Butterfly Island

by Corina Bomann

  She ran her fingertips over the paper before picking up the letter opener.

  The envelope almost heaved a sigh of relief as it gave way, revealing the bundle of paper inside. Photocopies, Diana thought. On top was a plain card, with a note in handwriting that had both English and Tamil influences.

  Dear Diana,

  Thank you for the delightful evening, which inspired me to begin searching for a Nadi reader as soon as I got home. After getting an acquaintance out of bed with a phone call and asking myself if I was crazy, I found out that there’s a man who knows Old Tamil living in the small village of Ambalangoda. My acquaintance couldn’t tell me his name, but I’m sure there aren’t many men like him in the area.

  I’d like to suggest that we meet tomorrow morning outside the hotel, provided you don’t want to go there on your own. In that case please just let me know by email.

  I am enclosing a map on which I’ve marked the village. If you wish, you could extend the trip to include Nuwara Eliya, where I’ve located your tea plantation. You’ll find the documents enclosed.

  I hope you’ll allow me to participate further in this adventure, Holmes.

  Your obedient servant,

  Jonathan “Watson” Singh

  It was only once she had read the card three times that she realised Jonathan had actually been crazy enough to slave away for her the whole night long. Although she was outwardly calm, her heart was thumping as though she’d been sprinting, and her hands were suddenly icy cold.

  She continued to feel the same way as she leafed through the photocopies and studied the map tucked among them. Her plan to walk along the promenade had evaporated—she knew now that she’d be sitting over the documents all day, drinking in all the information the papers could give her.

  But first she had to send Jonathan a reply.

  She crossed the room to the desk, opened her laptop, and typed an email.

  Dear Jonathan,

  I didn’t realise you had a liking for Conan Doyle. But I can certainly set your mind at rest. After the extremely impressive sample of your detective work, for which I’m very grateful, I can’t imagine a better companion for the trip to Ambalangoda than you. I hope you will manage to free yourself from your professional obligations and accompany me, as I fear I would be completely stuck without your knowledge of Tamil.

  Warm regards,

  Diana “Holmes” Wagenbach

  3

  Vannattuppūcci, 1887

  Grace and Victoria’s room, which they were forced to share until more renovations were completed, was on the ground floor. It had an overall Oriental appearance, reminiscent of an Arab or Turkish house; the pointed arches of the windows were decorated with filigree ornamentation in the style of a seraglio. Bright-orange silk curtains embellished with intricate embroidery billowed in a warm breeze that blew gently through a half-open window. Wind chimes tinkled somewhere in the background. The rest of the room was quite plain and looked as though it were desperate to be brought to life.

  On the ochre floor tiles were a desk, an elaborately inlaid wardrobe, and a chest of drawers. Two beds stood against the other wall, with a narrow carpet running along their feet. Heaped in the middle of the room was a pile of suitcases and bags containing the sisters’ possessions.

  “Perhaps our uncle kept a harem here!” Victoria exclaimed once Miss Giles had gone. The possibility that her scandalous uncle could have indulged in polygamy made her eyes shine like precious stones catching the light.

  “I don’t think Uncle Richard changed his religion,” Grace said. “You have to be a Muslim to keep a harem.”

  “Who knows, maybe he was converted!” Victoria insisted, eager for sensation. “I’ve heard Father say that he had himself cremated like the Hindus. We won’t find his grave.”

  “Nevertheless, I don’t believe he actually changed his faith. There was probably a practical reason for his last wish—a corpse must deteriorate dreadfully fast in this heat.”

  Victoria wasn’t to be put off. “Who knows what our mysterious uncle was like? Even you didn’t know him when he was alive—after he left Tremayne House, he was never seen in England again.”

  She was right about that. Their uncle Richard was little more to them than a portrait hanging in one of the lonely corridors of Tremayne House. A man with dark hair and attractive grey eyes who looked as if he were being choked by the high collar of his shirt. No one had truly known him, if their father were to be believed, not even he or their grandfather.

