Butterfly Island

by Corina Bomann

  In line with the family tradition, breakfast was eaten in the dining room, which the sisters had seen the previous evening. Only if one of them was ill, or had been occupied until very late the previous evening, did the servants take breakfast to their rooms. Henry Tremayne valued his mornings with his family, as he usually came home late from his work and commitments and at best only saw them over supper.

  In contrast to the previous day, when the room had still looked quite impersonal, the table was now adorned with flower arrangements in white and orange. The cutlery was polished and shiny.

  “It looks like Mama’s made a start with the household arrangements,” Victoria said cheerfully.

  “And she’s told Mr. Wilkes to make sure the servants get cracking,” Grace added.

  As though he had heard his name from afar, the butler suddenly appeared behind them.

  “Good morning, Miss Grace, Miss Victoria. You’re bright and early this morning. I hope you slept well.”

  “I had a bit of a disturbed night,” Grace replied as she went to her place. Mr. Wilkes stepped behind her and pulled out the high-backed chair for her to sit. “But it’s no wonder, with these temperatures, is it?”

  “You’re completely right,” Wilkes agreed, before turning to Victoria to help her into her seat.

  “How was your night, Mr. Wilkes?” she asked, apparently innocently although Grace knew there was nothing she enjoyed more than provoking the butler’s sense of propriety. The household didn’t usually concern themselves with the personal interests of their staff.

  “The very best, Miss Victoria,” he replied after a brief pause, then turned back to Grace.

  “Can I get you anything yet?”

  “A cup of cocoa would be nice. What do you think, Victoria?”

  Victoria clapped her hands. “Oh yes, cocoa would be good, Mr. Wilkes.”

  The butler left the dining room, visibly pleased not to be subjected to any more personal enquiries.

  That morning, Henry Tremayne looked preoccupied as he came to the breakfast table. Claudia seemed exhausted. As Victoria spooned up her cocoa and Grace sat deep in thought, she complained with a sigh about the heat in her bedroom and the air that seemed thick enough to cut with a knife. If things continued like this, she would probably get a migraine as the day went on.

  The breakfast, prepared by the resident cook, was rich in unfamiliar fruits, a kind of cake, and yoghurt.

  Grace and Victoria searched the table in vain for porridge. Henry did likewise as he peered up from the newspaper that Wilkes had obtained for him the previous evening.

  “Richard allowed some strange customs to take root here. We’ll have to inform the cook that she should adapt her breakfasts to the sort we’re accustomed to.”

  “I think the mangoes are quite nice,” Victoria remarked. She smacked her lips, earning herself a look of reproach from her mother.

  “It may be a suitable meal for the people here, but we’ll ruin our digestions with all this foreign food. Who knows what kind of fruits these are.”

  Grace looked at Victoria, who rolled her eyes, then said, “But Mama, just try some. They’re lovely and sweet! I hardly think the servants have a plan to kill their masters and mistresses.”

  Claudia sniffed as though she were about to object, but she finally succumbed to temptation and tried one of the strange cakes.

  After breakfast, Grace and Victoria withdrew before Miss Giles could catch them—she was probably already dreaming of Mr. Norris again. Since her father was not in his study and there was still some time before his tour of the plantation, the sisters disappeared into a corridor of the house they had not yet explored.

  “Do you think she’ll find us here?” Victoria whispered, constantly looking over her shoulder as though they were spies on the run.

  “I’m sure she won’t. We haven’t looked around this part of the house yet, and you know how timid she is.”

  “Yes, but I thought that was only playacting so that Mr. Norris could lend her a strong hand.”

  “Believe me, she won’t find us here.”

  And Mr. Vikrama won’t come for Papa for another half hour yet, she thought.

  As they moved on, Grace had to admit that she had a slightly creepy feeling. The rooms they had moved into were all freshly renovated and seemed bright enough, but the others were still as they had been on the day her unknown uncle Richard had fallen.

  “Maybe we’ll meet our uncle’s ghost here,” Victoria whispered as if reading her mind.

  “Don’t be silly. There’s no such thing as ghosts!” Grace said, but the moaning of the wind here sought to contradict her.

  After they had passed two doors without opening them, curiosity won the day.

  They carefully pushed open a high double door adorned with dark inlay. The sight that met their astonished eyes was a kind of men’s drawing room. The armchair and sofa beneath the window were draped with sheets, as were the two large display cabinets and the desk. There was also a billiard table, a piano, and a large globe, virtually the only object not to be covered, as though its services were still required every now and then.

  “Don’t you find it strange that there was never a lady of the house here?” Victoria asked, sliding her hand over the piano in a place where the dust sheet had slipped slightly. “You never heard anything about Uncle Richard marrying, did you?”

  “Yesterday you had him keeping a harem,” Grace replied scornfully.

  “That was just a joke. Even if he was the black sheep of the family, I’m sure he wouldn’t have sunk so low.”

  Grace shook her head, gazing at the magnificent globe. It was quite out of date by now, as it showed Ceylon as a Dutch colony. “He probably never found a woman he liked. You’ve heard Papa’s stories. His brother always knew his own mind.”

