Butterfly Island

by Corina Bomann

  10

  Berlin, 2008

  Diana’s return to Berlin felt wrong somehow—as though she no longer belonged there. Even on the plane, she was already missing Tremayne House so much that she was moved to write an email to Mr. Green. That’s bound to surprise him, Diana thought as she tapped the words on to the keyboard. But maybe it’ll reassure him that this time it’s not going to be years before I return.

  In any case, she was now the mistress of Tremayne House. When they had opened Emily’s will it had turned out that Diana’s aunt had left the house and its grounds to her. If Dr. Burton, the solicitor, was to be believed, there was no one else who could make a claim to the inheritance.

  She preferred not to think of the future maintenance of the house. Emily had also left her a substantial sum of money and some stocks and shares, but they were not enough to keep a property like that running.

  And there was also the casket from the secret compartment. All through the flight her head had been filled with questions about it. In Victoria’s old letter that she’d found under Daphne’s coffin, there had been a reference to “something” that the mysterious man had left behind until he could reach Grace. The only truly unusual object in the casket had been the inscribed leaf.

  Did this leaf have something to do with the guilty conscience Emily had referred to?

  In any case she first had to find out what the marks on the leaf meant. Maybe it was something like a love letter in a secret code. Or maybe it was in an Indian language. She knew someone in Berlin who was familiar with Asian scripts, and intended to get in touch with him.

  Unfortunately, there were other matters to concern her. Although she had to uncover the family secret, she first needed to have it out with Philipp. While she was away, she had actually managed to hold back from answering him a single time—although that wouldn’t make it any easier when they met face to face.

  As she drove up the street, she had a strange feeling that her husband would be waiting for her. His car on the drive confirmed her suspicions. It seemed he didn’t have a lunch date with his new girlfriend that day.

  She parked her Mini behind his car, steeling herself for his reproaches as she got out. Although with his affair he had forfeited the right to scold her for being unreachable, her heart was nevertheless pounding as if she were a little girl coming home late from playing out, wondering how to justify herself to her father.

  As she turned the key in the lock a thought occurred to her that made her pulse race even quicker.

  What will you do if you find the two of them in bed together? Maybe he’s been making the most of your absence . . .

  Listening anxiously for laughter or other telltale sounds, she closed the door as quietly as she could behind her, then slipped down the hallway.

  Light shone from the open living room door. The TV was on. No other sound. Diana made no attempt to be quiet as she approached the door. He was sitting there in front of the TV, cool as a cucumber, as though it were a perfectly normal evening. At least his girlfriend wasn’t with him.

  Diana set her bag down on the floor and he finally turned.

  “Diana!” He jumped up from his chair and came over to her. “For God’s sake, where have you been?”

  “In England,” she replied coolly, refusing to meet his eye. His angular face, dimpled cheeks, brown eyes, and short curly hair—the things she had first fallen in love with—almost caused her to regret her behaviour now. But no, she wasn’t the one who had anything to feel guilty about.

  “At your aunt’s?” Philipp planted his hands on his hips. “Why didn’t you say anything? You didn’t even send me a text!”

  “You know full well why.” Despite her intention to stay calm, to use Mr. Green’s composure as an example, Diana realised she sounded like a sulky child.

  “It was only a one-off.”

  “And? How long has this one-off been going on for?”

  “Diana . . .”

  “Please could you be honest for once,” she snapped.

  Philipp pressed his lips together. Not because he was lost for words, but from anger.

  “How’s your aunt, then?” he asked with a veneer of self-control, as though the previous words had not been spoken.

  Diana narrowed her eyes, but couldn’t prevent the tears from escaping. He doesn’t need to know, she tried to persuade herself. He never took any interest in her before.

  “She’s dead,” she burst out despite herself.

  Philipp looked shocked at the news, and made as if to give her a hug. Diana shoved his arms away. “Don’t touch me! You can sympathise all you like, but it won’t change what’s happened!”

  Philipp sniffed, then shook his head. “So where do we go from here?”

  “Us?” Diana laughed bitterly. “We should keep out of each other’s way. I’ll sleep in the guest room.”

  She picked up her bag and trudged upstairs.

  Gasping with suppressed anger, Diana sat down behind her desk. My suspicions were right, she thought as she unpacked her laptop. I should have stayed a while longer at Tremayne House.

  “Next stop, Dahlem-Dorf,” came the distorted voice through the hubbub of subway noise. Diana carefully put the travel guide away in her bag and checked again that the envelope containing the strange leaf hadn’t got crumpled.

  Lost in thought, she stood outside the station with a smile on her face. Not much had changed since she had been a student at the Free University of Berlin. Fashions were a little different, the curriculum would have been revised in line with the times, but Dahlem was still alive with people hungry for knowledge.

  Unlike during her student days, she turned her back on the university buildings and headed for the grey glass-and-steel structure that housed the Museum of Asian Art.

  She had managed to contact her acquaintance that morning and arrange an appointment the same day—a rare occurrence, so he claimed, as he was usually fully booked.