  Victoria jumped up impulsively, stretched out her arms, and twirled around. “Wouldn’t it be exciting to live in a harem?”

  “Rather boring, I should think.” Despite herself, Grace was similarly overcome by an urge to dance around the room. Victoria’s enthusiasm could be contagious. But should she? After all, she was eighteen now and considered an adult. “You lie around on silk cushions all day, listening to the same old stories, without the opportunity to live your own life, your only company fat eunuchs in tiny loincloths forever asking you in squeaky voices what you desire. Your only excitement the intrigues put about by the other women.” She was taken aback to realise that her image of life in a harem could have been lifted word for word from one of Victoria’s penny dreadfuls.

  “But my husband would be a rich sultan, who would heap gifts on me and spoil me in every way because I’d be his favourite wife!” Victoria spun around in another circle. Instead of getting dizzy she seemed to be enjoying her dance more and more.

  “How do you know that?” Grace replied, jumping up suddenly.

  “I look in my mirror every morning, and it tells me that I’m beautiful enough to be a sheikh’s favourite wife.”

  “Don’t you think you’re being a bit vain?”

  “Of course, but others are, too. Come on, join in, Grace—it’s like flying!”

  Grace only hesitated a moment. Grown-up or not, in her little sister’s company she lost all inhibitions and felt as though she were still only thirteen herself. Now she, too, began to spin on her own axis. Faster and faster, her laughter blending with her sister’s. The dizziness in her head felt delightful and after a while really did feel like flying.

  “Ladies, please!”

  Miss Giles’s reproachful voice stopped them in their tracks. Reeling, they managed to fall into each other’s arms before collapsing to the floor.

  Their governess shook her head in disapproval. “I’m sure you have something more useful to do than indulge in this ridiculous behaviour! Your mother was asking whether you’re ready for afternoon tea.”

  Gasping for breath, and still giggling, the two sisters sat up.

  “But of course, Miss Giles,” replied Grace, having enjoyed a carefree moment for the first time in a long while. “If you would be so kind as to find us two dresses from our suitcases? You know our mother won’t like us to appear for tea in our travelling clothes.”

  Grace was kept awake all night by the strange noises coming from outside. The heat made it impossible to close the window completely, as the slight cooling effect from the night breeze was essential. She could hear the calls of nocturnal birds, the distant cries of monkeys, and the rustling of leaves and grass. When the tossing and turning finally became too much for her, she lay on her back and stared with wide-open eyes at the curtains, which looked strangely bleached in the moonlight. They were still billowing lightly in the wind like a fairy queen’s lost veil. Every now and then there was a slight glitter from one of the embroidered patterns—Grace had noticed earlier that they had gold threads running through them. When she told Victoria about her discovery, her little sister said, “I bet only the queen has curtains like this.”

  All at once Grace felt a compulsion to get up and look out of the window. Perhaps she’d catch sight of some exotic animals creeping through the garden. Or snakes. There had been no sign of any on the way there, but they had seen one in the city, in a young snake charmer’s basket. A shudder ran down Grace’s arms as she recalled
how the boy had tamed the cobra, which looked at him angrily as he made it dance. Would it be a good idea to carry a flute at all times here, just in case a cobra came into view?

  At the window, she drew up a floor cushion and sat down on it. The very low windowsill meant she could sit and enjoy a view over a large part of the garden.

  Grace drew her knees up towards her chin and, although no one could see her, demurely pulled her nightdress down over her legs before losing herself in the sight of the moon, which hung above the treetops like a huge glow-worm.

  The moon had never looked like this in England. It was usually ringed by a hazy halo indicating more rain to come. But here the moon was as richly yellow as a Dutch cheese, and even in the dead of the night, the sky never seemed to lose its purple undertones.

  Suddenly, something dark darted above the trees. At first Grace thought it was a bird, but its movements were far too frantic.

