The Mayor's Abduction

by Noah Alexander

  Maya looked around the place. She was here to meet Rodney, Kerry’s supposed lover, who she hoped might give her some more clues about her disappearance.

  After listening to Khudabaksh's tale that Kerry had been shot, Maya had made her way back to the riverbank to look for any clues that she had missed the first time, but she had found only failure. There was nothing on the bank to suggest that there had been a scuffle here and that a girl had been shot. But Maya felt inclined to believe Khudabaksh’s final story. Her instincts told her that he wasn’t lying. Not this time. And that meant that Kerry was most certainly dead. Perhaps the bald man that she had written to her in the letter had killed her then dumped the body in the river. But why did she go to meet him in the first place? That was absurd. And who was that bald man anyways, and why did he want to kill Kerry? There were a lot of questions and not many answers. Maya hoped that Rodney might shed some light upon the matter.

  A waitress pointed her to a young gaunt boy with a tall lanky frame and a face scarred by acne. He stood at the counter chatting amiably with a fellow worker. Rodney was draped in a white shirt and black trousers with a bow. Maya had a strange feeling, looking at his face, that she had seen him before. Somewhere. A long time ago. But she brushed the feeling aside and approached him.

  “Hello, I am Maya Mitchell,” she said to him.

  “Hello ma’am, what would you like to have?” asked Rodney smiling. Maya was sure she saw a glint of recognition in his eyes too.

  “I would like to talk to you for a bit,” said Maya, “it is about Kerry.”

  Rodney looked slightly taken aback.

  “What about her?” he asked

  “I am afraid she has gone missing. She hasn’t been seen since yesterday evening.”

  Rodney shuffled his feet. His eyes blinked rapidly and his breath quickened. Realizing that Maya was observing the change in his condition curiously, he took out a rag from his back pocket and began to clean the counter of invisible blemish. He cleaned the whole counter for a couple of minutes before taking a deep breath and coming back to Maya.

  “Missing?” he said, “are you sure? She keeps out of the orphanage sometimes. I mean she has rented a new place somewhere, she might have gone there.”

  “Do you know that place?” asked Maya,

  “I… no, I don’t.”

  “That’s surprising,” said Maya, “I was made to believe that you two were quite close. I thought that you would know about her house.”

  “Well, we are close. But I don’t know where her new room is. I am sure she must be there, there is nothing to fear. And pardon me, but why are you enquiring about her.”

  “I am a detective,” said Maya, “and Mrs. Crompton, the caretaker of the orphanage has hired me to find Kerry. So I’d be glad if you can help me in any way.”

  “Look, Miss Maya, I don’t know where she is.” He moved away from her, “I am sorry, but I have to cater to the customers now.”

  “I wonder how demanding a single customer can be.”

  Rodney glared at Maya for a few moments, then shrugged and opened the door behind the counter to take his leave.

  “Wait, Rodney,” said Maya, “I am glad to see you have made something of your life.”

  The young boy turned and observed Maya carefully.

  “I don’t understand,” he said, “do you know me?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Maya smiling, “The last time I saw you, you were in the Blackwell Gaol for Young Criminals.”

  He looked around to see if any of his colleagues had heard Maya.

  “How do you know this,” he whispered leaning closer to her.

  “I was there as well. I was put in a year earlier and I escaped a few months after you did, it took me some time to figure out how you did it and then I took the same route. Clambered down the hole under the chamber pot and forded through sewage and out near the river. I drew the route on a piece of paper and left it in one of the dark isolation cells, so hopefully, many other children might have found it and made their way out. All thanks to you.”

  Maya’s knowledge of his past seemed to have mellowed him slightly.

  “Now that you know that I mean no harm,” Maya tried once more, “can you tell me whatever you know about Kerry.”

  “I am glad to have met you, Maya,” he said, “But I don’t know anything about Kerry. I really don’t know where her new room is.”

  Maya looked into his eyes trying to figure out if Rodney was saying the truth, but for once she had no clue.

