Wind in the East

by Steve Turnbull

  “Poisoned?”

  “Yes. I need to know exactly how her body was positioned.”

  “My mother was nobody. Why would anyone poison her?”

  “Because of something she knew. Now please, if you would lie down the way you found her.”

  “I...you want me to lie where she was lying?”

  Maliha paused. A year ago she would have pushed the woman, but she had learnt something in the intervening time. “Françoise, would you mind helping my investigation?”

  The English was apparently too fast for Françoise to follow, so Maliha repeated in French. “I need you to lie on the floor. Naimh here will adjust your position to the way her mother was lying. Is that all right?”

  The French woman did not look too happy about it. “Her mother is dead, the midwife?”

  Maliha sighed, it was always the same, everybody else seemed to need it explaining twice or more and couldn’t handle more than one thought at a time. “Yes. If you wouldn’t mind?”

  Françoise complied. Naimh knelt beside her and adjusted Françoise’s right arm. She placed it above her head and had her fold her left arm beneath her. Finally she was satisfied, though there were new tears.

  “There was no cup or glass on the floor?”

  “No.”

  “Was your mother left or right-handed?”

  “Right.”

  It looked as if she’d fallen from a chair after drinking.

  “Not a drop of alcohol ever touched her lips,” said Naimh.

  Except Communion wine, thought Maliha. “Very good.” Then she continued in French. “Françoise, could you sit on the chair there and then fall off and into that position, holding this glass? But let go of it when you land.”

  Françoise took a couple of attempts to get it just right and the glass went skittering across the floor under the table. Maliha got down on her hands and knees examining the path it had taken. She wetted her fingers in her mouth then rubbed a slight greenish discolouration in the floorboards. The faint smell of bitter almonds wafted up.

  She climbed to her feet and gestured for Françoise to do the same.

  “What time did you find her?”

  “I left early, shortly after dawn and returned in the evening.” Naimh dabbed at her eyes with the kerchief. “She was cold.”

  Maliha nodded at Amita and Françoise, and they moved towards the door. “One final thing, did your mother keep the door bolted?”

  “Always, we are not popular.”

  “But the door was not broken in?”

  Naimh shook her head. “It wasn’t bolted so I knew something was wrong.”

  Maliha nodded and they took their leave.

  iii

  Maliha noticed the looks between the air-plane’s navigator and Amita when they disembarked at Pondicherry. She shook her head. It was not that she minded Amita having relations with men. It was Amita’s business. However she knew for certain that most men would be very unhappy to learn of her maid’s true nature.

  Maliha thought of Valentine. It was a conversation that she did not think would go down well with him; the fact that Amita was Maliha’s personal maid meant Maliha’s body was known to Amita. Not that Maliha encouraged physical contact, after all she dealt with all her personal matters herself, but Amita helped her dress, and undress.

  Valentine was unlikely to understand that Amita was probably more interested in him.

  She frowned. What difference did it make? She and Valentine had never been engaged, and never would be. She could choose whoever she wished to be her maid and it was no business of his.

  The journey back to the city was without incident.

  She wished she had Barbara to talk to. Françoise was pleasant enough but lacked the experience of the older woman. And while she might have a sweet smile and lips, she lacked the incisively logical mind that Maliha preferred. Valentine never took anything seriously but one did not have to spell everything out for him.

  She swerved to the far side of the road to avoid an elephant in harness carrying some logs.

  She debated the best course of action now. She had established that something had happened during the birth of Renuka and Balaji.

  She dropped Françoise off at her cousin’s house. The woman invited her in. There was an undercurrent of desire in her voice. Maliha declined claiming she needed to rest.

  When they were in Madras, Françoise had suggested she stay with Maliha both nights in the hotel. Her forwardness surprised Maliha considering the girl had not even kissed another woman a few days before, but Maliha knew it was just an infatuation and had refused. She needed to keep Françoise under control and at a distance. It was hard to think with the woman mooning over her.