  Then it occurred to her—it must have been a bat! They had seen bats back at Tremayne House as evening fell, but those were not half the size of the one she’d just seen. A pleasant tingle, the kind she’d only ever experienced when reading a horror story, ran down her spine. Could these huge bats be some kind of blood-sucking vampires? Or even the flying foxes that hung in large groups in the trees throughout India?

  Grace made a mental note to talk to Victoria about them in the morning. She was bound to be excited about them and insist on wanting to catch a flying fox, to their mother’s horror.

  Her gaze dropped towards the ground, and she thought she caught sight of a white gleam against the dark hedge.

  At first she thought she might have been mistaken, but then she saw that it moved. Victoria would now be claiming that she was seeing a ghost, but Grace’s rational mind knew it was a person she was looking at, dressed in baggy white trousers.

  As the moonlight fell on the figure, Grace’s eyes widened. It was a man—a man with a naked torso! She forgot to breathe. She had never seen a man like that. Although the blood shot to her cheeks and Miss Giles’s voice of warning echoed through her mind, she couldn’t look away.

  The man, who seemed to believe he was unobserved, was carrying a long bundle wrapped in fabric beneath his arm. He looked like he was returning from somewhere.

  As Grace slowly released her breath, a ray of light fell on his face. His dark moustache and beard stood out against his skin, which was too light for a Tamil and too dark for an Englishman. She could clearly make out that this was the young Mr. Vikrama!

  After the brief moment of recognition, the shadows engulfed his features again, but Grace continued to stare transfixed, her cheeks glowing as if from a fever, at the spot where she had seen him.

  Where had he been? And why was he wearing clothes like those from an Oriental picture book? Why was he not wearing shoes or a shirt? And what was he carrying?

  Sensing that he was about to raise his head, she ducked quickly behind the curtains. Her heart was beating wildly against her ribcage, and her breath seemed incredibly loud. She listened in vain for footsteps. Even if her body had not been reacting so forcefully, she would probably not have been able to hear anything as the grass dampened the sound of his bare feet.

  When she trusted herself to peep out around the curtain, Vikrama had vanished.

  Grace immediately felt uneasy. The urge to run through the house and see whether he was crossing the courtyard dressed like that became so great that she soon arose and tiptoed out of the room.

  The whole house was silent except for a slight murmuring of the wind creeping through the open windows. Grace hurried along the corridor, passed Miss Giles’s room with soft snores emanating from it, and finally reached the hall. Concentrating hard, she scanned the courtyard through the window. Was that a glimpse of white?

  No, it was only the well gleaming in the moonlight. Behind it loomed the dark stables, with the administration building beyond. Had Vikrama already gone? Had he taken a different route, perhaps?

  Grace stood motionless before the windows of the hall. Her heart was still hammering with excitement. Her father had an employee who went about strange business in the night. Should she tell him?

  No, better not, she decided. Not before I know what it’s all about.

  As she turned, her attention was caught by the two dancing gods. Only now did she notice that they each held a short sword or knife in one hand, flowers in the other. Their trousers were like those Vikrama had worn, and she recalled what Mr. Cahill had said. Did Vikrama follow this Hinduism, and had he just completed some sacred mission? Or was it something forbidden that he had done? Why else would he have vanished so suddenly?

  She was filled with a longing to find out. Maybe I should begin by keeping an eye on Vikrama during the day, she thought. Having resolved to do so, she slipped back to her room, and after a quick glance out of the window that yielded no sign of any further shapes in the night, she lay back down on her bed.

  After finally managing to sleep, Grace was awakened at dawn by the screeching of the parrots. Unwilling to stay in bed, she crossed to the washbowl and removed her nightdress. The water had become pleasantly lukewarm overnight. As she dipped her hands in, a butterfly fluttered to the edge of the bowl and settled on it as if there were no better place in the world. Grace froze, afraid that she might accidentally wet it. Mr. Norris always said that this would damage their wings, which was why they always folded them up when it rained.