  TWELVE

  Midnight Break-In

  Maya clutched the beggar’s toga firmly upon her frame. She had procured the garment from Banwari, a beggar who sat near the Temple Bridge in Vasco and with whom she had regular dealings. But it was far too big for her bony frame. And it was also offensively smelly. It seemed like Banwari was not in a habit of washing his patched garment. Perhaps that helped him while seeking alms. But Maya did not let the smell or the girth of her garb deter her focus. She was following her old acquaintance Rodney through the crowded Temple Bridge market, and it was important to focus on her target whose head bobbed in and out of the crowd in the market.

  Maya’s conversation with Rodney had not convinced her that he was giving away the complete truth about Kerry. From what Tracy had told her, Rodney was very protective of Kerry and had once even broken into the orphanage to meet her. It was strange, then, that he showed very little emotion when she told him that Kerry was missing. Maya also had the added knowledge of Rodney’s past now. He had been a young boy of around 14 when he had been brought into the Black Well Gaol for Young Criminals. Maya was 17 then, and had already been serving there for a year for stabbing Happy Billy, a circus clown, in the eye for trying to make undue advances towards her. Rodney had been a member of a notorious local gang which indulged in petty theft and vandalism in Vasco. He had been arrested for being part of one very violent brawl with another rival gang which had left four people dead. From what Maya knew about Rodney, he was an aggressive boy and not averse to violence. In the restaurant, during their short conversation, he had also tried to convince Maya that Kerry was safe in her house, perhaps an attempt to make her abandon her investigation. Could he have a hand in her disappearance? And did he know the man who shot Kerry? But he had been with Kerry for such a long time. The two loved each other. What could make him harm Kerry?

  Maya hoped that searching his home might give her some clues. And for that purpose, she had disguised herself as a beggar to wait outside the Green Cloud till Rodney’s shift ended late at night, and follow him to his home. Maya kept 50 yards from him, her beggar’s garb making sure that she passed by inconspicuously. The streets of Cardim were so rife with beggars that people did not notice them at all. Maya had learned in her job that it served as a perfect disguise to follow people.

  Rodney lived close to the restaurant apparently as he ventured on foot without bothering to take a carriage. Past the Temple Bridge market, he turned towards Steel Mill Street and for a moment vanished from Maya’s sight. It took her some time to locate him finally inside a bakery. He bought a loaf of bread and emerged back on the street continuing onwards. After a 15 minutes’ walk, Rodney reached his house which was in an apartment building at the end of the 11th street.

  Maya sat down on the pavement a couple of houses from Rodney’s, contemplating her next step. She had initially planned to follow Rodney to find out where he lived so that she could return the next day when he was out for work and explore his house. But now, she was lured by the possibility of not waiting till tomorrow to investigate his house.

  It would, without doubt, be dangerous to break into his house with Rodney inside but waiting till the morning was too much for her. She didn’t want to go back home without getting some more clarity about the lead that she had stumbled upon, she wouldn’t be able to put her mind to rest. It was easier to take a little bit of risk.

