more were arriving all the time.
Grandmother had boasted there would be nearly six hundred in all. That number included the entire upper echelon of Pondicherry Indian society, which contained a number of very eligible young men with families that would overlook her mixed parentage in order to marry a woman who provided excellent connections and a considerable dowry.
In the past, dowry had been intended to provide the wife with financial security, now it was simply the price for taking a worthless daughter off their parents’ hands. Maliha had no intention of being bought and sold at her grandparents’ whim; however they seemed to become deaf whenever she said it.
The sari that Amita had chosen for today revealed considerably more of her midriff than she found comfortable but she could not fault the colour; Amita was a rebel of course and had chosen a midnight blue with gold trimmings. It was important not to outshine the bride herself—not that that was likely—but while Amita had kept Maliha’s jewellery restrained, the bangles, anklets and hairpiece she wore were of the highest quality gold.
For over seven years Maliha had been told she was ugly, not just by the other girls at school but the teachers as well. She accepted the truth of it compared to the flawless white skin and perfect hair of her peers. And now she was here, dressed as well as she ever would be, and the looks she received from both the men and women were unnerving. Grandmother seemed to want to introduce her to almost every older woman they met—each one, no doubt, a potential mother-in-law.
The tortuous hour wore on. Light refreshments—of the finest quality of course—were served and Maliha was able to hide behind the process of eating. She found herself searching the crowd for a friendly face. Children ran in and out of the adults. She could not hear the words people were saying, there was just too much, but she could make out the emotions—anger, fear, happiness, sympathy—more and more layering on top of one another.
She took a sip of lemonade, its sharp tang distracted her for a moment but the overwhelming press of people took her again.
“Maliha?”
She tried to compensate for the chaos about her by studying the Frenchwoman’s face. She had what, in the Western world, would have passed for heavy eyebrows but in India could be described as delicate. Her eyes were hazel, her face quite round and her skin olive of the Mediterranean, barely lighter than Maliha’s own.
“Are you all right?”
Maliha studied her mouth as her lips shaped the words. But still the noise of the room battered her.
“I am not comfortable in crowds,” she said.
Françoise took her arm and guided her to a corner where several grandmothers were gathered, discussing how weddings were not the way they had been in their day. This was all show and lacked true spirituality.
Françoise sat Maliha down then stood in front of her, blocking the view of the crowded room.
“My grandmother will be most displeased to have lost me.”
“I have been here long enough to understand what your grandmother wants.” Françoise was smiling. “Will we be pursuing your investigation of the mysterious woman today?”
“When the ceremony is over. I can examine that wall in daylight.”
“Very good.”
* * *
Overnight a huge awning had been erected in the courtyard shading most of it from the sun’s intensity. The holy bush had been moved—no doubt with great reverence—to a position where it could watch over the proceedings without risk.
At seven minutes after two o’clock, the time indicated as most auspicious by the horoscope, the bride appeared. She was radiant in her red sari and weighed down by necklaces, dozens of bangles round her arms, and anklets pressing on her feet. A silver hairpiece entwined and contrasted her black hair. A single teardrop sapphire rested on her forehead, and the henna patterns stood strong and dark on her skin.
“She is beautiful,” said Françoise. Although she was only a friend of the family she had stayed with Maliha when she was brought to her seat near the front. With everyone seated and only talking in subdued tones the mass of people was far less oppressive. Maliha looked around the sea of expectant faces. Françoise was the only white person there, apart from herself and she only counted as a half.
There was a flurry of activity near the gate in the courtyard on the far side. The gate was flung open and there was a blur of white as Balaji galloped in on a beautiful white horse. Maliha raised an eyebrow; she might not be able to ride but she could see when someone was a good horseman and Balaji was not. He barely managed to get the horse under control before it flew right past the wedding group and might have ended up in the house itself.
Maliha turned to look back at the gate. Two men she guessed to be his brothers were sharing a laugh. A practical joke then; they were lucky it had not turned sour. The gathered family and friends were impressed however.
With the assistance of a servant, who came running up looking quite upset, Balaji dismounted without mishap. The horse was led away and the groom surrounded by the male members of his family.
Once seated beside Renuka they began the rituals which were going to take the rest of the afternoon. Servants moved among the seated and standing guests with drinks to ward off the heat of the sun.
Françoise asked her to explain what was happening and Maliha passed the time explaining the various rituals in French; recalling the significance of the fruit and the rice as they were given to the couple.
After two hours they had reached the stage where the presiding priest was about to entwine the two with the unbreakable cord when there was a motion behind the wedding group. A shadow moved under the balcony resolving into a dark-skinned girl moving awkwardly.
A murmur ran through the crowd on Maliha’s side of the courtyard; they were the only ones that could see. And Maliha was the only one who recognised who it was. She stood up.
