Wind in the East

by Steve Turnbull

  “You are not married, detective.”

  He withdrew his hand. “How did you know?”

  “Woman’s intuition.” Along with the rank smell of sweat, his greasy and unkempt hair, the overall impression he gave was that he wanted to touch her, intimately. He was so despicable even Grandmother would have sent him on his way.

  She squatted down to peer under the body. She lifted up his blood-soaked jacket. The blood furthest from him had dried, but under his body it was still sticky. News travelled fast; he was less than two hours dead.

  “Is there a murder weapon?”

  “I think he’s lying on it.”

  She looked up at Belleville to see his eyes scanning her breasts. “And there’s no question my aunt committed the murder?” She repeated.

  He shrugged and dragged his gaze up to her face. “She confessed to it.”

  Maliha nodded and looked back at the body. “Are you going to turn him over?”

  Belleville bent over and grabbed the jacket. He rolled the body away from her. Her uncle’s shirt, tie and jacket were drenched in blood that made the cloth hang heavily—where it wasn’t glued to his skin.

  She pointed at the wooden handle that matched those of the skewers. It was buried to the hilt in his abdomen but tilted upward. In her mind’s eye she followed the path of the metal through his stomach, diaphragm and into the heart. The shirt was pierced in many places, but the last thrust, where her aunt finally released her grip on the weapon, was probably the one that killed him. He had suffered for a while. Maliha felt a certain satisfaction in that knowledge.

  “That would do it,” said the detective and let the body drop back. “His very own torture chamber. Do you think he killed many people in here?”

  “He didn’t kill anyone,” said Maliha. “He just destroyed their lives.”

  Maliha looked around the room again. She realised she was standing on the blood-stain. A shudder ran through her and she stepped back. She reached down and ran her fingers across it. The fact that there was no difference in texture between the stain and the rest disturbed her. She felt there should be some fundamental quality that could be sensed where someone’s lifeblood had been spilt. She felt sick again as images of the two women pushed into her mind.

  She suppressed the thoughts. She would betray Riette and Aunt Savitha if she did not think clearly. She did not imagine her uncle had allowed Riette to roam free in the room when he was absent. There was no cot or pallet but there was a pot for night-soil next to a single manacle set in the wall on the opposite side of the room to the tools of his sadistic hobby.

  The manacles were unlocked and took a simple key. It would be easy to pick if one had the right equipment. Or the key. Somehow Riette had escaped the manacle, passed through the door lock and out into the courtyard at exactly the right moment to drink the same poison as had killed an Irish woman in Madras.

  “Sick.” The detective said. She glanced up to where he stood examining the whips. She watched him as he almost caressed the strips of the cat. He glanced over at her and grinned.

  Rational thought was subsumed in a terror that leapt from her heart. She had barely sufficient control to walk from the room instead of flee. She maintained a semblance of poise until she reached the courtyard then ran from the house.

  * * *

  Maliha was not entirely sure how it happened but she dropped Amita off at her grandparents’ house and now found herself parked outside Françoise’s home, in the dark. Most of the lights in the house were off.

  She told herself that she had not come here because her uncle’s torture room had disturbed her, but she always knew when someone was lying. She imagined Riette strung between the manacles being lashed until she bled. And then her aunt hanging there, willingly, letting her husband kill her by stages. Learning to want the pain. Maliha shook her head. How could anyone want such a thing?

  She realised she was crying. She needed someone to hold her. She was adrift while the only members of her family who cared for her were deep in their own grief. She wanted her mother, or her father, or Valentine. He was in the city somewhere, perhaps if she could find him—she pushed him from her mind.

  Françoise was here, now.

  Maliha almost tumbled from the carriage, and stumbled as she climbed the stairs. Her left thigh had the ache in it she had all but forgotten. She told herself she was just tired, and while that was true, it was not the whole truth.

