by Tara Haigh
Took a short nap on the beach. Knut and Johansson found me. Wanted me to come into town. I have no objections to a glass of beer, but it went further than that. Turned into a regular booze-up. Long faces next morning. Carousing always comes at a price – but the price I paid was much higher. I fell asleep, and they forgot to wake me up. Just left me lying in the corner. Drunken louts. Only a few hours until we set sail. Not long before dawn. It was so quiet at the harbour, but then I heard the cries. Thought they must be coming from one of the piers behind the ship. The wailing of an infant. So loud, so desperate. What was happening? I walked across, saw a black carriage and then – him. Black cloak and hat. Like a fine gentleman. A basket in front of him. There had to be a screaming child inside it. He paid it no heed. ‘What are you doing there?’ I called. Why was nobody else around? No lights on the ship. Where was the mate who was supposed to keep watch? The man in black ignored me, made as if to leave. I reached the carriage. There really was an infant in the basket. More wailing. I grabbed his coat before he could shut the door and hauled him back out. Never have I seen such a malignant glare. He shoved me. I saw red. He wasn’t going to get away. I threw my full weight on top of him and hit him, once, twice, three times. He lay dazed on the ground. I asked him why he was leaving the child here. No answer. So I searched his pockets for his wallet. He tried to defend himself, but he was too weak. No backbone. Delicate hands like a woman. I knew he would have some identification on him. Everybody is required to carry papers round here. I pinned his arms down with my knees. He whimpered in pain. An Englishman called Richard Foster, going by his passport. He wanted to give me money, everything he had. ‘Whose child is that?’ He didn’t answer. An emergency, he claimed. He’d changed his mind – wanted to take it to the hospital or an orphanage. The infant cried and cried. I didn’t believe a word he said. Glanced over. Such a bonny baby. It looked back at me and stopped crying. He told me he’d get me more money if I let him go. Said he was rich. Said the child belonged to a whore. She’d passed it off as his. Simply placed the basket in his carriage. I knew he was lying. He begged me. Said he’d give me as much money as I wanted. He had such false, wicked eyes, but the child was looking at me too. A foundling. It wouldn’t be the first brought home by a sailor. Should I make his lie my own? Rosa would be thrilled. I didn’t need to think about it for long. Told him I’d look after it, but he’d have to pay for it. He agreed. Asked for his passport back. I said he’d get it once he paid. His hateful expression sickened me. I let him stand up. He asked for my name. Quickly! He noted it down with my address in Hamburg; said he’d go to the bank tomorrow. A numbered account – everything anonymous. He promised to send enough money for the child. I’ll send him his passport through the post once the money arrives. I threatened to tell the world too. He had no choice, since that’s what he’s afraid of. Foster didn’t even look back at the bundle of rags in the basket. He got into his carriage and drove off. The child was quiet. Stopped crying. Did it know it was in safe hands?
I need to speak to von Stetten. He’ll help me. They’ll make fun of me, say I must have paid a secret visit to the whorehouse during our last voyage nine months ago. I don’t care. It’ll make Rosa happy. Will he pay up? He has to. Nobody can make a child disappear without leaving a trail. The baby belongs to a whore who doesn’t want it. And even if that was a lie – a mother who gives her own child away is no better than a whore. Admittedly, the baby doesn’t look like it had a Chinese mother. Then again, there are English and Dutch prostitutes out here too. Fallen women who sell themselves for money. She must have been one of those.
There’s goat milk on board. The child will be hungry. I . . .
Ella was still staring at the pages from her father’s diary. The pain she had felt as she read them through was still with her, and seemed to paralyse her soul. She panted shallowly. Her whole world had shrunk to just these few sheets of paper in her hand. Ella could almost smell the salty air of the harbour, mingled with the odour of fish. She could feel the hard basket pressing against her back – could see the starry sky above her, divided in two by a huge wall of wood. That terrible fear. She could feel it now. It was so strong, she was unable to move, to lift herself from the side of the bed. A whore. Her mother was a whore. That was certain now. To suspect it – to view it as a mere possibility – was far less painful than to look the truth in the face. Ella shivered, even though it was warm in her room. Tears welled up in her eyes and dropped onto the paper. Even after all these years, the ink still ran. She quickly put the pages to one side. Richard really was her father, then.
Ella dried her eyes. She finally had certainty – but then again, how certain could she really be? She understood now why Father had asked her for forgiveness, although there was nothing to forgive. She debated reading through the pages again, but she let them be. She needed to gather herself – try to think clearly once more.
She went to the washbasin and filled it from the jug. The water felt good. It seemed to wash the pain away, although a dull ache still remained. She tried to pull herself together, and went to the window to drink deeply of the fresh air.
The officer was still standing there, reminding her that she urgently needed to regain a clear head. The past couldn’t be changed – better to look to the future! But that only raised new questions. Why had Raj brought her these papers? On whose behalf? Heather couldn’t have sent him – at least, Ella saw no reason for her to do so. Had Raj himself found the diary, perhaps? Was she overthinking things? Did he want to help her? Maybe he did. After all, why else would he have suggested a meeting?