  The excessively loud voices that met her as she entered came from a group of students gathering for a guided tour of the museum, who were attracting disapproving looks from the lady behind the reception counter.

  Diana went over to her. “Hello, my name is Diana Wagenbach. I have an appointment with Dr. Fellner.”

  Looking at her as though she had told her a whopping lie, the assistant picked up a phone and announced Diana’s arrival. The person on the other end of the line confirmed the appointment, and the woman’s features softened a little.

  “Just a moment, please. He’s on his way.”

  Diana thanked her and took a seat on a nearby bench. She didn’t have to watch the bored-looking students for long, as five minutes later her acquaintance came towards her. Michael Fellner was tall and still slim, but had lost the lankiness of his student days. He wore a grey jacket over blue jeans, and the collar of his light-blue shirt was open. No one from his younger days as a punk would have believed that he would now be walking around looking like this, least of all Diana.

  He held out his hand to her with a smile. “Diana! Lovely to see you! Fancy; we’ve been working in the same city for years, but our paths have never crossed.”

  “They have now,” Diana replied and hugged him as they always had when their crowds had met.

  “You’re looking good! You’ve hardly changed at all.”

  “I’m the one who’s asking you for something, so I thought I’d better try and dress to impress,” Diana said with a smile.

  Michael stroked his chin pensively. “Well, you’ve certainly impressed me. It only makes me painfully aware of my growing spare tyre and the grey I see at my temples in the mirror every morning.”

  Diana shook her head in disapproval. He had no sign of a spare tyre, and he certainly wasn’t going grey. His hairline was receding a little, but his features were still those of the boy who used to wear oversized glasses and sport spiky dyed-blond hair and who had kept trying to lecture her on Asian art. His glasses were a more acceptable size now, his s
hort hair cut to an even length, and she was now eager to share in his knowledge.

  “Let’s go to my office and you can show me your treasure.”

  They went upstairs and along a couple of corridors until they reached Michael’s inner sanctum. The office, which was full of the clutter of the academic, had a good view of the university grounds, from which buildings rose up like scattered rocks.

  “Diana Bornemann,” he said as he sat down behind his desk.

  How long had it been since she’d heard her maiden name? All at once it seemed as though she’d taken a step back in time. Still unmarried, about to take an exam, full of ideas and ambitious plans. The man before her was once again a budding Asian specialist, whose Japanese and Chinese were still a little shaky, and who was teaching himself Hindi in his spare time.

  “You got married,” he said, glancing at her ring finger. “At first I wondered who this Diana Wagenbach was, but then I recognised your voice. Do you know that almost everyone in our crowd secretly dreamed of getting you into bed?”

  Diana put on a shocked expression. Of course she had been aware of the guys’ advances—and all the stupid stunts they pulled to show her who was best. Michael had always been more reserved, but he hadn’t held back from giving her meaningful looks.

  “And I thought you were only interested in debates on social injustices. But I don’t think we need to dwell on the past.”

  “You’re right,” Michael agreed, leaning back and studying her. “So what brings you to me? You sounded so mysterious.”

  Diana took the envelope from her bag and laid the strange leaf on the table.

  Michael breathed in sharply. “It can’t be!”

  Diana kneaded ice-cold hands together. This must be how it felt to take some junk from the attic to an art expert and have him declare it to be a genuine, as yet unknown Da Vinci.

  “What can’t be?” she asked eagerly as Michael drew the leaf reverently towards him, pulled his glasses down his nose a little, and peered over the frame to see better.

  Lost in researcher mode, Michael didn’t reply for a while. Then he took a deep breath as though he needed plenty of oxygen for what he was about to announce.

  “Tell me, have you heard of the palm-leaf libraries in India or Sri Lanka?”

  Diana shook her head. “Forgive me if I seem uneducated to you, but this is the first I’ve heard of them.”

  Her friend was trembling slightly, a sure indication that she really had discovered something special.

  “In India and Sri Lanka, people have been writing on dried palm leaves for many centuries—no, millennia—and some of them are very intricately decorated.”

  He typed something into his computer and turned the screen so Diana could see it.

  The palm-leaf books Michael was referring to looked at first glance like large boxes. The engravings on the covers consisted of the snail-like letters she had seen on the leaf, framed by ornate patterns. Some of the “book covers” consisted only of the patterns.

  “So you think my leaf is a page from one of these books?”

  Michael shook his head and pushed his glasses back up his nose. “No, my dear, this is something completely different. Normally you wouldn’t be allowed to possess this leaf.”

  “Why not? Is there a ban on importing them? In my defence I can say that it’s probably more than a hundred years old.”

  Michael came round and sat on the edge of the desk. After shaking his head as though he were unable to believe it all, he said, “I’m convinced that what you’ve found here is a page from the legendary palm-leaf libraries, an ancient Indian oracle. Most of them are written in Old Tamil, a language that hardly anyone understands these days. One of the legends associated with the palm leaves tells of how Bhrigu, the son of a sage who had the privilege of living among the gods, one day had the insolence to hit Vishnu. Vishnu’s wife Lakshmi punished him with the curse of bad luck. Although Bhrigu showed deep remorse and Lakshmi relented, she was unable to lift the curse. However, she granted him sight of the legendary cosmic scroll that enabled him to see the fate of all men, and ordered him to have the fates he had seen written down on palm leaves by Brahmans.”

