Rami turned away. She was in shock, incoherent. He quickly unfolded the small pile of clothes and helped her to dress, all the time his brain reeling, the panic tight in his chest. He didn’t know what the hell had happened and all he could think was please God, don’t let Jane be involved.
Leaving her alone for a few moments, Rami hurried along the passage and called to the head bearer to dismiss the servants for the rest of the day; he didn’t want anyone else implicated in this. Then he went back to Jane, took her hand and led her down to Shiva’s study, taking the key from his grandfather’s suite and letting them both into the private hallowed room. He sat her on the divan and crossed to the window, standing in a shaft of sunlight, suspended in agonizing indecision. Until he had found out exactly what had happened, he didn’t know what to do. He turned as Jane got up and walked across to Shiva’s desk.
“Jane?”
She stood in front of a neat pile of papers and held the paperweight in her hand. It was a small, heavy jeweled bird, exquisitely set with diamonds, emeralds and rubies, the work of Rami’s great, great grandfather. It was Shiva’s, the bird of fate, he had often called it, and Rami looked at her as she turned it over and over in her palm, the way that his grandfather did.
“Jane? Are you all right?” For one terrible moment he thought that the shock had deranged her mind, that perhaps she had done something that had sent her over the edge. Then she looked at him.
“There was a man, Colonel Reginald Mills,” she said, “the Commanding officer of the Fourth Battalion of the Dragoon Guards up at Moraphur in 1857, the year of the Mutiny.”
Rami stood still. He knew the name Moraphur, it was where his family came from, and he knew the story of the Mutiny, of Jagat Rai. He looked at Jane’s face. The confusion had cleared, the blankness had gone from her eyes. She held the bird out to him and it caught the light, the stones glittered. He felt his chest constrict.
“In revenge for the murder of the Europeans, among whom was his wife, Colonel Mills executed many Indians, threw many more into jail. The story goes, so Phillip has told me, that he blamed one family in particular, I don’t know who, but two men, a father and a son. He ruined them, confiscated their lands, businesses, wealth.” Jane stopped and glanced down at the bird. “He stole a small keepsake from this family for himself; they were jewelers, and he took a piece of their work. It is in the British Museum, I’ve seen it myself, donated by Phillip’s father…” Her voice faltered and she broke off for a moment. “It is a small jeweled bird,” she said, “one of a pair.” She looked up at Rami. “It is the partner of this one here, I would stake my life on it.” Her hand closed over the bird and she held it tightly in her fist. “The father died in prison—”
“And the son swore to honor his father’s death,” Rami finished for her, “and to pass this oath on down through the generations.” He repeated the words he had heard so often from Shiva. “It is a matter of great family honor, the man who revenges Indrajit Rai’s death will be a god among gods.”
Jane began to tremble. She squeezed her fist tighter and the skin on her hand stretched taut and white over her knuckles. “Major Phillip Reginald Mills,” she whispered, “great, great grandson of Colonel Reginald Mills…” A sob caught in her throat.
“No, Jane, no!” Rami moved toward her but she backed away. “It’s impossible! Why now? Why not years ago? Why let this vengeance wait for so long?”
“Because there has never been a Mills in India, not until now! There has never been the chance before.”
“No, Jane!” Rami cried. “It cannot be…” He shook his head, he didn’t believe it, he couldn’t believe it. This sort of thing died with the birth of the New India, it was crazy, superstitious, ridiculous! “No,” he said, turning away from her, “no, Jane, I simply do not believe it.”
“But, Rami, you must! Don’t you see? How could it have happened without a Mills in India? How could it have been done until now? My God! Your grandfather may even have influenced Phillip’s job here… you said he was instrumental in many of the maharajah’s decisions, you said…”
“No! Jane, stop this! This is folly, this talk of vengeance! Stop please!” Jane stared at him across the room, then she glanced down at her hand and opened the fist. A thought so terrible struck her that for a moment it took her breath away.
“Perhaps you knew this already,” she said, “you sent me there, you arranged to meet me…”
Rami spun around. “I what?” He moved so fast across the room and grabbed her shoulders with such force that Jane cried out.
