Ryman, Rebecca

by Olivia

  "Aunt Bridget?" Lightly, she touched her on a shoulder. "Are you feeling all right?"

  There was no response. Indeed, Lady Bridget seemed unaware of her touch as well as her presence. The face, mobile and happy only a short while ago, was white and waxen; her cornflower blue eyes remained glassily riveted to the same spot and showed no signs of life. She appeared to be not even breathing! Greatly alarmed, Olivia shook her aunt by the shoulder. "Please say something, Aunt Bridget, look at me! Is something wrong? Are you ill?"

  She still received no reply, but, with the shake of her shoulder, the letter fell from her aunt's fingers and fluttered into a flowerbed below the verandah. The hand that had held it remained in mid air, the fingers curved in the same position as before. With a cry of fear Olivia leapt after the paper and retrieved it. It was indeed a message from Estelle but hardly the note her aunt had been expecting. Small, cramped writing filled every available space on both sides of the foolscap sheet. What the main body of the letter had to say Olivia had neither the time nor the need to pursue. The first two sentences said it all.

  Jai Raventhorne had sailed on the Ganga with the afternoon tide. And her cousin, Estelle Templewood, had sailed with him.

  CHAPTER 11

  There was much to be done.

  In a state of unconsciousness Lady Bridget was carried upstairs and put to bed with hot-water bottles. The coachman was dispatched in a carriage to summon Dr. Humphries. Rehman hurried off with a note to Sir Joshua at Barnabus Slocum's headquarters in Lal Bazaar. Olivia had kept the message deliberately unspecific: Please return immediately. Aunt Bridget has taken ill. It was a mastery of understatement, considering the truth of the matter, strong enough to fetch Sir Joshua yet adequately obtuse to avoid instant panic. There would be enough of that in due course.

  Issuing brisk orders, conducting herself calmly and with competence, Olivia bustled about with the mechanical efficiency of a puppet responding to the deft dictates of a hidden string. Her mind was blank; only one corner of it, inexplicably, was alive and crystal clear, setting her in a dreamscape outside of herself from where she viewed the scene with detachment. It was this corner that warned her of the need for action in many directions. She did not falter in her rapid assessments, nor was it necessary for her to think. In any case, there was no time for thought.

  Mercifully.

  The first to answer her summons was Dr. Humphries. Bounding up the stairs with an agility that belied his sixty-odd years and was the constant envy of his peers, he huffed into the master bedroom and snapped open the black satchel that was one of the most comforting sights in station. Taking out his pocket-watch he examined Lady Bridget's pulse as her unconsciousness started to lift.

  "Nothing much wrong there," he said, opening each eyelid in turn and peering under it closely. "What appears to have caused her to faint? Some kind of shock?"

  Olivia nodded. "She was reading a letter from her cousin in England. It contained news of the death of a very old and dear friend." It was the first of many plausible lies that she was to tell, more than even Olivia could have divined at that particular moment.

  "Sentimental rot!" Dr. Humphries snorted. "We've all got to go sometime, but don't worry," he patted her arm heartily, "it isn't your aunt's turn yet, not by a long-shot. Bridget has the constitution of a dray-horse. She'll be back in harness soon enough. Got any laudanum in stock?" Olivia nodded, went to fetch it, then listened attentively to his instructions, which amounted to nothing more than practical common sense. Finally, sipping with appreciation a bowl of chicken broth she offered him in the downstairs parlour, he asked, "And how are you, young lady? As good as new again, I trust? You look well enough I must say."

  "I am. Thank you."

  "Good, but don't overdo things yet. We don't want a relapse, do we?" He whipped out his pocket-watch again and clucked. "No peace for the wicked. Some perverse woman has decided to have her baby two weeks ahead of schedule, no doubt with the specific intention of ruining my billiards evening." He gave a fog-horn of a laugh and it sounded so out of place that Olivia almost winced. "Josh still at work?"

  "Yes, but he should be home shortly. I've sent him a message."

  "Well, tell him not to worry unduly about the mem. She'll outlive him yet, especially if he doesn't stop hitting that bottle like a shippie in port, the silly ass." Flying down the last few steps in the portico, he tossed his satchel through the door of the carriage. "And where is my little monkey brat? Titivating herself for the panto, no doubt, like the rest of her empty-headed bunch?"

