Wind in the East

by Steve Turnbull

  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.

  Epilogue

  Aunt Savitha was found lying on the floor of her cell one morning a few days later, barely conscious. She was brought to the infirmary but the doctors could do nothing to stop the internal bleeding.

  The verdict was suicide. There was very little evidence, the commissioner had told Maliha when she enquired. But there had been considerable bruising on her arms, legs and abdomen, some several days old, that no one had noticed because no one cared. Though, when asked, the staff had said she had not eaten anything the previous day.

  It appeared she had been throwing herself into the walls in an effort to reopen the internal wound her husband had given her. And had eventually succeeded.

  Maliha wondered whether she had enjoyed that pain the way she had learnt to appreciate the beatings. Maliha understood how it could happen; her experience with Valentine had taught her that. There was a twisted love in the act of giving oneself to pain, at the hands of someone trusted, or loved.

  She had thanked the commissioner and he had, again, given her his thanks in return. He even seemed to ascribe the destruction of the slavers base to her in some convoluted fashion. Though that was entirely Valentine’s doing.

  She climbed aboard her steam carriage with Amita huddled in the rear. Maliha chose to drive more slowly. They drove out towards the docks, across the bridge, past the lighthouse and along the coast to Françoise’s cousin’s house. It had been a pleasant week, just the six of them. A holiday. She had even spent time with the baby.

  While not declaring it publicly, her grandparents had all but disowned her. She had taken a trip out to her parents’ house to see how the rebuilding was going—it continued at a snail’s pace—only to find that all her belongings from her grandparents’ house had been packed up into tea chests and deposited at the site.

  She had gone through the boxes with Amita to determine which items she needed and which could be stored. She was glad she had already removed the babe and her nurse; more than likely they would have been thrown on to the streets.

  She would not be surprised if they burned the shed the baby had been in.

  Maliha came to herself and realised that Amita was holding the vehicle door open for her. She removed the scarf and goggles, and dropped them into the seat as she squirmed out of the chair. A pain shot through her back. It was almost healed but, in spite of the regular application of Amita’s unguents, there was scar tissue that did not stretch and every now and then it would pull and hurt.

  She dropped to the ground. There was the sound of the baby crying in the house. She did not find it an unpleasant or irritating sound, more like a call. The baby sounded hungry. She smiled at herself, and at the curious knowledge that meant she understood what was wrong.

  Maliha walked with her long purposeful strides towards the door. It swung open as she approached and Valentine stepped out. She thought he always looked a little worried. That was her fault: all the times she had snapped at him and criticised him. He was like a puppy that was beaten one moment and loved the next without any understanding as to why.

  She lifted her head and smiled at him. She climbed the steps on to the verandah two at a time and threw herself at him. His arms enclosed her. She did not care that her grandparents had thrown her out. It was not as if they had ever given her anything but guilt and shame. Now they had more than enough for themselves.

  She sagged in his arms.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  She hugged him tighter and pressed her cheek into his shoulder. Western men did sweat in the Indian heat, but she did not find his aroma unpleasant.

  “You are not the cause of everything that makes me
sad, Mr Crier,” she said. “To think so is the height of arrogance.”

  “You are a cruel woman,” he said and then fell silent at his own ill-chosen words. She could feel the tension rise in him. He had not forgiven himself for what he had done to her. And she did not know what she could do to help him leave it behind.

  She did not want to let him go, but she stepped backwards slowly. She reached down and took his hands in hers. He hung his head like that naughty puppy. He needed something to keep him occupied. Too much idleness allowed the memories to come forward.

  “First things first, Mr Crier.”

  He looked up and she kissed him on the lips. She opened her mouth and felt his tongue. She smiled.

  “The entire world can see what you are doing, mes amis.”

  Maliha felt Valentine start to move away and cupped her hand behind his head. When she was satisfied she had made her point she released him. He was not smiling. He loosed his hands from hers, touched her cheek and pushed past Françoise into the house.

  Françoise raised an eyebrow. “Are you certain you would not prefer my company, chérie?” she said. “I would not pull away from your kiss.”

  Maliha raised her hand to her neck, looking at the shadowy gap where Valentine had disappeared. She shook herself and looked at Françoise with her full attention and saw the folded letter in her hand.

  “You have some news?”

  Françoise glanced down at the letter. “Oui, chérie. It seems my cousin and his family are returning and while my presence may be acceptable to them, you and your entourage might be difficult to explain.”

  “I was planning to leave.”

  “Does Valentine know this?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to tell him.”

  Françoise closed the distance between them. Maliha thought for a moment she might be on the receiving end of another kiss, but although Françoise brought her face close to Maliha’s they did not touch.

  “It is strange I must advise you on men,” she said in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Valentine is not your maid.”

  “Of course not,” said Maliha. “Explain your point?”

  Françoise stepped back and took in a deep breath. “Non, ma chérie. I will not explain.” She poked her finger at Maliha’s chest. “You are very clever, n’est pas? That is what is said by everyone. You will work it out.”

  She turned and went back into the house.

  * * *

  Maliha found Valentine in the drawing room with an empty whiskey glass. He was standing by the empty fireplace staring at nothing. He did not acknowledge her presence.

  She sat down, perched on the edge of a sofa.

  “I would like to go to South Africa.”

  “Then go,” he grunted.

  She bit back a sharp retort. “Please come with me.”

  He shrugged. “You don’t need me.”

  Her anger broke and she jumped to her feet. “No, Valentine, you are wrong. I do need you.” She crossed the floor and stood directly in front of him. “But I am not sorry for anything I have ever done to you; I am not sorry for every mocking tone; every harsh word; every frown when I should have smiled; every joke you cracked that I did not laugh at.”