“I did what, Jane?” He shook her, not realizing what he was doing. “What address?”
Jane’s teeth rattled inside her head and her vision blurred. She dropped the bird. “Stop it!” she shrieked. “Stop it!” Rami abruptly let her go and she slumped down, holding her head. He stared down at her. “I got a message,” she cried. “You told me to go to that address! I got a message last night, to meet you there!”
She started to sob and Rami sunk to his knees, pulling her in close to him. “Oh God, Jane, please don’t cry. I’m so sorry, darling Jane, please…” He kissed her hair, pressed her face close to his chest. “Shiva,” he murmured. The name went round and round in his head. Shiva. Shiva invited him to the lunch yesterday, Shiva knew Jane trusted him, Shiva knew she would go where he asked her to. I should be there now, he thought, I should be out of Baijur, up at Viki’s lodge and Jane would have no one, Phillip is dead, his mistress is dead and Jane was seen covered with their blood. He swallowed down the intense fear that rose suddenly in his throat and squeezed his eyes shut tight. When he opened them again, he saw the bird lying on the floor, the stones glinting in the light, like tiny darts of evil. He pulled back from Jane and said, “Who saw you, Jane? Who and where?”
Jane shook her head. “I don’t know, I…” She closed her eyes, trying to think back. “Lots of people saw me!” she cried. “I took a taxi, jumped out near your house, I ran from the bungalow into the street!” She caught her breath. “Oh God, Rami! They’ll think I…” She leaped up, darting across to the window. “Can anyone see me here? Does anyone know I’m with you?” She began to panic again, her whole body pounding with fear. “The servants? Where are they?” She ran over to the desk and grabbed the phone. “I’ve got to get away! I’ll phone the airport, I have to leave now!” She dropped her hands down on to the desk and hung her head, momentarily paralyzed by anxiety. Then, frantically, she started to rifle through the papers on the desk. “There must be a number for the airport here! There must be—”
Hurrying across to her, Rami put his hand over hers and stopped it. “Jane, don’t!” He picked it up and held it tight. “Don’t panic, please! I’m here, we’ll think this through.” He replaced the receiver and glanced down at the pad by the phone as he did so. He saw the address Shiva had written the night before.
“Do you remember the place you went to?” he asked quietly, hanging his head.
“No! I…” Jane took a deep breath to calm herself. “All I remember is that it was near the Bazaar, on the other side of the Chawlor district.” Rami ripped the corner off the paper and screwed it up into a tight little ball.
“Rami, what? What are you doing?”
He turned away for a moment, then he faced her. “Nothing, Jane,” he answered. He kissed the hand he held and Jane looked up at him. His eyes were filled with infinite sadness.
“You are right,” he said. “You must get away to safety. We have to make plans.” He released her hand and picked up the telephone. “I will call Bodi.” He registered the fear in Jane’s eyes. “It is all right,” he reassured her, “we can trust him, I promise.” He looked at her, at the clear honest face he loved so much, and said, “I am sorry, Jane, for all this.” He knew now that Shiva had used him, used them both. “If I had not loved you, if you had not loved me…”
Jane put her finger up to his mouth and silenced him. “I would never have lived a true life,” she said and she m
oved away from him while he rang Dr. Yadav and spoke quickly and quietly in order to save her life.
It was almost dusk by the time the arrangements had been made and Jane stood by the window in Shiva’s study, watching for the last time the sun go down over Baijur. She had her back to the room and heard the murmur of conversation behind her as Bodi explained the final details of her flight to Rami. She didn’t turn around though; she didn’t want to know what would happen when she had gone, or hear the lies that would be told. It was too eerie; it was as if she had already disappeared.
She shivered as she heard an eagle cry and felt a movement behind her. Rami placed his arms gently around her and laid his cheek close to hers. “You must leave,” he whispered. “It is the signal.” She closed her eyes to remember his soft, warm breath on her cheek and they stayed like that for as long as they could. “We must go,” Bodi said behind them.