  Françoise opened the door. She saw the look on Maliha’s face, took her by the hand and drew her inside. The French woman pushed the door closed and took Maliha’s hands in hers.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Maliha shook her head.

  Françoise took Maliha’s face in her hands and placed a gentle kiss on her lips. Her right hand snaked round Maliha’s neck while the left slipped down, under her sari and round to press against her bare back, crushing the two of them together.

  Maliha relaxed and allowed her arms to encircle Françoise’s waist. She could feel her hips beneath the heavy fabric. Maliha’s arms tightened as if trying to force the two of them closer. She felt rather than heard a gentle growling noise from Françoise that made Maliha’s tongue tingle. She was desperate for the physical contact and to feel Françoise’s skin against hers.

  Françoise released her. Maliha felt adrift again but Françoise took her by the hand and drew her through the hall and up the sweeping marble staircase.

  “The servants?” whispered Maliha.

  “Nobody is here but us.”

  She led the way up to the first floor and along the polished wooden floor. The light from a bedroom flooded out into the dark hallway but Françoise extinguished it with a flick of the switch as they entered.

  Maliha pushed the door shut, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. Françoise was in front of her again and kissed her lightly. Françoise pulled the sari’s pallu from Maliha’s shoulder then untucked the rest of the cloth from her waistband and let it fall to the floor.

  Standing in the pool of silk Maliha felt more undressed than she did in front of Amita. Françoise kissed her neck, and then bit her, sending a spark of energy through her. Françoise’s hands brushed along Maliha’s arms, down her back, across her stomach. It seemed that Françoise was never still. Then the older woman stepped in close. Her arms embraced Maliha again and Maliha felt the warm lips pressed against hers again.

  Maliha parted her lips and allowed the other woman’s tongue to enter her mouth. She felt a pain, not physical, but as if her heart were breaking, as if she had lost everything, and Françoise was the only thing left in her life.

  As Françoise stepped away again Maliha discovered her blouse was unhooked. She removed it and let it fall. Françoise placed a kiss on Maliha’s lips and stood back. She took Maliha’s hand and pulled her to the bed, gave her a gentle thrust against her collarbone and Maliha sat.

  A little light filtered in from the outside. It highlighted the curves of Françoise’s body in peaks and shadows. Françoise turned her back on Maliha.

  “Unlace me.”

  Without thinking about what it meant Maliha pulled the bows and loosened the cords of the dress, then unhooked it. She helped Françoise lift the skirts up and over her head. The material brushed against her breasts, making her shiver. Françoise threw the dress to one side and now, also bare from the waist up, faced Maliha. Without any apparent sense of embarrassment, Françoise hooked her thumbs into her underskirt, slid it to her ankles and stepped out of it.

  Maliha had seen naked girls before at school, and in better light than this. But here it was as if the air was filled with the electric, so unlike the way it had been with the Guru. With him it had been so planned. Here there was passion.

  Françoise reached out her hands. Maliha stood, feeling curiously awkward as she was not yet naked. Françoise caught her hands and brought her close. She stroked Maliha’s cheek, then her hair. They moved closer. Their bare skin touched. Maliha jumped. Françoise laughed. She
crushed her body against Maliha’s and nibbled her neck.

  Françoise hands caressed Maliha’s bare skin. They were always moving, tracing across her skin. Maliha’s mind buzzed with feelings she had never before experienced. Françoise pulled away again, their skin separated reluctantly and Maliha realised they were both sweating.

  Standing back from Maliha, Françoise regarded her. “Nakedness is truth. Shall I remove your petticoat?”

  Maliha hesitated. Françoise smiled and fell to her knees. She grabbed handfuls of the petticoat on each side and yanked it down. Maliha looked down at the top of Françoise’s head as she knelt before her.

  “I promise I won’t try to kill you,” said Françoise. Maliha felt a moment’s pain at her words. Then Françoise leaned forward and kissed her.