  She and Amita returned to her grandparents’ house and after a brief visit with her grandmother, just to prove she had kept her word, she went to her rooms where Amita had drawn a bath scented with jasmine oil.

  She undressed and sank into it, breathing in the refreshing aroma. Her reverie was interrupted by Amita bringing in a platter with a single letter.

  Maliha pushed herself up in the bath and took the letter. Amita passed her an opener. Maliha closed her hand on it absently, studying the handwriting. Slowly she turned it over. There was no sender’s name on the exterior but she knew Valentine’s hand. The postmark stamp clearly said Pondicherry and was timed yesterday evening.

  Amita busied herself clearing away Maliha’s used sari, blouse and petticoat.

  Maliha slid the letter opener into the top of the envelope and sliced it open with more force than was necessary. The paper, which was not of the best quality, came apart with a satisfying rasp. She dropped the letter opener on to the tiled floor, pulled out the letter and dropped the envelope on the other side.

  Dear Miss Anderson

  ‘Miss Anderson’ is it? Clearly he was over his infatuation. Good.

  As she scanned the rest of the letter written in his untidy hand and lacking proper punctuation and even grammar—so like him—she felt her anger boiling up. She climbed to her feet and stepped out of the bath, dripping, on to the floor.

  “Amita.”

  Amita glanced round and seeing her standing there went for the towel.

  “Leave that,” growled Maliha. Amita paused and faced her with fear in her eyes. Maliha brandished the letter. “This is from Valentine.”

  Amita collapsed to the floor and prostrated herself, reaching out to touch Maliha’s feet. “I’m so sorry, sahiba, I did not think you would want to know.”

  “He says you met with him,” Maliha was helpless to control the anger that poured acid into her words.

  “He found me. I was doing as you bid me.”

  “And he recognised you and he messed things up?”

  “Yes. No. He did not know.”

  “He never does.”

  “I am so sorry, sahiba, I will pack my things.”

  “What?”

  “I will leave your service, sahiba, I have betrayed you and failed you.”

  Maliha looked at the letter and then at Amita lying on the floor. “Get up, you’re getting wet. Bring me my towel,” she said. “And then you will tell me everything that happened.”

  Amita climbed slowly to her feet, taking great pains not to look at her mistress. “Yes, sahiba.” She found the towel and offered it, looking no higher than Maliha’s ankles.

  Maliha took the towel, wrapped it around herself and re-read the letter. He was going at things with his usual lack of finesse. Honestly she was surprised he had not gone charging in himself and got himself shot for his trouble. Still she was glad he had not, otherwise she would be missing this piece of information.

  She sent for some tea and sat in the window. She read the letter several more times. Then folded it up. Dear Miss Anderson indeed, and he had signed off with Your servant, W A V Crier. He never did like her using Valentine instead of Bill.

  Amita served the tea, still acting as if she were about to be beaten.

 
; “Sit down, Amita.”

  She promptly crossed her legs and sat on the floor. Maliha thought she would be glad when Amita got over this guilt.

  “All right, tell me exactly what happened that night. Do not leave anything out.”

  Amita looked worried. “Everything?”

  Maliha frowned. “Yes, of course, everything.”

  “Yes, sahiba. Everything.” And still she hesitated. A worry grew inside Maliha; was it possible that she was completely wrong about Valentine’s preferences? Did he prefer men the way the General had done? She prepared herself to hear it all.

  “Begin.”

  * * *

  “And he kissed you?”

  “Yes, sahiba, I am sorry. Only on my cheek. I know he is yours and not mine. I should not have let him.”

  The sun had reached the horizon. Maliha had grown accustomed to the long twilights of England. The way the sun simply fell below the horizon near the equator was something to which she had not fully accustomed. She still expected the evening half-light to go on for hours.