Ella’s eyes went back to the extracts from her father’s diary. The presence of an English translation confirmed Rudolf’s sinister intentions. He had known the truth the whole time. Father must have hidden the missing diary with the von Stettens. After all, Captain von Stetten had helped her father pass her off as his natural daughter in order to procure the necessary documentation. Wasn’t it obvious that Father would store the diary with someone he trusted? In a secret place? Perhaps Rudolf had stumbled across it when his uncle died, and had seen an opportunity to make a lot of money after gambling his own fortune away – though it was also possible that he had only searched for it after Father’s death, and that his discovery had been the real reason he had offered to accompany her to Malacca. His intended had suddenly become the potential heir to a plantation, which meant he could use her as leverage to blackmail people for money. The thought seemed so monstrous that she could still scarcely believe it, even though Otto had already suspected it. On top of all that, if Rudolf had been carrying this document with him when he visited the Fosters, that would seem to confirm her suspicions that he was murdered. But by whom? And above all, how?
Ella collapsed exhausted onto the bed. Her father’s diary had suddenly lost all its terror. She picked up the pages and gently ran her hand over them. Perhaps he was looking down at her right now. If he was, he would surely be able to hear what she was thinking. ‘There’s nothing to forgive. If it weren’t for you, I might not even be alive,’ she said to herself, and as she spoke, she felt a certain lightness and consoling warmth that rose from her belly and spread throughout her whole body, leaving her at peace.
The next day, Ella found two messages waiting for her: one from Puteri, and the other from Jones. The trial would begin the following morning at nine o’clock. Jones wanted to meet her half an hour beforehand, and had already been in touch with Puteri. These glad tidings caused all Ella’s agitation from the night to melt away, and she even found herself feeling hungry.
As she sat in the courtyard of the boarding house and enjoyed a late breakfast, Ella debated whether she really ought to meet Raj on her own. Otto had already departed and Amar was sitting in jail. By now, Ella felt sure that Lee would be willing to leave the boarding house unattended for an hour to come with her, or would ask her brother for assistance, but in the end, she decided not to enlist her help. What could possibly go wrong? Nor was there any
need for another disguise. After all, it was normal for travellers to visit the region’s landmarks, and an Indian temple counted as a landmark.
It would only have driven her mad to wait in her room until the appointed time, so Ella thought it better to leave Mohan’s cart at the boarding house and wander over on foot instead. She would take longer to reach the temple that way, for it lay at the other end of the town. It came as no surprise when the officer turned to look at her as she left her lodgings. Would he follow her? No, he stayed where he was. It seemed that Compton only wanted to make sure she was still in Johore. The officer would doubtless have reacted differently if she had taken the cart.
On her way through town, Ella realised that she now attracted fewer curious looks than when she had first arrived in Malacca – and for her own part, she too had grown accustomed to her surroundings, from the architecture and the food stands with their enticing aromas to the shoeshines squatting at the side of the road and the rickshaws trundling past her. It all felt so familiar. Could it be that she was projecting that same sense of familiarity onto the people around her? She seemed to have become a completely natural part of this world in the eyes of others. And now she was becoming acquainted with a whole new world, for this would be the first time she had set foot in an Indian temple.
From what she could recall, they looked more modest than the Chinese ones with their red, gilded roofs, and at first glance, the Great Temple was no exception, being surrounded by a plain white wall – and yet the entrance to the building proved extremely impressive. It took the form of a pyramid-shaped tower that was overflowing with colourful painted ornaments depicting people, horses, local plants and all kinds of mythical creatures. Ella walked inside and immediately met with yet another surprise. The places of worship she had visited in Germany and England were set out in an orderly fashion, but here, there were neither seats nor a central altar; instead, she saw a dozen small podiums with sculptures of Hindu gods standing on top of them. The worshippers decorated them with sweet-scented floral wreaths, giving the room a joyful atmosphere that was far removed from the oppressive, gloomy feel of churches back in Europe. The floor was tiled and the walls were decked in small, colourful mosaics, as were the columns that held up the roof – and as if that intoxicating riot of colours weren’t enough, there were yet more paintings hanging on the walls, depicting figures who also had to be Hindu deities. Ella found one of them rather comical: a figure with the head of an elephant on top of a rather portly human body, which looked even bulkier thanks to the many garlands of flowers hanging from it. An Indian mother lifted her young son so that he could place a wreath on it too. Ella was in her way, and the woman asked her to move to one side: ‘Sorry, would you mind?’
Ella took the opportunity to ask the deity’s name.
‘Ganesha. The god of wisdom and success,’ the woman explained. Her offering of flowers was presumably intended to bestow those qualities on her son.
Ella turned round and wandered back along the row of deities, but she didn’t get far before a tall figure emerged from the gloom to join her. She recognised him.
‘Thank you for coming to meet me,’ said Raj.
Just then, she was standing beneath a painting of a striking Indian woman, who was riding a lion and carrying a spear in her hand.
‘She’s beautiful,’ said Ella. The painting fascinated her.