  * * *

  Maliha woke at the sound of a shutter banging somewhere in the house. She lay on her back listening to the wind in the trees and staring at indistinct shadows playing across the ceiling. Her hand prickled with pins and needles. As she attempted to lift her arm up to rub her fingers, she realised her arm was both numb and trapped. She turned and saw Françoise on her side, watching her.

  “Can I have my arm back?”

  Françoise pushed herself up on her elbow. She was naked and her curves were like the shadows and highlights of a charcoal drawing. Maliha awkwardly pulled her unresponsive arm out from underneath her.

  “It’s gone to sleep.”

  In an easy motion Françoise move into a kneeling position and gently took Maliha’s arm.

  “Here, let me,” she said. Maliha did not protest and Françoise massaged from the fingertips along the forearm and back. The arm stung as sensation returned.

  “Renuka said you came back to Pondicherry because of a man.”

  Maliha felt odd thinking about Valentine when she had been enjoying earthly pleasures with someone else. Françoise had taken her lack of response as an affirmative.

  “What is his name?”

  “Valentine.”

  “A good name for a lover.”

  “We weren’t lovers. We barely even walked out together.”

  “And yet you came back. Did he hurt you?”

  “No. Yes—” Maliha broke off in confusion. She gathered her thoughts. “No. He did not touch me.”

  “Did he torture your mind?”

  “No. He is a decent man. A good man.”

  “And still you came home?”

  Françoise stopped her massage and placed Maliha’s arm so it encircled Françoise’s back as she leaned forward so her face was directly above Maliha’s.

  “So it must be that you prefer women to men?”

  Maliha did not reply but pulled Françoise down until their lips met.

  v

  The Sûreté in Pondicherry was another new building, perhaps only twenty years old. There were few old buildings in the city.

  Maliha stopped her carriage just beyond the main entrance, beside a bicycle leaning against the wall. She was alone and wearing the same sari as she had yesterday. The night with Françoise had been...not what she was expecting. She smiled at the memories of physical pleasure that had purged the horrors of Pratap’s torture room. Françoise had been surprisingly skilled and quite inventive.

  Maliha climbed the stairs and pushed her way into the interior. The building lacked grandeur; it was utilitarian and small. There was a uniformed French policeman at a desk.

  “Good afternoon, Miss, can I help you?”

  “Maliha Anderson, to see Savitha Ganeshan please.”

  “Please wait.” He indicated a line of chairs against the wall. She went and took a seat. The policeman disappeared into the back. He returned in a few moments, threw her a momentary smile that contained no emotion, and sat down to continue with whatever it was he was doing.

  She waited. The place was quiet.

  A door somewhere opened and closed; the sound echoed through the building. Footsteps. And Commissioner Abelard came out from a side corridor.

  “Mam’selle Anderson.” She stood up as he approached and he shook her hand. “Please, come.”

  She followed him back the way he had come and through a door into what she assumed must be his office. His desk was a pile of documents. “Please, sit.”

  She sat and he followed suit.

  “A serious business.”

  “I find it hard to believe my aunt killed her husband.”

  He shrugged. “Yet it is so, she has admitted it. And explained why.”

  “She feared her husband would beat her daughters.”

  He gave a sad smile. “You already know. I thought you might.” He leaned forward. “I believe I owe you an apology, Mam’selle Anderson.”

  “If it’s that you thought I was incapable of successful investigation, you need not apologise. I am quite used to it.”

  “Even so, mam’selle, I am sorry for underestimating you.”

  “When can I see her?”

  “Soon,” he said and searched through the papers in front of him until he found a letter. “But there is something else. I have received a letter from the British Foreign Office. They would like our assistance in removing, as they put it—” he squinted at a place halfway down the letter, “—removing a stain on the honour of France.”

  “Smugglers and slavers.”

  “You know of this also?” he shook his head. “Mam’selle Anderson, I do not quite know whether to applaud you or exile you. We had a quiet city here until you arrived and now you turn it all upside down.”