  However, the butterfly seemed not to be afraid of the water. Every now and then it flapped its blue-and-black patterned wings—a magnificent specimen that would have delighted any naturalist—including Victoria. But Grace couldn’t bring herself to wake her and therefore condemn the butterfly to an almost certain death. As the water ran over her lower arms, she watched the butterfly until it finally decided to flutter away. Grace watched it go in fascination, touched by a strange magic that she would not have imagined in this place.

  After she had finished her morning ablutions, she sat by the window looking at the fog that lay over the tea plantation like an eiderdown. The morning light gave it a gentle blue tinge, a hue that would have been unthinkable back in England. No ball in London, no beautiful dresses, could give her the same feeling as the one that flooded through her at the sight. She felt peace, calmness, and even security—things she had only experienced rarely in her parents’ house and which she had never before thought were important.

  It was not until the fog gradually lifted to reveal the sunlight and Victoria began to stir that Grace withdrew from the window, determined to stop yearning for the lost glitter of her old world, but to seek new splendour here—starting with the wonderful feeling the early morning had given her.

  “After breakfast this morning, why don’t we creep across the garden to Father’s study window?” Grace suggested to her sleepy-looking sister as she brushed her hair.

  “What on earth for?” Victoria replied sullenly, rubbing her eyes. “I’d rather try and catch a parrot.”

  “But you need a net to do that.”

  “There must be someone here who can make me one.”

  “Even if you had a net, you don’t know yet where to find the best birds.”

  “It would be enough for me to get that beautiful blue one.”

  Grace looked at her closely in the mirror, then raised an eyebrow like Father sometimes did when he doubted something. “Really? But how do you know there aren’t some even better ones out there? Purple ones, perhaps?”

  “I don’t like purple,” Victoria grumbled. “If I did I would have bought that amethyst on Chatham Street.” She waved a hand at the alleged sapphire that she had placed in front of the small gilt-framed portrait of her dead dog, Oscar.

  “But you like red and orange,” Grace argued as she completed her sister’s braid she was plaiting. “And you never know, you could find a rainbow-coloured one.”

  “Do you think such a thing exists?” Curiosity sparked in Victoria’s eyes.

  “But of
course! And I’m sure it would look lovely with your blue parrot in the aviary.”

  “Aviary? But aren’t parrots kept in cages?”

  “Maybe. But you could keep more of them in an aviary. And they wouldn’t slip through the bars.” Grace remembered something she’d almost forgotten. “Anyway, I’m sure there are flying foxes here. You’ve heard of them, haven’t you?”

  Victoria’s eyes shone. “Flying foxes! Oh yes, I’ve read about them. They’re supposed to live in trees and drop down on their unsuspecting prey.”

  “Do you think so? Remember they sleep during the day.”

  “Of course they do, but they drop on their prey at night.”

  The theatrical gesture that Victoria used to emphasise her words almost made Grace burst out laughing. She hadn’t the heart to correct her.

  “Very well,” Victoria said, “let’s go for a walk later. We can go by Papa’s window, and you can listen in.”

  “Thank you, darling sister. You won’t regret it.”

  With a satisfied smile, Grace finished the braid at her sister’s nape. She could have managed without Victoria to accompany her, but she needed an alibi. If she was noticed, she could claim that she had been walking in the garden with Victoria and happened to have turned up just as her father was setting out on his tour of the plantation with the young man.

  She felt a strange fluttering in her stomach as she thought about what she had seen. Since she had woken that morning, she had run through the scene repeatedly in her head, recalling more and more details as she did. The curve of his muscles, his strong calves, his black hair flying wildly around his head . . .

  “Why have you gone red?” Victoria said, tearing her from her daydreaming. “Have you been having unseemly thoughts?”

  It was uncanny how well her sister knew her and could read her expressions.

  “No, of course not!” she said defensively, lowering her eyes in case Victoria could somehow guess there was a man behind them. “Now, keep still. I want to tie off this plait.”