Out of the shadows, wrapped in a coloured cotton wrap tied across her bust but stretched open across her pregnant belly, came the African. Now that she saw the girl more clearly Maliha realised she was no older than Maliha but her arms and shoulders bore long scars, some old, others still red raw. The Hindu priest saw her and pulled back. He called out to her telling her to go away. Maliha doubted the girl understood Hindi.
The wedding party broke in panic, some moved away, a couple of the brothers tried to shoo the girl away as she was clearly untouchable. The congregation nearest to the front started to push back, chairs were overturned and people fell. Then there was screaming and panic.
Maliha stood firm as others brushed against her. An older woman
fell against her knocking her to the side. The African girl shouted something in a language that sounded German. Maliha was sure that cursing was part of it. The bride and groom had not moved. Renuka stared at the girl who now stepped down into the space recently occupied by the bride’s mother and father. They had not run but retreated. Aunt Savitha was imploring Renuka to move back and away.
Maliha saw the African held a small glass object in her hand; she raised it to her lips, cried out a single word Marten and threw the contents of the container down her throat.
Silence fell across the courtyard like the dropping of a veil.
Maliha was galvanised into action. She pushed her way to the centre as the African crumpled to the ground. Maliha grabbed a bottle from the collection of wedding offerings, thrust her arm under the girl’s neck and lifted her. She brought the bottle to the woman’s mouth and poured it down her throat to either dilute the poison or force her to regurgitate it.
But she knew she was too late. The girl’s body convulsed, she coughed blood and a trickle of it emerged from her nose. The girl’s eyes were severely bloodshot and her lips were turning blue.
The girl convulsed again but she focused on Maliha’s face. She reached up and touched Maliha’s cheek. Maliha let the bottle drop and held the girl’s hand. The girl convulsed once more and ceased to move.
Someone somewhere was wailing but Maliha doubted it was for the dead girl.
The courtyard fell quiet. All Maliha could hear was her own breathing rasping in her throat as if she had been running.
“The baby,” said Françoise.
Maliha looked round at her, not understanding.
“You can save the baby, Maliha.” Françoise knelt beside her. “I do not have the words, you must tell them to save the baby.” The Frenchwoman took Maliha’s hand and placed it on the girl’s belly.
Maliha shook her head. “They will not touch her.”
There was a movement beside them. Renuka pulled the ceremonial knife from Balaji’s waistband and offered it to Maliha hilt first. She took it. The gem-encrusted hilt was slick.
“Do you know what to do?” asked Françoise.
Maliha looked at her feeling numb. “I’ve read books.”
Françoise gave a humourless smile. “Then you are more qualified than I.”
There was a movement beside them. “You cannot do it, the blood will corrupt the sanctity of the courtyard,” said Uncle Pratap.
If she was in doubt before, his command gave her resolve. “I will not do it here if you want to move her, Uncle, and I truly think the purity of the courtyard is already contaminated by her suicide, don’t you?”
She gave him a moment to reply but it seemed he had nothing with which to respond. With Françoise’s help they removed the wrap from the girl’s body, it was a simple rectangle of cloth, and Maliha gently laid the girl back.
The courtyard had become silent. The guests had all escaped leaving only the immediate family. Balaji and his parents still stood there looking on in horrified fascination. Renuka remained with Aunt Savitha but they would not help. Amita had appeared and stood nearby. At least there would not be too many witnesses.
Maliha had read the books. Her insatiable appetite for the written word had consumed every one she could lay her hands on, including many that would have been forbidden, if anyone had known. And she forgot nothing. But reading was not the same as doing.
The ceremonial knife was sharp and there was very little blood when Maliha cut into the skin of the girl, in a line across the lower part of her abdomen. The heart was no longer pumping so there was no pressure to force it out. Maliha did not know how long she had but she dared not hurry lest she cut the child.
The burst of liquid when she broached the amniotic sac made her jump. And there was a groan from someone, she guessed it was Uncle Pratap, but she was nearly there. She dropped the knife and plunged both hands into the girl’s body. It was filled with wetness and the baby’s skin was slippery. She took hold as firmly as she dared and eased the baby from its mother’s womb. Françoise had retrieved the knife and cut the umbilical cord.
The child wriggled, coughed and cried.
v
Françoise took the baby girl from Maliha and swaddled it tightly in the dead girl’s wrap. The child made little crying sounds.
“Is it all right?” asked Maliha, studying the dark, wrinkled skin, big eyes and flat nose.
“I think so.” Françoise got to her feet. Maliha had only her sari on which to wipe her hands. “She will need a wet-nurse”
“Dhai,” Maliha said absently. She ran her hand across the shoulder of the girl, feeling the ridges on her skin. There were scars from many beatings. Some were ridged and healed, but others were softer bumps suggesting they were more recent.