‘Her name is Durga, the mother goddess. She vanquishes evil and protects the righteous,’ explained Raj. ‘Perhaps it was she who sent you,’ he remarked mysteriously, without taking his eyes from the painting.
‘Who gave you the envelope?’ Ella demanded.
‘It was Miss Foster,’ he answered without hesitation.
Ella needed a moment to digest this news. Why in the world had her half-sister done this? Ella hoped Raj would continue to answer her questions instead of palming her off with vague hints, as usual.
‘Do you know what was inside it?’
Raj merely nodded. How was he able to remain so calm, given what he knew?
‘Miss Foster found those pages inside the house. Mrs Foster was keeping them in the safe, but Miss Foster knew where her mother hid the key,’ explained Raj.
‘So Rudolf really did blackmail her.’ Ella still couldn’t believe he had behaved so wickedly. To suspect it was one thing; to be certain of it, quite another.
‘Evidently,’ replied Raj curtly. He beckoned Ella to follow him towards the back of the temple, where there were fewer people. Their conversation was not for public consumption.
‘There was a row. I could hear them shouting from outside. Miss Foster ran out of the house in tears and took me into her confidence. She wants to get away from here. She would like to leave the country with you and turn her back on her mother forever.’
‘What? But why? Does she also believe that her mother murdered Rudolf?’ Ella had a thousand questions, but this was the one that interested her most.
Raj didn’t answer or change his expression.
‘Does Marjory know that Heather was looking in her safe?’ asked Ella uneasily.
‘No – not yet, anyway. Miss Foster would get into a lot of trouble for that.’
‘In that case, why did she open it in the first place?’ Ella demanded.
It was plain to see that Raj was under enormous pressure, and that his silence was costing him a great deal of effort. All the same, he was giving answers to some of her questions, so Ella doggedly persisted.
‘And why did she send me the pages from the diary?’
‘Miss Foster wants you to know the truth,’ said Raj.
‘What truth? I already know that Richard was my real father,’ she exclaimed hotly.
‘The truth isn’t always what it looks like at first glance,’ he answered cryptically.
Ella felt her anger mounting. He was being evasive yet again.
‘But you know what really happened. I think you know more than you’re willing to tell me,’ she accused him.
‘It’s not about what I’m willing to tell you, it’s about what I’m allowed to tell you.’ He tried to justify himself.
‘Did Heather forbid you? Or is it because of the oath of loyalty people say you swore to Marjory?’ she asked.
‘It’s not up to me. Miss Foster wants to explain everything to you herself.’ Raj’s lips were sealed again. ‘When are you travelling back to Europe?’ he asked her next.
‘I can’t go back. Amar is in jail, accused of high treason, rebellion and abetting the escape of a prisoner. The chances are good that he will be set free, but Compton won’t leave us in peace. Amar’s life is in danger. We have to leave the country.’
Raj nodded in understanding. ‘What should I tell Miss Foster? Do you even want to see her?’
‘Of course I do.’ Ella still couldn’t believe that Heather had plucked up the courage to break away from Marjory – but then again, she must be under the impression that her own mother was a murderer.
‘How do you plan to escape?’ asked Raj.
Could she really trust him? For a moment, Ella even considered the possibility that all this was just a trap – but that was unlikely, given that the pages from her father’s diary incriminated Marjory.
‘Via the east coast. A village called Mersing. German freighters sail from there to German New Guinea, and a ship will call there in two days’ time.’
‘How will you get there? Over land?’
‘There’s no other way. I’m being watched, and if I wait at the harbour for a ferry then Compton will soon hear about it.’
‘But Miss Foster could take one of the steamers to the east coast. I know Mersing. There’s only one boarding house. She could wait for you there,’ Raj suggested.
‘Couldn’t she join us tomorrow?’ asked Ella out of concern for her half-sister’s safety – but also because that meant she would find out sooner why Heather had sent her the extract from her father’s diary.
‘I’m afraid she can’t wait that long. Mrs Fo
ster attends to her business every morning, and she’ll open the safe when she does. Miss Foster will need to escape the house before then.’
Raj’s concerns made sense to Ella.
‘What time is the trial tomorrow?’ he asked.
‘Nine o’clock. Why do you ask?’ she enquired.
‘I expect I’ll be in attendance too. If I know Mrs Foster, she won’t want to miss it,’ said Raj.
That was all Ella needed. She had hoped she would never have to see the woman again in her life.
The conversation seemed to be at an end, and Raj asked that they leave the temple separately. Ella would have suggested that herself, since she couldn’t be sure who was watching her or if somebody had decided to follow her after all. Yet there was another reason she decided to stay behind. With its garish colours, the temple seemed the perfect physical counterpart to all the thoughts whirring through her mind like a lurid nightmare, and the figures she saw seemed to represent the people who surrounded her in real life. Even Marjory was here, as a sinister form with evil eyes and wrapped in snakes. A painting of a vulnerable young woman offering a sacrifice to a many-armed deity reminded her of Heather, while another depicting an army of sabre-wielding monkeys called the British to mind. Projecting her thoughts into these images and giving free rein to her imagination in this way helped Ella to relieve her inner tension, and created a sense of detachment in the midst of so much chaos.