  Maya decided to stay put on the pavement and wait for an opportune time.
When the lamp glinting from the window of the ground floor flat was extinguished, Maya stood up and brushed the dust from her frame. She stood still for a further 10 minutes to allow Rodney to go to sleep, then got rid of the beggar’s toga, took off her sandals and walked over to the apartment. The window was unlatched and Maya slowly opened the shutters. The street lay in silent darkness and no one saw her heave herself through the window and into the dark room. Instantly she was greeted by the rhythmic snoring of Rodney. She had jumped right into his bedroom. Maya silently tiptoed out of the bedroom and emerged into a small living room. The place was wrapped in darkness and Maya realized it was pointless to have broken into the house with Rodney inside. There was no way that she would be able to scour around for clues in the dark. She fumbled around the place, feeling her surroundings aimlessly. Her hands struck what seemed like a table. Maya moved ahead along the edge of the table and soon hit her toe on something large. Her eyes, now accustomed to the dark, could make out the silhouette of a cupboard. Maya opened the cupboard and immediately the house was filled with a clatter of steel. A metal bowl inside the cupboard had tumbled upon the floor as Maya opened the door. Rodney’s rhythmic snoring stopped and a creaking sound wafted through the room as he twisted upon his bed. Maya heard a match being lit and a beam of light poured through the bedroom door, Rodney had gotten up to inspect the source of the noise. Quickly, she pushed herself inside the large cupboard and closed its door. Through the crevice between the doors, Maya saw the figure of Rodney slowly saunter into the room, a candle in hand, and inspect the place for the cause of the noise. He found the steel bowl on the floor soon enough. Maya was worried that he would open the cupboard to check how it had magically fallen outside, but Rodney kept the bowl on the table, blew the candle, and walked back to his room yawning widely. Maya waited for Rodney's snores to fill the house again before making a move to get out of the cupboard. She had been sitting all this time on what felt like a bunch of papers and she was keen to examine them. Maya stepped out of the cupboard with the litter of papers and tried to figure out what they were. But there wasn’t enough light to make out what was written upon them. From the way they were folded, they seemed like letters. Maya felt around the place until she found the water closet. It was a small stinky space with room enough only for a chamber pot and a wooden bucket. Maya closed the door and lit a match. In the flickering flames of the matchstick, she read the name that had been upon her mind for the last few days.

  Dear Kerry,

  Happy 17th birthday. You are a big girl now and your needs might have increased as well. This year I am sending you 90 Cowries. Use them wisely.

  And don’t forget if you see a bald man with half-burnt face hide and seek help, don’t let him get you.

  Yours Always,

  SM

  Maya flipped through the other papers, all of them were similar. These were the mysterious letters that Kerry received every year on her birthday. But how had they come here?

  Kerry was supposed to have been carrying them with her when she was shot near the river bank. Did that mean that Rodney had a hand in her disappearance?

  Maya’s reverie was broken by the sound of feet shuffling outside the water closet. Before she could make a move, the door creaked open and Rodney’s figure appeared in front of her. His hair was haggard, his face visibly upset, and in his hand he carried the biggest knife that Maya had seen in a while.

  THIRTEEN

  Confrontation

  Maya stumbled back towards the chamber pot, shocked from the sudden apparition of her host. Rodney, still slightly sleepy, took some time to recognize her as the woman he had met in the restaurant earlier in the day.

  “What are you doing here,” he breathed angrily brandishing his knife at her face.

  Maya felt herself huddled against the damp wall of the room, “I was looking for Kerry and I found her letters.”

  Rodney moved the candle in his hand closer to the letters.

  “Give them to me and get out of my house,” he barked.

  Maya pressed herself firmer still against the wall as Rodney and his big knife moved closer to her. Maya’s glance darted towards the wooden bucket in the closet and she kicked it firmly against Rodney’s legs, which left him stumbling backward. The candle fell down from his hand and, still burning, rolled away casting the two in a brief moment of darkness. There was a loud scuffle, an unmistakable howl of pain and when the candle hit the cupboard in the living room and rolled back towards the water closet, Maya was settled firmly on top of Rodney, his big knife now in her hand, its sharp edge pressed against his throat.

  “Hey, what are you doing, please don’t hurt me,” pleaded Rodney, “what do you want of me?”

  “I want to know what you did to Kerry,” Maya hissed.

  “But I didn’t do anything to her,” said he breathing heavily.

  Maya pressed the knife deeper on his throat and drops of blood began to trickle down the blade’s edge and onto the wooden floor.

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “Believe me,” mumbled Rodney, “I didn’t do anything to her. How can I, I love her.”

  “Then how do you have these letters with you. These are Kerry’s.”

  “She gave them to me. I’ll tell you everything just remove the knife from my neck.”

  Maya considered his demand for some moments before pulling the knife an inch from his throat.

  “Tell me now and don’t dare to lie.”

  “Yes, yes. She came to me on Sunday, in the morning and she handed me these letters. She was in a hurry, so we did not have a long conversation but she asked me to find out who sent these letters. She mentioned it was very important, told me that she would come back the next day to say more. But she never returned.”

  “You are lying,” Maya pressed the knife back upon his throat.

  “No, I am not. That is the truth. I don’t know where Kerry is?”