  Few European children who had passed through Calcutta during the past thirty years had not been delivered by Dr. Humphries, and Estelle was a particular favourite. "No, Estelle is not taking part in the pantomime. She is spending the weekend with friends." The ease with which she could answer his inquiry surprised Olivia, as did her instinctive cunning in withholding the Pringles' name. There were not many Europeans with whom Dr. Humphries was not personally acquainted.

  After seeing the kindly physician off, Olivia sat down to a hot cup of tea thoughtfully provided by Rehman and considered the immediate future in cold-blooded dispassion. More lies had to be devised to explain her aunt's collapse; those that needed to be forged to account for Estelle's disappearance from station would come later. In between, there would be Sir Joshua's imminent nightmare to be considered. In her own mind there was no hint of a reaction; it appeared that her capacity to feel had ceased to exist.

  Sir Joshua's mood, when he returned half an hour later, was partly of alarm but mostly of extreme annoyance. "What the devil is wrong with Bridget? She was perfectly healthy when I left the house. Has Humphries been here?" He could barely contain his impatience.

  "Yes. He said to tell you not to worry. It's nothing serious. She's fast asleep at the moment."

  "Nothing serious?" He went cold with anger and his voice rose. "In that case, why was I summoned? Are you aware of the business your untimely message interrupted?"

  "Yes, but the message was sent before Dr. Humphries arrived." His anger suddenly seemed pathetic to Olivia. It was unlikely he had not heard of the departure of the Ganga but obvious that he had no idea of the extra passenger she carried. "In any case, it is not the matter of Aunt Bridget's illness that is serious."

  They were standing outside the bedroom door as they talked. In the act of turning to go down the stairs again, Sir Joshua stopped. There was no change in his expression—arrogant, inflexible and incensed—but an eyebrow lifted in impatient inquiry. He showed no sign of presentiment, no inkling of the whirring wings of disaster. Olivia felt a stab of pity. Wordlessly, she handed him the envelope containing Estelle's letter and slipped into her aunt's room.

  The hooves of the bay gelding were not heard again on the gravelled drive outside. Sir Joshua Templewood was not to leave his house again that evening. Or for many more evenings to come.

  Drawing the curtains against the night, Olivia sent the ayah off for her meal and positioned herself on a stool to resume her vigil. Lady Bridget slept on, protected for the moment by the blessed waters of Lethe, but for how long, how long? A paraffin lamp burned low on the chest of drawers, and around it, bent on apparent self-destruction, fluttered a large fawn-coloured moth with scarlet-tipped wings. Finally, as it deserved to for its fool-hardiness, it dropped to the floor, twitched its shredded wings a few times and died. Olivia watched it without compassion.

  Jai and Estelle . . .

  The night wore on. The majolica clock on the wall ticked away the leaden moments. Sir Joshua did not come up the stairs again. On the bed, snoring slightly, Lady Bridget slept on. The ayah, propped awkwardly against a wall, dozed fitfully. Outside, the noises of the night came and went: the discordant chorus of cicadas, the rustling symphonies of leaves, the intermittent calls of the watchman on duty warning away intruders. The lamp, starved of paraffin, spluttered and fizzled out, but Olivia didn't notice the added dark. Disjointed fragments waltzed across her mind's eye carrying images and ima
ginings, reveries and revocations that came and went at random. They left behind no impression; it was as if she was watching the passing parades of quite another life. Alien to her, they bounced off her deadened mind like raindrops off an impervious surface. Only the stubborn beats of her heart, even and steady, told her that she was still alive. All else was an unreality of shadows and silences and the smell of impending death.

  Jai and Estelle . . .?

  Charitable mists of sleep provided occasional oblivion, but when they dissipated they left behind deeper unrealities, greater disorientation. Suspended upside down like a bat, she hovered between dream-worlds that gave her no clue as to where she was, who she was, why she was at all. And then, suddenly, night was done. The slits between the curtains became slices of light; the chatter of early birds in the garden revived. Perched on a ledge a crow cawed out his lungs as if delivering a message of vital importance that simply could not wait. Olivia rose, stretched her numb limbs and shooed him off, irritated by his noisy persistence. Mouth agape, one arm flung over the side of the bed, Lady Bridget breathed evenly in her sleep. The ayah, untidily heaped on a rush mat outside on the landing, stirred, then went back to sleep. Olivia did not waken her. Instead, she washed in cuttingly cold water, combed out her hair and wove it into a plait, and went downstairs.