  “That sounds interesting,” Diana replied, although this information told her painfully little about her family history. “Maybe this leaf was stolen by some colonialist. Unfortunately, I don’t know.” She kept to herself her suspicion that the palm leaf could be the gift for Grace.

  “It’s possible,” Michael replied. “If so, the colonialist was clearly unaware that taking one of these leaves is supposed to bring very bad luck. Usually palm leaves are not given out, but read and interpreted by mystics known as Nadi readers. People have them read out in order to find out about their past, present, and future destinies. Sometimes there are also insights into earlier incarnations—as you probably know, both Hindus and Buddhists believe in rebirth and Nirvana.”

  “I know you can only reach Nirvana once you’ve freed yourself from all sin and done appropriate penance.”

  “You could put it like that. If you don’t manage to have a positive effect on your karma, you go through reincarnation until you have comprehended what you can and can’t do. To put it simply.”

  A shudder ran through Diana. Could Henry Tremayne have brought this curse down on his family? Or maybe the unfortunate Richard—had he suffered his accident because he’d taken a palm leaf from a library?

  “Do you think there’s any truth in the curse?”

  “That’s something each of us has to decide for ourselves. There are reports of people who steal sacred Maori objects, for example, being pursued by bad luck or even dying in mysterious circumstances. From a modern scientific viewpoint, I’m only too pleased if something that doesn’t belong here is returned to its proper place of origin—of course after plenty of photographs or facsimiles have been made of it. While we’re on that subject, would you permit me to have this treasure photographed?”

  “Of course,” Diana replied a little uncertainly, as her thoughts were still on the curse and what Emily had said on her deathbed.

  “It’s truly fascinating.” Michael’s eyes seemed to be boring into her. “I’d be interested to know where you got it from.”

  “I found it in a secret compartment.”

  “Where?”

  “In an old manor house in England. It’s where my aunt lived until recently, when she died. She left me instructions to open a locked compartment. It was in there.”

  “I’m sorry,” Michael said. “About the death of your aunt. But this find is sensational.”

  Should I tell him about the other things I found? Diana decided against it and asked instead, “Is it possible to find out which library this leaf is from? So that I can give it back, I mean.”

  “Hmm, that could be difficult. Even if you were to visit one of the libraries, no one would be able to tell you whether the leaf is theirs. As you can see, it hasn’t been catalogued.”

  “But someone, somewhere, must have noticed one missing.”

  “There are so many leaves that one missing leaf is unlikely to be noticed. The only way would be if someone looking for their destiny was unable to find it. In this case because his leaf has been lying around in a secret compartment for all this time.”

  “Is there a leaf like this for every person?”

  “No, but for very many. Personally, I explain it by the fact that many new souls are coming into the world who have not yet built up their karma. According to the Brahmans, most people who find their fates written on the leaves have experienced many lives and incarnations.”

  Diana looked at the leaf. Her curiosity was eating into her. What did it say? For whom was the fate prophesied? Grace? Her mysterious lover? Another family member, perhaps? She suddenly felt a longing to speak to Emily again. Why had she never told her anything about her grandmother’s time in Sri Lanka, or about the brothers, Henry and Richard? Why had those two, like Henry’s daughters, remained mere facts and
figures in the family trees, fading faces on gradually yellowing photographs?

  Had the thing that gave Victoria such a guilty conscience really been so dreadful?

  “What should I do now?” she heard herself asking.

  “The best thing to begin with would be to find someone who can read this for you,” Michael replied, unable to take his eyes off the leaf. “Maybe it belongs to a family member. If you find the right reader, maybe he can also tell you which library it belongs to. But I’m afraid I can’t promise that—there are an incredible number of these leaves.”

  “So that means I’d have to go to India?”

  “It looks that way. I don’t think there are any Nadi readers outside India.”

  “Or Sri Lanka.” She thought of the guidebook again. “Is there one of these libraries in Colombo?”

  “What makes you think of Colombo?” Michael asked.

  “There was also an old guidebook to Colombo in the secret compartment, published in 1887. That’s why I assumed the leaf also dated back to the late nineteenth century.”

  “It’s probably much older. If you left it with me for a while I could tell you more precisely when it was made.”

  “You can examine it over the next few days. I’m going to need a while to find out where I need to go next.”

  Michael beamed. “If you leave it with me I’ll have it photographed and test it to ascertain its age. It’s not every day you get your hands on something like this.”

  “But I want it back!” Diana replied.

  “Don’t worry, you will. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve got the photos and I’ve taken samples. It’ll only take a few days.”

  11

  Colombo, 1887

  The next morning, Victoria did get her mother’s permission to go to the Cinnamon Garden. Because of a migraine, which was probably the main reason for her giving her consent, she couldn’t go with the girls herself, but she made sure Miss Giles and Mr. Wilkes accompanied them to make sure they didn’t get lost.