  “Or he had a lover who was the wrong class.”

  Grace drew herself up to her full height. “You’re not supposed to know anything about things like that at your age!”

  “Why ever not? There are many men who fall in love with women beneath their station.”

  “But not Uncle Richard. All he ever thought about was work; he didn’t even have time for his family.”

  “But he doesn’t seem to have been a stranger to pleasure,” Victoria said precociously, pointing at the huge table-like shape that hulked beneath the dust sheet like a sarcophagus. “Why else would he have had a billiard table installed?”

  Before Grace could reply, Victoria was already pulling the sheet aside. There was no such item in Tremayne House, since their grandfather had been of the opinion that such pleasures were the province of pubs and bordellos. He deliberately ignored the fact that his gentlemen’s club had a billiard table.

  With a cry of delight, Victoria ran her hand over the green baize that covered the table. Numerous criss-crossed marks hinted at frequent play, but there was no sign of cues or balls.

  “Maybe we should play a game and make ourselves really disreputable,” Victoria suggested.

  “What do you intend to play with?” Grace said, indicating the empty table.

  “The balls must be in one of the cupboards. I’ll go and have a look.”

  “Victoria!” Grace called in warning, but Victoria had already begun to open one cupboard door after the other. As it seemed impossible to stop her sister without putting their walk together at risk, Grace let her carry on and went over to a small chest of drawers near the window. This was certainly not where the billiard balls were kept. It looked as though it had been squeezed in, brought here from another room and simply set down here. There was no sheet over it, which she also found curious.

  Grace caught sight of a movement out of the corner of her eye and turned to the windows. She saw Mr. Vikrama’s back glide past. A closer inspection of the little chest of drawers would have to wait.

  “We ought to go now,” she said as heat shot through her veins and a strange impatience made her restless.

  “Why?” Vict
oria asked, stringing out the word like a child who didn’t want to be called out of the playroom.

  “Because Papa’s visitor has arrived. That young man from yesterday, the administrator.”

  “Is he the reason why you’re staring out of the window?”

  Grace caught her breath, but fortunately she remembered all the excuses she had thought up during the night.

  “Because of him and because of what we can find out from him. Didn’t you hear him offering to tell Papa about tea cultivation? I think we should listen, too, since we’re obviously going to be here for a while.”

  Victoria gave her a broad, wordless grin as they left the room and decided to leave by the front door.

  “What’s the matter?” Grace asked as she felt her sister’s smile like pinpricks on her skin.

  “Nothing,” Victoria replied innocently.

  “Have you gone mad? Did you find something strange in that cupboard?”

  Victoria giggled quietly then put her hand up to her mouth. “No don’t worry, my dear sister, I’m quite clear in the head. I’m just remembering your sour face on the way here and back at the hotel. And now your eyes shine whenever you talk about tea growing. I knew you’d find something to like about your new home.”

  Grace struggled to keep her composure. “I never said I didn’t like this country!” She straightened her back and lifted her chin. “I only regret that I couldn’t be there for my debut presentation to the queen.”

  “Don’t worry!” Victoria’s eyes had a mischievous spark. “I’m sure Papa will find a suitably rich young man for you here. Or you’ll simply marry this Mr. Vikrama, whose first name is a mystery to us all.”

  “For goodness’ sake!” Grace would have liked to retort with something suitably threatening, but then she heard an all too familiar click of heels.

  “Miss Giles!” Grace whispered, and the prospect of spending the whole day unpacking their suitcases and having to go through their wardrobes immediately made her Victoria’s ally once again.

  “Come on, let’s vanish into the garden before she sees us.”

  4

  Tremayne House, 2008

  Dear Mr. Green,

  I’m on the way to Nuwara Eliya and just wanted to let you know that I believe I’m on the right track. Mr. Jonathan Singh, a very nice academic and author, has offered to accompany me to a village where it is said there is an old Nadi reader who may be able to decipher the palm leaf I’ve found. You can imagine how I’m burning with impatience! We have also discovered that the plantation that belonged to my ancestors is still in existence. Of course it has been in different ownership for a long time now—a state-owned company whose employees were very friendly on the phone and will allow me to look through their archives. Maybe I’ll find out more there about Grace and the others. I still have no idea what the big secret is, but my stay here and all the research work is proving good for my spirits. I wish Aunt Emily could have seen it all.

  I hope you are well.

  All the very best,

  Diana

  The butler took a deep breath and leaned back in his seat. The secret was still a way from being revealed, but Miss Diana was on the right track. The deciphering of the palm leaf and her stay on the plantation would surely bring the truth to light.

  After swiftly reading through the message once again, he went into the kitchen, set the kettle to boil on the stove, and then went to the master’s workroom in the basement. There, next to the desk mat, was a brown envelope. The last clue. He would have to plan its release carefully, as it could easily cause more confusion than clarity. He took out the photo carefully and gazed at it as he had so often since Miss Diana had set off on her travels. The picture told him nothing more, but even he had to admit that there was something very remarkable about it.

