Wind in the East

by Steve Turnbull

  There was nothing he could do here that would not get him killed. The slaves were alive for now.

  He took one final look at the ship and shook his head. There was nothing about it that made sense. Its design did not mark it as belonging to any major nation, unless the Chinese or perhaps one of the South American countries were building new types of ship.

  The size of it was astonishing and its means of lift and propulsion were unclear. Only the British had mastered complete nullification of gravity, and that was itself a secret—an open secret, it was true, but no nation on earth currently admitted to its existence. And yet though this vessel floated, it did not use any balloon system; the only other vessels that could do that were the ones with the Tesla-Rutherford designs.

  Either their secret had got out and was already in use, or these people had a completely new method of flight. Either way they were dangerous and he needed to make a report to his superiors. And again, he could not do that if he was dead.

  Reluctantly, he turned away and headed back along the hillside the way he had come.

  Chapter 6

  i

  “Are you going to tell me why we’re here?” asked Françoise as she helped Maliha down from the carriage.

  The hotel had been pleasant. Madras was a much more cosmopolitan location than Pondicherry, a difference that was mostly the fault of French indifference—though the destruction the British had visited on the place had not helped.

  “Research,” said Maliha. “Information.”

  “About what?”

  “Someone wanted to disrupt the wedding; I want to know why.”

  “At a hospital?”

  “Next door.”

  Maliha instructed the driver to remain, as she would be requiring further transport, then strode towards the hospital with Françoise in her wake. The Lady Lansdowne Hospital was an imposing Victorian building of polished red sandstone. It was untouched by any thought of Indian sensibilities, and would have been perfectly at home in the centre of Manchester. Sitting next to it was the office of the Registrar for Births, Deaths and Marriages.

  “I’m afraid this will all be in English,” said Maliha.

  “I’ll do my best to follow it.”

  The doors were oak with stained glass windows depicting scrolls with illuminated writing. Maliha pushed one open and entered the open foyer. The Gothic exterior was repeated inside with pillars, tiles, and wrought iron. On the right was a polished oak cubbyhole for the doorman. He was British through and through, probably ex-Army, sporting an impressive and well-trimmed moustache.

  “Can I help you, young ladies?” he said. “The hospital for women of Indian birth is next door.”

  Maliha paused to assess the man. She did not think he spoke out of malice; most women could not read so the opportunity for error was high. Instead of becoming angry she smiled and spoke in her most cultivated English, practised in the most prestigious of girls’ schools in England. “Thank you but I can assure you that I am in the right place. I am researching family lineage.”

  His change of gears was visible. There was a type of person who responded to the right voice from the right class, even if she did not have quite the right colour, and he was one of those.

  “Of course, Miss?”

  “Anderson. And this is Mam’selle Greaux,” she said. “If you would be so kind as to direct us to the archives?”

  The man gave her directions and they set off through the building. They took the stairs down into the vaults where one of the administrative staff directed them to the shelves for the correct year.

  “What are we looking for?” asked Françoise as Maliha lifted down three books covering the right period. She knew Renuka’s date of birth but there was no harm in gathering additional data.

  “Anything of interest.”

  “How will I know what is interesting?”

  “Something will catch your eye.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  “Then there was nothing interesting.”

  Maliha started two months before the births and gave Françoise the registry for the month after. “Work backwards.”

  They were silent for a while. Maliha ran her finger down each page noting names and children. There were a frightening number of still births, children who died in child birth along with their mothers. Perhaps having a child was not a wise move, although medicine had certainly advanced a long way in the last few years. Françoise proceeded much more slowly.

  One of the staff came by and offered to fetch them some water. There was also English tea and some dry biscuits.

  Maliha reached the page that should have had Renuka and Balaji’s births. She turned the page expectantly and frowned. She turned back and checked the dates between the pages.

  “That’s interesting,” she said, Françoise looked up. “They’re not here.”

  She lifted the book so she could examine it more carefully, and checked to see if any of the pages had been remove. They had not.

  “It will be a mistake,” said Françoise.

  “No, it’s not a mistake. Let me see that book.”

  Françoise passed it to her. Maliha flicked quickly through the pages and nodded to herself, then checked the other earlier book they’d brought. She held them together and examined their spines.

  “Take a look,” she said to Françoise and laid out the books open side by side.

  The woman looked at the open pages and shrugged. “I do not see.”

  “Not the individual pages. Look at each book as a complete item.”

  Françoise picked up each book and flicked through it in turn, she sighed and looked unimpressed. “I see nothing.”

  Maliha laid them out again, closed. “Just look at them.”

  Françoise did, and then looked back at Maliha and shook her head. Maliha sighed.

  She picked up one of them. “This one, the one that is missing Renuka and Balaji’s births, is different to the others.”

  “I see no difference.”

  “Look at the handwriting at the beginning, and at the end.” Françoise complied. “Now the middle, look at any page in the book you like.”

  There was a long pause while Françoise examined and compared. “They are the same handwriting on each page.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Why would they not be?”