  She frowned at him. “It was already upside down, Commissioner. I am turning it the right way up.”

  He paused as he absorbed her admonition then grunted in acknowledgement and stared at the letter again. “I will agree to their request, of course. What with our Entente Cordiale and the fact they have a much bigger army than my few officers, I can only agree. Still, they will be the ones getting their men killed. We will simply observe.”

  “I would like to be there.”

  He raised his eyebrows then shrugged again. “Very well.”

  “Can I see my aunt?”

  He got to his feet. “This way please.”

  * * *

  A prison cell is a prison cell. There are no pleasant ones. Aunt Savitha sat on her bed and stared at the wall.

  Maliha sat beside her, not knowing what to say. Their last conversation kept replaying through her mind. The one where she had given her aunt no options.

  “I have brought shame upon my family,” said Aunt Savitha.

  The words did not echo in the small room, but echoed in Maliha’s mind. “I am at fault, Auntie.”

  “No, Maliha. You did the right thing.”

  “If I had given you another option...”

  Aunt Savitha touched Maliha’s hand, spreading out her fingers and intertwining them with her own. “Then I would have died and my daughters would have suffered his cruelty.”

  “And instead they will be shamed by a mother who killed their father,” said Maliha. “They will hate you.”

  “Better that.”

  “And you will be dead.”

  “That will make it easier for me to bear the guilt.”

  Maliha heard the strained levity in her aunt’s voice and sighed.

  “Do not be sad, little Maliha. Think that perhaps I have rid the world of someone who brings pain to others. Just as you do.”

  Maliha smiled at her aunt. “You must tell me exactly what happened, every detail.”

  Savitha tensed and looked down but nodded. Maliha allowed her the time to gather the strength to speak.

  “Over the years I have come to know when Pratap must relieve his...need. He angers more easily and strikes the children,” said her aunt. “When he lashed out at Purvaji yesterday morning and lost his temper at the servants I knew the time had come again. I did not forget what you said, Maliha, but what choice did I have? I am his wife.”

  Though anger boiled inside her Maliha kept her thoughts to
herself.

  “In the years that I succumbed to his will, we made a private language that would tell him that I was ready for him. I said the words to him and he became himself again. Excited that once more he would have me as his offering.”

  “Offering?”

  “My husband believed he had been cursed by the gods and only by giving the offering of pain and blood, from someone he cared for was better, only then could he prevent the curse from coming about.”

  “And you believed this?”

  She nodded. “What if it were true, Maliha? How could I tempt the gods?”

  But Maliha was barely listening. She recalled a time when she had visited with Aunt Savitha and Uncle Pratap. He had used a stick to punish Renuka and Maliha. He had whipped their hands until they were cut. Then hugged them and given them lime-flavoured water to drink and made them laugh with silly antics. Though she had been only eight she had thought it strange. And painful. She absently rubbed her hand.

  “I’m sorry, Auntie, please continue.”

  “The girl, Riette, she did not love him of course. Nor did he care for her. So he beat her and cut her, so there was more pain and blood. I tried to comfort her as best I could, but it was my fault.”

  Maliha realised they had become side-tracked. There was little doubt her aunt would avoid speaking of what she had done. She must be redirected. “What happened yesterday?”

  “I went to the room.”

  “I’m sorry, Auntie, I must ask: The room cannot be a secret to the servants?”

  “The room is not a secret inside the house, but what happens there is a secret to most.”

  “Renuka?”

  Aunt Savitha shook her head vehemently. “No, we have kept it from the children.”

  Maliha thought of Renuka’s reaction at the sangeet. She knew.

  “Please continue.”

  “When we got to the room, Pratap wanted to chain me as he had done to Riette, but always before I had simply accepted his beatings. I am his dutiful wife; I would not stop him doing what he must.

  “But your words had made me strong. I said he need not bind me and that he must take care, otherwise he might kill me and then he would have no one to protect him from the curse.”