  Another dawn, another day. Another age. Everything was different and yet the same. Even the thirst for morning tea.

  Sir Joshua was not in his study. Olivia found him in the back garden hunched over on the wall, sitting and hugging his knees against the late autumn cold. She set the tea-tray down beside him, went inside to fetch his woollen cape and draped it about his shoulders. He turned and her breath caught. During the night, strands of his hair had streaked with grey. His eyes looked like pools of stagnant water; they had sunk into his skull, creating black hollows of his sockets. In the unearthly light his skin looked crackling dry, stretched taut and yellowing over angular cheek-bones that Olivia could have sworn were not visible yesterday. What seemed to have gone during the night was the substance of the man, like a snake that sheds its skin, leaving behind an empty husk. Her uncle had aged ten years in as many hours.

  She said nothing; there was nothing to say. Even "good morning" would have been a travesty for them both. In silence, divided by their separate thoughts, they sipped hot tea with funereal solemnity. Then Sir Joshua sighed, and a spasm rippled through the frame of what was once a man. He said nothing, but a tear trickled unnoticed down his face. Olivia gathered up the tea things and walked back to the house, leaving him to his grief. They all, each one of them, needed their own private space to lick their wounds in solitude. They could all cry for themselves; who would cry for her?

  The household was stirring. In the pantry, Rehman was washing apples preparatory to slicing them for breakfast. The milk, gathered each morning by the resident gwala from the two cows tethered in the shed behind the servants' compound, was already on the boil. The second bearer was stacking cutlery and crockery to lay the breakfast table in the back verandah, where the meal was taken in winter. Outside the pantry door, Babulal waited for orders and money to do the daily bazaar. The jamadar, the coachman, the gardeners, the day-watchman—all stood in line outside, sombre faced and unspeaking, because everyone knew something bad had happened. The stable-boy was the only one who spoke. Sidling up to Olivia, he followed her into the dining-room with the sotto voce information that the Ganga had already left anchorage when he reached the river bank. He waited with some anxiety for her to demand back the rupee she had given him for the boatman. But Olivia had already forgotten about it. Taking the envelope he held out, she tore it into small pieces and tossed them in the waste-paper basket.

  "Yes, I know."

  One by one she dealt with the servants. Devising a menu for the day she dispatched Babulal to the market, ordered oatmeal porridge and fruit juice for her aunt and uncle and returned upstairs to rouse the ayah. Lady Bridget was starting to toss restlessly. Her forehead felt warm to Olivia's touch, so she moistened a towel, doused it with eau-de-Cologne and pressed it against her aunt's face.

  "Estelle . . .?" Lady Bridget's eyes flew open.

  "No, dear. It is I, Olivia."

  Lady Bridget gave a little moan. The effect of the sleeping draught was still strong with her and her senses were scattered. Olivia spoon-fed her the two other mixtures Dr. Humphries had prescribed, then went to her own room for a bath and change.

  Estelle and Jai?

  Oh sweet mother of God, there was still so much to be done! She sat down to write an urgent note to Arthur Ransome.

  "Mrs. Drummond?"

  Polly's mother's yawn as she opened her front door turned into a round-mouthed "oh" of surprise. It was almost nine o'clock but signs of a hasty departure from bed at the ring of the doorbell were obvious. Her Chinese kimono was only partially on, barely covering her undergarments, and her eyes, full of drowse and smudged kohl, were still half shut.

  "Why, Olivia! What a surprise!" She was flustered and not entirely pleased, her eyes suddenly alert and darting inward towards the room behind. Patting her dishevelled henna-dyed hair that framed her face like a bizarre haystack, she quickly rearranged her kimono and opened the door wide. "Come in, dearie, do. What brings you our way so early this fine sunny morning?"

  Olivia followed her into a large, untidy front room with shabby, chintz-covered furniture and the smell of stale cigar smoke. The debris of some past conviviality was strewn everywhere—dirty glasses and plates, overflowing ash-trays and a pair of gentleman's boots, which, with a deft kick, Mrs. Drummond sent sliding behind a settee. Sitting down on the lumpy sofa with bulging springs into which she was waved, Olivia flushed as she heard the sound of a door being shut firmly somewhere behind her.

  "I'm sorry to be disturbing you so early in the morning, Mrs. Drummond, but I wonder if I could have a word with Polly. Is she back yet from Chandernagore?"