  “Look at the others, they change. It’s the same people filling in the book but they change regularly, every few pages. But this one,” she held it up triumphantly. “The same hand throughout.”

  The realisation suddenly hit Françoise. “Someone has copied it.”

  “And left out Renuka and Balaji.” Maliha felt the excitement wash over her; at last they were getting somewhere.

  “But,” said Françoise. “I think they are the same sort of book.”

  “Yes, they look as if they’re the same age. This wasn’t recent.”

  “Perhaps the original book was damaged and it’s just a coincidence they missed out those two.”

  Maliha laughed. “A coincidence? I don’t believe in them.”

  “But why would someone do that?”

  “To hide something,” Maliha said. “Come on.”

  They took the books back and replaced them. Then Maliha led the way back to the foyer, walking faster than her walking stick would have permitted. They went outside into the sun and then crossed to the hospital and went inside. The two buildings had the same architect but the hospital was built on a much grander scale.

  Instead of a doorman there was a woman in uniform at a reception desk. She looked up as Maliha crossed the floor, and pasted a welcoming smile on to her face. It did nothing to improve her rigid bearing.

  “Yes, dear? Do you have an appointment to see the doctor?” She looked down at a book on her desk. “We’re not expecting anyone; have you got the right day?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The woman’s head jerked up at the lash of Maliha’s outraged and very English to
ne. Rapidly reassessing her assumptions, she murmured. “Nobody can see a doctor without an appointment.”

  “Do I look as if I am with child?” Maliha said, spreading her arms, for once pleased that her middle was exposed.

  “Well...”

  “Let’s start again, shall we?”

  The woman nodded.

  “My name is Maliha Anderson. I am investigating a death on behalf of Commissioner Abelard of the Sûreté of Pondicherry. This is my assistant, Mam’selle Françoise Greaux. And just to ensure there is no misunderstanding, I am neither married nor pregnant—” the woman flinched at the word “—and I am here in a purely professional capacity as an investigator. Is that quite clear?”

  “Yes, Miss Anderson.”

  “Good.” Maliha allowed herself to relax and spoke in a gentler tone. “Now, I have just been to the Registrar next door and they were immensely helpful, but I have some questions in regard to a birth here a few years ago. So I wondered if there was somebody I might speak to?”

  “Of course, Miss Anderson. Perhaps if I were to fetch Matron?”

  “Well, perhaps we might not need to bother her yet. If I give you more details you can decide who would be best?” Maliha did not wait for her to agree. “I am looking for a midwife who would have been in attendance sixteen years ago.”

  “Oh, that’s quite a long time. I’ll have to get Mrs Wyndham.”

  Mrs Wyndham turned out to be a lady of some forty years who worked as a volunteer looking after the administration. The whole hospital was a charity based on a command by Queen Victoria when she heard that Indian women suffered considerably during pregnancy and childbirth.

  While they waited Mrs Wyndham went through the records. Maliha realised it had been some time since they had eaten and they really must see about some luncheon when they were finished here.

  “The midwife was a Mary O’Donnell. She moved on in 1897.”

  “Do you have an address?”

  “I can’t imagine she’d still be there.”

  Maliha smiled. “It’s the nature of police investigations to follow every possible lead.”

  “But you’re working for the French, Miss Anderson,” she said as she copied out the name on to a pad in a clear hand, gave the ink a few moments to dry and then ripped off the sheet.

  Maliha shrugged. “My family live in Pondicherry but my father was Scottish.”

  “It must be very exciting being a policewoman.”

  Maliha folded the paper and pushed it into her reticule. “Sadly not as exciting as you might think. And some of it is quite terrible.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it is,” the tone of prurient delight was unmistakable. “Are you staying in Madras long? I have a circle of friends who would love to meet you.”

  Maliha stood up, Françoise followed suit. “Unfortunately my air-plane heads back as soon as I’ve completed my investigations here. No time for socialising.”

  Mrs Wyndham was quite crestfallen, but Maliha was grateful; she could not think of anything worse than being surrounded by a bunch of women panting for gossip. Then she thought of her grandmother’s bride viewings. No, even they were less unpleasant; at least she was not required to speak.

  “Perhaps another time,” said Maliha, which seemed to perk the woman up. Maliha had no intention of returning to Madras.

  They took their leave. Maliha made a point of smiling at the receptionist, thanking her for her assistance and saying goodbye; there was no point in leaving someone disgruntled.

  As they reached the exit the cry of a baby, new-born no doubt, floated through the echoing halls and made Maliha think of the child she had cut from Riette’s dead body.

  ii

  Maliha gave the carriage driver the address, but told him to go via somewhere they could eat.

  That proved to be a problem. Three women on their own, even if one of them was a Westerner, could not be catered for even in a modern city like Madras. This was still India. They ended up back at the hotel where Amita was allowed to sit with them—after Maliha had made it clear to the Maitre d’ that was precisely what she expected.