Jane opened her eyes again. “I am ready,” she answered. She turned into the room and took the shawl and cloak Bodi held out for her. Rami helped her on with them and tucked the shawl over her face, securing it. All he could see were her eyes, the clear, pale gray eyes. Bodi opened the door of the study.
“When we have gone,” he said to Rami, “you are to wait thirty minutes then raise the alarm as I said.” Rami nodded. Jane followed Bodi along the passage, out of the back door of the bungalow and down the steps into the garden. It was quiet and dark; only the sound of the tiddi could be heard. Turning toward the clump of trees at the far end of Shiva Rai’s land, Bodi saw the flash of a torchlight, and said, “Come, they are waiting for us.” He quickly embraced Rami. “He will not trust you, my son,” he said hurriedly. “You must be strong, tell him again and again that you know nothing, that she fled from the house when you went to get help.” Bodi released him. “You do understand that, do you not?”
“Yes, I understand.” Rami moved to embrace Jane but she put her hands out to stop him. She couldn’t bear it to have to tear herself away from his body, from his arms. She stood and looked at him for a few moments, then quickly she reached up and brushed his lips with her own. She said nothing.
“I will come for you,” Rami whispered urgently. “I promise you…” But she had turned away, waiting for Bodi’s signal to run.
The eagle cried a second time and Jane felt a hand on her back.
“Now! Run!” She took Bodi’s cue and together they darted out of the cover of the house and across the open space toward the trees, two dark figures running under the shadow of the clouds.
“Go on, go!” Rami cried silently after them. “Go like the wind!” And he stood and watched them until the darkness of the trees engulfed them and all he was left with was their fleeting image and the echo of the eagle’s cry.
21
MITCHELL HARVEY STEPPED OFF THE PLANE AT DELHI AIRPORT and on to Indian soil for the first time. The warmth hit him, a rush of humid air that made him sweat on contact, the smell of it peculiar to India. He walked down the steps and on to the tarmac, carrying a briefcase loaded with US dollars, and boarded the bus. He spoke to no one, made no eye contact. He was in a filthy temper and had been since he’d left Dubai. He would negotiate the final price, deliver the cash then fuck off out of this God-forsaken place. Two days he’d give it, two miserable stinking days, that was all.
Imran was waiting with a car outside. He met Mitchell as he came through arrivals and deduced his mood immediately. He wasted no time on peripherals.
“I’ve agreed a price, subject to your approval,” he said. “There’s no need to go to Baijur.”
Mitchell kept hold of the briefcase. “How much?”
“Ten thousand US dollars.”
Mitchell stayed silent as he followed Imran out of the airport to the waiting Mercedes. Inside, away from the smell and heat, he sat back and loosened his tie.
“It’s too much,” he said. “Our friend in Baijur’s got greedy.”
Imran had pre-empted Mitchell’s response. “He pretty much controls the police force down there,” he replied. “He will guarantee what goes into the report.”
Mitchell took a cigar out of the top pocket of his suit and lit it up. “So he removes Suzanna’s name from the file and the inquest, for ten thou?”
“And he organizes a road traffic accident report.”
“Very neat. Who is this man?”
“An Indian official, of sorts. There’s always someone to help if the price is right.”
Mitchell said nothing and Imran shut up. Mitchell didn’t have any choice but he wasn’t going to point that out.
“What about the charity story?”
“That’s extra.”
“Christ! He is a greedy bastard!” Mitchell flicked his ash on the floor of the car. “How much extra?” he said after a pause.
“Three.”
“Shit!”
Imran waited for a minute or so then said, “So far there’s been nothing released; we’re in a good position. If you move quickly, deliver within the next twenty-four hours, this man can release a news story with witnesses to the CNS. It’ll be something like—wealthy British woman on charity mission is tragically killed in road accident.” He paused. “You stay till the end of the week, release a press statement from Delhi, where you flew immediately from Dubai on hearing the news, distraught, shocked etc. etc.”
Mitchell smoked on in silence. He finished the cigar and ground it out under the heel of his shoe. “What about Mills?”
“I didn’t ask. I didn’t think he was important.”