  “And you didn’t bother to find out either? I had heard you cared a lot for her.”

  “What tells you I didn’t,” said he slightly upset at having his love questioned, “I did not know that she was missing until you told me today and I had planned to contact all her friends and look around all the places she used to visit tomorrow. I was even contemplating going to the orphanage. Though Mrs. Crompton, the caretaker does not really like me, but I had still been planning to find out more about her.”

  Maya pulled the knife back a bit again.

  “What about these letters, did you find who sent them.”

  “No, there is nothing upon the letters to indicate its author apart from the initials SM. I went to the post office yesterday afternoon and found an old postmaster but he could shed no light, there is no way that we can locate the author, it is not possible, there is no clue.”

  Maya got up from him and picked up the letters from the floor.

  “You are wrong,” she said to him, “there are plenty of clues, you just need to look carefully.”

  Maya opened her detective’s paraphernalia on the table in the room and settled herself on a stool. Rodney, who held a bloodied handkerchief upon his braised throat, tiptoed behind her and watched like a curious child as she arranged the letters on the table according to the dates on which they had arrived. Overall, there were 12 letters. The first had arrived in 1866, two years after Kerry had come to the orphanage. Each was only a brief note with some money and ended with the warning about the bald man with a half-burned face. Maya took the candle in one hand and her magnifying glass in the other and for the next half an hour studied all the 12 notes. At the end of the research, she stood up and collected the letters in a bunch.

  “I told you,” said Rodney, “there is nothing to be found.”

  “Yes, you were right,” Maya said packing her paraphernalia, “there are not a lot of clues about the author. However, I was able to find a few details. Nothing specific, but I know that the author of the letters is a woman, middle-aged, works as a teacher in a rural farmin
g community, probably in the south of Cardim. She has poor eyesight, is right-handed, and most certainly lives alone.”

  “No,” said Rodney in disbelief, “you didn’t find that from those letters, you are just guessing.”

  “No, I am not. I am deducing. She is a woman, I see that in her handwriting. It is neat and ornate, with uniform gaps between words, and curves at the end of the characters. There is a general care and effort put into the letter. Based on Theodore Merlin’s “A Definite Research on Human Handwriting”, these are feminine characteristics and the writing on the letter is more likely to belong to a woman, as men do not generally put so much effort into making their handwriting seem so attractive, especially when writing anonymously. So, I am inclined to believe that the author of this letter is a woman. This woman does not earn a fixed income since the money she sends to Kerry varies every year. In the year 1869, she sent 140 Cowries, much higher than the year before, while two years later she sent only 30 Cowries. It is clear that she works in an agricultural community because the money varies with weather patterns and crop yields. I know for a fact that in 1871, when she sent very little money, there was a hailstorm that destroyed crops in the region around Cardim. In 1869, on the other hand, there were plentiful rains and consequently, the amount is also higher. I am sure that if we search the archives for historical weather reports, the pattern would keep for the whole duration. Her income is dependent on agriculture. But she is not a farmer herself. She seems too well educated to be a farmer, I can deduce that much from the language of the letters, she is not a countrywoman by birth but a woman who has grown up in the city. Now, what work could a well-educated woman have in a small farming community? There are not many options. She could work in a post office, or as a book-keeper in some local shop, or she could be a teacher in the local school. Her letters, which are invariably small and last just a couple of lines, give us some insight into her profession. In 7 of the 12 letters that Kerry has received, the author has mentioned in passing “I hope you are studying well”. Now, every well-wisher these days wants their ward to be well educated, but writing this in emphasis in a majority of the letters has led me to believe that this woman is a teacher. The constant pressure on the eye in such a profession would also explain her eyesight, which clearly has grown weaker over the years, because in the more recent letters that she has sent, while the writing has remained the same, the font size has increased. The timing of the decline in eyesight also points to her age which should be somewhere between 40 to 50. I can tell that she is right-handed by the smear of ink on the letter, and that she lives alone by the fact that even though she has trouble seeing properly, she is writing the letter herself, which would mean that she has no one else in her house to dictate the letter to.”