  An hour later they returned in the cab and were conveyed through the crowded central city streets. The traffic thinned out and the buildings became residential. They had seen better days and while probably originally built for whites were now fully occupied by native Indians; the white middle classes had moved on.

  They came to a stop outside an unremarkable set of apartments constructed in a mock Georgian style. All three went inside, and mounted the stone stairs three flights. They followed the numbered doors to the right one. Maliha knocked.

  There was a pause and eventually the sound of someone approaching. A bolt was thrown back and it was opened a crack. Maliha saw an Indian woman’s face hidden in shadow.

  “Namaste,” said Maliha and continued in Hindi. “I’m looking for Mary O’Donnell.”

  “I only speak English,” said the woman. There was a curious lilt to her voice Maliha couldn’t place.

  “Mary O’Donnell?”

  “She’s dead, God rest her soul.”

  Maliha placed it. The accent was Irish. It seemed out of place in such a face. “She’s your mother?”

  “She was. She died. Goodbye.”

  She went to push the door shut but Maliha put her foot in the way.

  “When?”

  “What?”

  “When did she die?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Maliha Anderson, I—” and she didn’t know what to say that would make this woman tell her everything she needed to know, “—I’m like you.”

  “What do you mean?” The antagonism was unrestrained.

  “Mixed parentage.”

  “I’m not interested in your pity. Get your foot out of my door before I hurt you.”

  This was the moment Amita barged past Françoise and Maliha, and slammed her shoulder into the door. The force flung it open knocking the woman against the opposite wall.

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, Amita,” said Maliha and bent down to help the woman to her feet. The room was small but not as bad as some Maliha had seen. She noted the images of the Virgin Mary on the wall, the crucifix and rosary beads on the mantle above the fireplace. And black cloth draped on them and a few photographs in pewter frames.

  Amita stood behind Maliha with a dangerous look on her face. “She threatened you, sahiba.”

  “Can you stand?” Maliha asked the woman. She nodded but her attention was fixated on Amita as if she was a tiger ready to pounce. Which was not an inaccurate assessment. “I’m sorry about my maid, she’s quite...protective.”

  “She’s your maid?”

  “Let’s sit down,” said Maliha using one of the straight-back chairs by the table. “What’s your name?”

  “Naimh.”

  “A good Irish name.”

  The woman frowned. “Try looking like me, with that name.”

  “I know what it’s like,” said Maliha.

  “You think so?” she said. “You come from money. Look at you with your silk and your maid, and your—” she looked at Françoise, “—whatever she is.”

  “Associate.”

  “Is that what they’re called now is it?”

  Maliha frowned. “You think you had it bad? I spent seven years in a girls’ boarding school in England with this skin. At least you could walk down the street and look like you fit in.”

  They glared at one another, until Naimh finally took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

  Maliha nodded. “So am I.” She took a deep breath. “When did your mother die?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  Naimh stood up and took down one of the frames from under the black cloth and handed it to Maliha. It was a picture of a younger Naimh, perhaps twelve or thirteen, with an older woman with long wavy hair tied back. She was wearing a uniform that was reminiscent of a nurse.

  “Your mother?” asked Maliha.

  Naimh nodded.

&nb
sp; “She was a midwife?”

  “She spent her life delivering other people’s babies, but they still shunned her.”

  “Your parents were not married.”

  Naimh shook her head. “I don’t even know who my father was. She never said; I didn’t ask.”

  “But she worked at the hospital?”

  Naimh shrugged. “For a time. She said she left because she didn’t like it there. They were all protestants, you see. She didn’t fit in.”

  “How did she die?”

  “I came home one day, she was lying there—” she nodded at the floor between them, “—she was dead.”

  “Yes, but how did she die?”

  Maliha saw the tears forming in Naimh’s eyes. “I don’t know. She was as strong as a horse. She always went to church on Sunday. I don’t know—”

  Her voice cracked and she sobbed. Maliha remembered how it had been with Barbara Makepeace-Flynn; she glanced at the other two. Amita just stared at her while Françoise gestured her head at Naimh.

  Maliha moved to sit beside the woman and put her arm around her shoulders.

  Amita came over with one of Maliha’s kerchiefs which Maliha took and gently pushed into Naimh’s hand.

  The sobbing eventually turned to sniffles. “I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” said Maliha. “The police didn’t tell you anything?”

  “Police?”

  “You reported her death?”

  Naimh shook her head. “I told the priest and he arranged everything.”

  “What colour was her skin?”

  “What colour..?”

  “You came in and found her, what colour was her skin?”

  “Pale.”

  People were so unobservant. “No, there was more than that, wasn’t there? She was blue-ish round her mouth, her fingers.”

  Naimh looked up. “How did you know?”

  Maliha didn’t respond; she was examining the floor. She got to her feet and pointed. “Show me exactly where she was lying. Exactly mind.”

  Naimh looked at Maliha in that confused way that people so often did.

  “Your mother was poisoned. I need you to show me exactly where she was lying when you found her.”