Mitchell glanced out of the window. “He isn’t.” He turned back to Imran. The boy had done well, he was proving to be a valuable asset.
“OK. Do it,” he said. “Then come back to Delhi for a few days.” He dropped his hand heavily on to Imran’s thigh. “I’ll wait for you there.”
Imran kept his face averted, he didn’t want Mitchell to see the revulsion in his eyes.
“And Mills’ wife, the one they think did it. Where is she?”
“I don’t know, no one knows.”
Mitchell removed his hand, instantly angry. “Then find her,” he snapped. “And damn fucking quick!” He took out another cigar, his relaxed friendly mood over. “I don’t want to be embarrassed by some maniac wife turning up with the full monty!” He lit up a second time. “So get that fucking woman out of the way! D’you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mitchell said nothing else and they drove on to the hotel in silence.
It was freezing in the garden, the sort of glorious, clear, cold English December morning, where the ground was covered with white frost and the pale blue sky touched the tips of the bare trees. John Bennet sat alone in the greenhouse, the panes of glass frosted over, his breath making clouds of steam in the icy air. He perched on the edge of the bench, a handful of compost in his hand and a half-potted bowl of pansies and ivy at his side. He was motionless. He hung his head and stared at the floor, littered with clumps of soil, gravel, sawdust and he waited for the sound of the car to disappear up the drive.
“John?”
He glanced up. Caroline Bennet stood in the doorway. “He’s gone,” she said. “You can come back into the house now.”
John winced at the tone of voice she used. She was tired, as stressed as he was, but the difference was she had hardened to it. She had let a moment of doubt intrude on her thoughts and Jane had ceased to be the daughter she remembered; she had become the woman in the Mills case, and all her mother wanted was for it all to be over, over and forgotten.
“What did he want?”
“The same as all the others, a different angle, a photograph, one of the wedding.” She snorted derisively. “As if we would let these people into the privacy of our lives! It’s insulting!”
John held out his hand and she came across and took it. They stayed like that for some time, not looking at each other, both sad, both grieving, but separately.
“I just wish we knew where she was!” John said sudd
enly. “I wish I knew she was all right!”
Caroline snatched her hand away. “Give it up, John!” she snapped. “For God’s sake!”
He looked up at her. They went round and round in circles like this, every day, every night. He couldn’t rest, he knew Jane hadn’t been involved, he knew his daughter and he worried, he worried himself sick, night after night. But Caroline, she tried to blot it out, to forget it in any way she could.
He stood and dropped the soil on to the ground, brushing the palm of his hand on his gardening trousers. He didn’t understand his wife, he never had. It had been months now but he couldn’t give up hope, he wouldn’t ever give up hope, but the prospect of that, the loneliness of it dismayed him. He followed Caroline out into the garden, abandoning his potting, unable to finish anything these days.
“D’you want coffee?” she asked.
John shrugged. “I thought I might have a look at the roses,” he answered. Caroline’s nostrils flared but she said nothing. The roses were his and Jane’s, they reminded him so acutely of his daughter and she didn’t understand why he had to keep punishing himself like this. She walked away from him toward the house.
“Don’t be long,” she called back. “It’s cold, you’ll get a chill.”
He nodded and watched her disappear inside. Then he turned toward the rose garden, the pruned and clipped bushes stiff with ice, and smiled sadly at the memory of Jane’s love of her roses.
22
March, 1966
JANE SAT ON THE VERANDAH OF HER SMALL HOUSE IN THE HILLS above the mountain town of Ghanerao, in the southeastern part of the state of Balisthan, and looked across the valley as the sun crept over the landscape. It was early morning, the coolest part of the day, and the mist was just beginning to lift. She let a long thin shaft of warm sunlight gently caress her face as she leaned her head back and folded her hands in her lap. She let her mind drift, her daily thoughts of Rami mixed with a calm happiness and peace that she had lately begun to feel. She was tired, she hadn’t slept well and as the shaft of sunlight lengthened and widened, sliding across the verandah to warm her whole figure, she closed her eyes and sighed contentedly.
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