  “You’re not sorry?”

  “No! I am not sorry,” she shouted. “And I am not sorry for driving you away when you killed Nadesh and stole my justice from me on behalf of all the women he had shamed.”

  “If that’s how you feel,” he said, and put the glass on the mantle. He turned to go but she grabbed his wrist.

  “No, I am not sorry for any wrong I have done you, and yes, I have wronged you.” She let his arm drop. “But that does not mean I do not need you, and believe me when I say that you had your revenge. Though I had to put the weapon in your hand and demand that you use it!”

  “I did not want any revenge, especially not that!”

  “So you are nothing but a woman in men’s clothing?” she said. “Willing to suffer anything just to maintain the status quo. To take anything just to be near me? You are no better than Savitha. It should have been me with the whip and you hanging from the chains.”

  His expression was strangely neutral. “If you need me, and if you love me, then marry me.”

  She closed her eyes and opened them again. It was still Valentine standing there. “What did you say?”

  “Marry me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  His eyebrow rose in scornful derision. “It is not a difficult concept.”

  “But why?”

  “I would have thought that was obvious to someone as clever as you.”

  Maliha hesitated. She had lost the thread. He had gone off at this tangent and she was left flailing, bereft of argument. She shook her head.

  “I won’t marry you...Bill.”

  “You think that using the name I prefer will make any difference? Do you think it somehow affects me more deeply? Should I call you Alice then?” He took her by the hand and went down on one knee.

  Her eyes widened and she felt something akin to panic. He would not do it, surely.

  “Alice Maliha Anderson—”

  “Stop.”

  “Will you consent—”

  “Bill—Valentine, stop, don’t do this. A joke is a joke.”

  “To be my wife?”

  Her voice evaporated. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring. He had a ring. On his person. She found her voice.

  “When did you get that?”

  He looked at it. It was a simple gold band with a small diamond in a basket setting.

  “The day after we disembarked from the Macedonia.”

  “No,” she breathed. Almost a year ago, when they barely knew one another.

  He shrugged. “Yes. Though I have thought of selling it on a couple of occasions since then.”

  She said nothing, just looked at him.

  “Well?”

  She knelt down in front of him. With her free hand she caressed his cheek. “You know what my life is like. I am neither Indian nor British. Neither trusts me. Neither accepts me, and I have just lost what little family I had left.”

  “Your family is here,” he said. “And we won’t send any of our children away to school.”

  “I don’t fit in anywhere.”

  “We fit well enough with one another.”

  She hesitated. “You would not want to marry me, if you knew everything.”

  “I do not believe there is anything you could tell me that would stop me from loving you.”

  “Amita is a man in women’s clothing,” she said. “My maid is a man.”

  He smiled with slight embarrassment. Only smiled. “I know,” he said.

  She was taken aback. “You do?”

  “How stupid do you actually think I am, Miss Anderson?”

  “And you don’t mind?”

  “I wouldn’t say that exactly,” he said. “But you never do things the normal way. Though if we do marry, there will have to be changes.”

  Maliha held his gaze for a moment then nodded. “When did you realise?”

  “Most women don’t have bristles when you kiss them.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Then.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Then.”

  They knelt there in silence for a while, Maliha contemplating the “then” and what it must have been like for him.

  Valentine squeezed her hand. “Have you run out of reasons for not marrying me?”

  “It will confirm what my grandmother has always suspected.”

  “Which is?”

  “That I am worthless.”

  “Do you think I am worthless?” he asked.

  She took his face in her hands, rubbing her thumbs across his cheeks. She smiled. “No, dearest Valentine. You are far from worthless.”

  “If I am not worthless, and I choose you, then clearly you are not worthless either.”

  She looked
at him askance. “Does that make sense?”

  “I saw something like it in a book; I thought I’d give it a try.”

  “I think you got it wrong.”

  He shrugged. “So your final excuse is that it would confirm your grandmother’s opinion of you?”

  She nodded.

  “When did you start caring about other people’s opinions?”

  “When I realised I was lonely, Valentine,” she said. “I am tired of being lonely.”

  “Then you need to marry me.”

  She was silent for a long time and her thigh began to ache as she knelt there before him. She leaned forward and rested her head on his shoulder. He swayed as she unbalanced him.

  She contemplated the ring he held in his hand between them. She leaned back, looked him in the eye and stretched out her left hand. He took her fingers gently in his and slipped the ring onto her third finger. It was loose and the weight of the diamond kept making it hang crookedly. She made a fist to hold it in place. He kissed her knuckles.

  When he looked up his face had a look of such happiness she felt like crying again, or was it the happiness that threatened to burst out of her?

  “Now,” she said, “when can we leave for South Africa?”

  .

  ~ end ~

  .

  .

  Read THUNDER OVER THE GRASS

  The next incredible book in the Maliha Anderson series.

  http://bit.ly/maliha-anderson-05

  - -

  About the Author

  When he's not sitting at his computer building websites for national institutions and international companies, Steve Turnbull can be found sitting at his computer building new worlds of steampunk, science fiction and fantasy.

  Technically Steve was born a cockney but after five years he was moved out from London to the suburbs where he grew up and he talks posh now. He's been a voracious reader of science fiction and fantasy since his early years, but it was poet Laurie Lee's autobiography "Cider with Rosie" (picked up because he was bored in Maths) that taught him the beauty of language and spurred him into becoming a writer, aged 15. He spent twenty years editing and writing for computer magazines while writing poetry on the side.