  He was glad that there were modern methods for transmitting information. Green took the photo to the printer and scanner as carefully as he would carry a fully loaded tea tray, lifted the lid, and laid the photo on the glass plate.

  The last clue, he thought as the light beam ran along the photo, picking up the pixels ready for display on his computer screen. Will Miss Diana be able to solve the mystery of the past? And how will it affect her?

  People rarely solved mysteries and remained unchanged . . .

  Colombo, 2008

  The old, slightly overcautious man drove his minibus purposefully, but slowly, along the red sandy road that made Diana think of roads in Australia. On either side, palms and bamboo canes proliferated, sometimes growing so thickly that they plunged the road into shadow. She looked a little impatiently at Jonathan, who appeared completely unconcerned at the slow pace and the horn-blowing at every vehicle they encountered. He was calmly reading a newspaper, which he had been carrying when they met. Even their near collision with a tuk-tuk that shot like an arrow from a side street was not enough to make him look up from the day’s news.

  “Maybe we should have hired a different driver,” Diana whispered to him once she had got over the shock.

  Jonathan lowered his paper and folded it up. There was a smile on his lips, and his eyes sparkled. “Any local would advise you to go with an old driver. The younger ones drive somewhat more . . . speedily.”

  “Rashly, you mean? Like that guy back there! He could have been on the crazy streets of Colombo.”

  “Out in the country they usually take more risks when driving because they believe they have the space. The locals typically call it ‘Colombo driving.’ You can imagine why.”

  “Oh yes, I’ve seen enough of it since I’ve been here.” Diana hung on to the nylon strap above her head that prevented passengers from being hurled against the door when rounding bends.

  “Anyway, I think Mr. Gilshan will be very helpful.”

  “But it’s going to be dark before we reach the village.”

  “So?”

  Diana frowned. “I thought you had to get back to Colombo.”

  “Yes, but not today or tomorrow. You want to go on to visit the tea plantation afterwards, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “I’ve taken the liberty of giving myself a week off,” Jonathan said. “The privilege of being freelance.”

  Diana was stunned into wide-eyed silence.

  “Is that OK with you?” he continued. “I thought you’d need some help in Nuwara Eliya.”

  “But what about your book? Your publisher . . . After all, I’m a complete stranger to you!”

  Jonathan shook his head with a smile. “No, you’re no longer a stranger. After all, you’ve told me your family history. And I promised Michael I’d help you.”

  “I know.”

  “As a historian I find it really exciting to be on the trail of this mystery with you. Provided you want me there, that is.”

  Diana lowered her head in embarrassment. “But I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you. After all, you’re giving up your free time for me, time you could be spending with your wife and children.”

  “I’m not married,” he replied, his voice turned serious. “Not any longer.”

  “What happened?” Diana burst out before she could tell herself it had nothing to do with her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “It’s fine,” Jonathan replied, but the dark shadow that had crossed his face was still there. “We drifted apart, as people so neatly say. Well, that may sound a bit unusual for a five-year marriage, but that’s how it was. She wanted a career with a computer company, but I wanted the opportunity to follow my passion and be a bit closer to the land of my forefathers. The two paths were irreconcilable, so we separated.”

  “Do you have any children?”

  “A daughter. She lives with her mother in Delhi.”

  “Do you see them much?”

  “Yes, I fly to Delhi and visit them. And I take her on holiday. But don’t worry yourself about that; I still have plenty of time for Rana.” His expression brightened a little. “And wh
en else would I get the opportunity to go on a research trip with a German–English woman? You’re one of the most interesting people I’ve met for months. And that’s saying something—at the museum I even meet presidents from time to time.”

  Diana smiled to herself.

  The journey to Ambalangoda finally came to an end without any further near misses, and the driver dropped them off on the edge of a settlement of fishermen’s huts and palm trees.

  Glad to feel the ground beneath her feet once again, Diana looked around. She could hear music booming out from somewhere, mixed with loud voices.

  “There’s probably a festival going on,” Jonathan explained after listening briefly. “I’m sure most of the village will be there.”

  “Oh, does that mean we’ve come at a bad time?”

  “On the contrary. The festival will save us a long search, as nearly everyone’s bound to be there. Maybe including our Nadi reader. And even if he prefers to remain at home, someone will be able to point us in the right direction.”

  After walking past a row of apparently empty houses, they finally reached the source of the music and laughter.

  Crowds of women in brightly coloured sarongs and saris and men in traditional costume had gathered in front of a richly decorated house. A shining limousine, which looked slightly out of place, was waiting not far from the house.

  “Oh, we’re in luck!” Jonathan exclaimed. “This is a wedding. The bride and groom will soon be appearing for the Poruwa ceremony.”

  He moved away from Diana and, uninhibited, approached the guests, who in turn did not seem disturbed in the slightest by his presence. They talked easily to him, every now and then turning to Diana, who stood to one side a little at a loss.

  Jonathan finally returned to her with a broad smile. “They’ve invited us to the party afterwards. I think we should stay here for a while.”

  “What about the Nadi reader?”

  “Ah, we’re not so lucky on that score. A. Vijita was taken to hospital a few days ago. It’s hardly surprising since he’s eighty-five.”