  When Amita had described the false love-making Maliha was almost unable to contain her laughter but she managed for Amita’s sake. The poor thing was so embarrassed about having “taken” her man. And it was so like Valentine; he was like a puppy blundering into a table leg.

  And he had kissed Amita. Maliha smiled to herself; that too was like him. The two of them had shared something so intimate and he had shown his gratitude in a way that meant something.

  But she still did not forgive him for killing Guru Nadesh and stealing her prize.

  She stood up and realised she was still only wrapped in her towel. Grandmother would be calling her down for an evening meal soon.

  “Stand up, Amita.”

  She did so, again only staring at Maliha’s feet.

  “Look at me.”

  Amita failed to do so. Maliha took a step forward and into her line of sight. “Look at me.”

  Amita glanced at her face for a moment then looked away. “I am angry you did not tell me what happened but I understand why you did not. As it is, the outcome was satisfactory so we will not dwell on it.”

  “Yes, sahiba.”

  The gong for dinner rang out, but instead of simply ringing twice, it rang again and again like an alarm. Maliha looked down at her state of undress. “Go down and find out what’s happening while I get dressed.”

  She opened the door to the dressing room, went through and pulled on the clothes that Amita had laid out for her. The sound of the gong continued for minutes. It was quite irritating, since everyone in the house would know by now.

  Maliha threw the pallu over her shoulder, slipped on her sandals and headed downstairs; there was a crowd of servants around the gong and it was Maliha’s grandmother striking it.

  The wall of servants parted as Maliha reached the bottom. Her grandmother was hunched over the gong, the hammer in her hand, striking it again and again. Maliha reached out and took hold of her wrist. Her grandmother struggled against the resistance until she seemed to realise someone was holding her wrist. Silence fell.

  “Grandmother?”

  The old woman—and suddenly Maliha realised that she was old, as if she had never really seen her before—turned and looked at her. She recognised Maliha and the deadness behind her eyes flamed into anger.

  “It’s your fault!” She pulled her hand free and tried to hit Maliha with the hammer. Amita’s hand appeared and stopped the blow from landing. Amita snatched the hammer from the old woman’s hand and released her. Her grandmother struck Maliha on the cheek.

  “You did this!” Slap. “You, your shameful mother and that father of yours.” Slap.

  Then she broke down in tears. Maliha stepped forward and put her arm round the old woman and guided her into one of the reception rooms. And shut the door on the servants.

  “What’s happened, Grandmother?”

  “You had to interfere; you had to make waves.”

  “Tell me what’s happened? Is it Grandfather?”

  “I’m sure you’d be happy if it was.”

  Maliha controlled her temper at the complete lack of logic. “Just tell me what’s wrong, Grandmother.”

  “Savitha.”

  “What about Auntie?”

  “She has been arrested!”

  “What? Aunt Savitha?”

  “Yes, Aunt Savitha. You disgusting chit, I am ashamed to have birthed the daughter that birthed you!”

  “Grandmother, just tell me, why has Aunt Savitha been arrested?”

  “She has killed her husband.”

  iv

  Maliha engaged the brake and vented the excess pressure. Amita handed her down from the carriage. There was a crowd of people outside the gates of Aunt Savitha’s house and the policeman on duty took some persuading to let her through.

  Every window glowed with light, and lit the family and servants weeping outside the building, or standing with a look of horror etched into their faces.

  Renuka ran up to Maliha and flung her arms around her. Maliha stroked her head. “I need to go inside. You must stay here and look after your sisters.”

  Her cousin clung for a moment then released her but stayed with Maliha as she walked up the steps into the building. Maliha paused at the top and Renuka grabbed Maliha’s hand again; her eyes were red with weeping but her face was dry. Maliha hugged her. “Stay with your sisters.”

  She pulled herself away and went into the brightly lit foyer. She glanced around. It was empty, no police on duty. But Maliha knew where they were. She headed through the building towards the courtyard.