  Mrs. Drummond's wide mouth, smeared with the remnants of very bright lip salve, twitched in a smile as she cast another sidelong glance in the direction from which the sound of the door had come. "Er . . . Polly? No, I'm afraid she's not back yet but due any day." She ran hasty fingers through her mass of hair. "You must forgive the mess, love. I was . . . entertaining last night, you see." Her smile was apologetic. "I haven't had a moment to clean up—not that I have to. I do have servants, you know, for what they're worth, which isn't much." In an affected, high-pitched accent she subjected Olivia to a lengthy homily about her woes with her domestic complement before returning to the subject at hand. "What she's still doing in Chandernagore goodness knows, with rehearsals for the panto due to start soon and Hicks yelling bloody murder—but didn't Estelle tell you she's not back yet?"

  It was the opening Olivia was waiting for—hoping for, rather. She smiled and leaned back, then quickly shot forward again as a spring bit sharply into her spine. "Actually, no, Mrs. Drummond. You see," she conjured up a small laugh, "Estelle was in such a state of high excitement before she left, as you can well imagine, she didn't have time to tell anyone anything! And I do so want to borrow those new music sheets Polly told me she had sent out from England. With Christmas so—"

  "Before she left?" Mrs. Drummond stopped fussing with an array of glasses on the piano lid and frowned. "Left for where? I didn't know Estelle was going anywhere. I thought she was going to be in the panto."

  Olivia feigned surprise. "You mean Estelle didn't even tell you she was sailing for England yesterday? How terribly remiss of her!"

  Slowly Mrs. Drummond folded onto the piano stool, her face a picture of amazement. "Sailing for England? Estelle . . .?" Her black-rimmed eyes widened in disbelief. "Well, bless my soul! No, she never breathed a word to me, not a word, and I saw her only the other day buying ribbons in Whiteaways!" She looked very put out. "Fancy that! Fancy going off without even a hint to anyone, fancy!" She picked up a palm leaf fan and waved it briskly in front of her face, her untidy eyes not only envious but al
so suspicious. "But I thought her father absolutely refused to let her go home until after she was married—at least, that's what Estelle has always said."

  "Oh, that's quite true, Mrs. Drummond. Uncle Josh has always been adamant about that. As you know, he couldn't bear to be parted with his daughter even to send her to school at home. It was all very sudden, you see. Not so long ago he happened to meet this ship's captain who was voyaging with his sister on board. Aunt Bridget took quite a shine to the sister and, when Estelle pleaded with her mother to let her accompany them since such a worthy chaperone was available, my aunt managed to persuade her husband to relent. It all happened almost overnight, I'm afraid." She added with a pointed smile, "The fact that John Sturges is also in England, as you are aware, no doubt had something to do with Uncle Josh's change of heart."

  "I . . . see." Suspicion still lurked in Mrs. Drummond's shrewd little eyes as she appraised Olivia thoroughly. "Which ship did you say she sailed on?"

  Olivia was prepared for that, knowing only too well how many seagoing captains, naval officers and personnel from the port Mrs. Drummond counted among her friends. "I'm not very certain, Mrs. Drummond. It was all arranged when I was ill, you see. I had very little to do with Estelle's preparations." That, at least, she thought grimly, was perfectly true! "I think it was a Dutch ship, or maybe Swedish. In any case, I'm almost sure it was European, although it might have been English."

  The palm leaf fan again started to wave briskly. "Well, you can knock me over with a feather, ducky, really you can!" At last she seemed reasonably satisfied. "Polly will be green, absolutely green when she hears, not that I'm not." She gave a shrill, discontented little laugh. "Of course, I could get up and go anytime I wished, anytime. But then a girl does have to be careful with whom, doesn't she?"

  Hastily, Olivia got to her feet. It surprised her that her mission had been accomplished with such relative ease. She had established that Estelle had taken neither the Drummond daughter nor the mother into her confidence. Also, with Mrs. Drummond's propensity for spreading gossip, the doctored version of Estelle's departure would soon be open knowledge. There would be talk, naturally, but at least a scandal of monumental dimensions had been averted for the moment. Or so Olivia hoped. There were other investigations to be made, of course, other leaks to be plugged. And many more lies to be told. First and foremost she had to find out just which one of her friends Estelle had taken as a conspirator.