The girl was not undernourished so whoever had done this was feeding her. Maliha put her arms under the shoulder and pushed her up. She ran her fingers down the dead girl’s back; there were scars all the way down the spine. The girl had been whipped consistently for a long time but not enough to cause serious harm.
She let the body down again. There was no indication of recent bruising, but there were marks from old burns and cuts across the rest of her body. The face was untouched and, Maliha ran her hands across the girl’s head, no lumps, and the bones in her arms, hands, legs and feet all looked normal—except perhaps her left ankle which did not lie normally.
“What are you doing, Maliha?”
Maliha looked up at where Françoise held the baby, moving it from side to side. Françoise gestured with her head. Maliha looked around at the family standing a few yards away watching her every move.
“I am examining the body before the police arrive and ruin everything.”
“No police,” said Uncle Pratap. “The shame of it.”
Maliha jumped to her feet, then staggered slightly, the strain of being bent down for so long had weakened her thigh. Only those who knew her well, her friends at the Fortress in Ceylon, knew how bad she had been before, and that until a couple of months ago she could not get around without her walking stick.
If she had been anywhere else, if it had been her aunt, anyone other than a man, she would have rounded on them. But she was only a woman; she could not tell her uncle what he must or must not do, especially not in his own house.
She kept her eyes down and said quietly. “A woman has died in your home, Uncle. Do you know who she is?”
“Of course not.”
“Then the police must be called.”
“But she is not Indian, she is not even European.”
Maliha sighed. “She was a living, breathing person. She had a name, perhaps she had a family,” Maliha turned and pointed at the baby. “She has a family.”
“I will not permit it.”
Keeping her gaze down, Maliha stalked towards him. He and the whole family drew back. She was tainted by touching the dead; they did not want her close. As they drew back they opened the way to her real target. The holy plant stood overlooking the whole event.
“What are you doing?” said Pratap.
Maliha stopped before the sweet-smelling plant. “If you do not send for the police I will touch the tulsi.” The thought of committing such a crime had her own soul rebelling. She did not want to do it, but was sure she would not have to.
“You would not dare.”
Maliha lifted her arm and stretched it out towards the leaves. She could not imagine what Françoise might be thinking.
“Very well.”
She stopped but did not lower her arm. “Very well?”
“I will summon the police.”
“You will summon the police immediately. You will insist that all the guests remain in the house, and those that have already left must return. The police will want to interview each of them.” The baby gave a weak cry. “You will find a wet-nurse for the child.”
“The baby is nothing to do with me.”
“I will deal with the baby but
you will find an dhai to take care of it.”
“Yes.”
Maliha dropped her arm and turned as her uncle gave orders. She heard him say something about cleaning up. “No! The courtyard must be left exactly as it is until the police have completed their investigations.”
“As you say.”
Maliha let herself relax and sighed.
* * *
Commissioner Abelard of the Sûreté, Indian Prefecture, arrived an hour later. In the interim, a dhai had been found and the child delivered into her care for the time being. Water had been brought so Maliha and Françoise were able to clean off the blood, and at Maliha’s insistence a cloth found to cover the poor girl’s body as some protection against the flies that had gathered.
The commissioner was accompanied by a brigadier and two guardians, one of whom was quite young. None were Indian and the youngest blanched at the sight of the dead woman.
Maliha watched them carefully. Abelard barely glanced at the covered body and went straight to Uncle Pratap. His wide, plump fingers enclosed Uncle’s as they shook hands.
“A terrible business, my friend, we’ll have it cleared away as soon as possible,” said Abelard. “We will send your guests home.”
“Are you not going to interview them?” Maliha said. Uncle still backed off as she approached, because washing away the blood did not cleanse the corruption.
Abelard, a rotund man with a fine moustache and a winning smile, turned to meet her amiably. “We do not have the staff for such an undertaking, mam’selle...?”
“Anderson. Maliha Anderson.”
She could have sworn that the man flinched as he absorbed her name, but he recovered fast and held out his hand. “Of course, Mam’selle Anderson, the schoolgirl detective.”
“I am no longer a schoolgirl, Commissioner, and if you know of me by that event you will also know of my other successes in bringing murderers to justice—” the one where I failed, you have no knowledge of, and where you think I succeeded I was not permitted to hit the target, but no matter “—and if there were not more pressing issues I might enquire as to the progress you have made in determining how my parents came to die.” This time he really did flinch. He hid it by scratching the side of his neck. “But leaving that aside, for the moment at least, may I enquire when the medical examiner will be arriving to take charge of the body? There are many aspects of this death that make it worthy of investigation.”
Wind in the East Page 5