  One of the French police stood next to an opening in the wall, where there had been no door before. He watched her as she crossed the courtyard to the holy plant, slipped off her shoes, and touched a leaf. There was a formless prayer in her mind. She would have to make it all come true herself anyway.

  She put her sandals back on and went to the opening. The young policeman stretched out his arm to bar her way.

  “You can’t go in, mam’selle.”

  Amita loomed over her shoulder.

  “I am Maliha Anderson, I am investigating the death of the girl at the wedding here last week. This is related, and your Inspector Abelard was quite clear that I could carry out my investigations.”

  She did not speak aggressively but with a firm tone that would brook no disagreement. “This is no place for a young woman, Mam’selle Anderson. There was been a murder.”

  “Which is precisely why I am here. Must I contact the commissioner?”

  His control of the situation had been tenuous at best. He stepped back.

  “Stay here, Amita.”

  Maliha stepped through into a short corridor. The walls were white-washed and there was a slight smell of carbolic acid. Almost clinical.

  She turned back and examined the door. The locking mechanism was a simple bolt that pushed through into the solid wood of the door which had been faced with stone to match the exterior. The mechanism could be operated from the inside by a lever. There must be a similar one accessible from the outside.

  It was only a few paces to the door at the other end. This one required a key but again was solid but not complex.

  She took a deep breath and hesitated. It was not the thought of seeing her dead uncle that concerned her; she had seen enough dead bodies in the past, and even examined them. It was what else she would find. When she discussed “de Sade” in such casual tones with the French Doctor or with Françoise, she was hiding the horror she did not allow herself to feel.

  She pushed open the door.

  Everything here was also white. The light from the electric lamps shone with a bright sterility. It was all white except on the floor between the manacles where the dark stains of blood and other bodily secretions, from the years of torture, could not be washed away. She touched her hand to her neck as a wave of cold went through her.

  There were manacles driven into the floor and matching ones t
hat hung from the ceiling. On the wall was a cabinet carrying a range of canes, whips and even a cat-o’-nine-tails. On a fold-out section of the cabinet was a wooden block with a selection of knives, a cut-glass box containing needles three inches long, and a second block of thin metal skewers, one missing. In a corner there was a sink with a tap and cleaning materials.

  It was easy to dismiss the activities of her uncle when you thought that it was hidden away, such care was taken to keep it clean, and it was not his particular desire to kill anyone: merely inflict some pain that could be easily forgotten. But Maliha could see the years of agony given both willingly and unwillingly.

  But it was the armchair with a small table and selection of drinks, probably alcoholic, that made her skin crawl and the hate well up in her. It faced the manacles in the centre of the room, and she knew why it was there. So he could sit in comfort and inspect his handiwork while his wife, or his slave-gift, hung there, weeping from the pain while their blood stained the floor. Their skin pierced and flayed as their body’s nerves screamed.

  Even if his intention was not to kill, how close would he come to causing death to satisfy his desires? And there he now lay with his own blood staining the whitewashed floor.

  She shivered and felt the bile rise in her throat.

  There was a man in a suit standing beside the body, but he was staring at her. He was in his thirties.

  “Mam’selle? Perhaps you should not be here?”

  She took a deep breath and calmed herself. “How did he die?”

  “And you are?”

  “Maliha Anderson,” she stepped across to her uncle’s body. Uncle Pratap wore the Western suit he affected to give himself a better image and to separate himself from the common people. “Is there no doubt my aunt killed him?”

  “You are Maliha Anderson?”

  She looked him in the eye. “You were expecting someone older.”

  “Yes, I was. Not such an attractive and young woman.”

  “And my physical attributes are relevant to the case in what way? Monsieur...” she allowed her words to trail off expectantly.

  He grinned in what she imagined he thought to be a winning way. “Detective Gerard Belleville.” He put out his hand to shake hers, across the body. She looked down at her uncle. The blood seemed to be coming from his abdomen.