“There are bad people in the world, my love.”
“That’s trite and meaningless, Valentine,” she said. “She’s not evil, she’s broken and desperate.”
She went back to breaking the cake into smaller and smaller pieces.
“Is there something else?”
“I...” she trailed off, took a deep breath and started again. “I owe you an apology.”
He would have laughed; he could think of a dozen things she had said or done that demanded an apology—in his opinion. Which was this?
“What for?”
“My reaction when you killed the guru.”
When you threw me out of your life for daring to protect your honour.
“I did not understand,” she said.
“And now you do?”
“The way I felt towards Riette’s mother, I understand that’s what you felt about that man.”
“Much worse.”
“Yes.” She nodded but still had not looked at him. “I imagine you felt much worse.”
“But you had more self-control than I.”
“What would have been the point? Riette is dead. Her mother is broken.”
“And you would have got into trouble for killing someone in broad daylight, in a public place, for no apparent reason.”
Keeping her head down she looked up at him. Coy. “It did cross my mind.”
“Whereas I just dived straight in and killed a man.” It felt like he was telling a joke but neither of them laughed.
Instead she reached across the table and took his hand. “Thank you.”
“Thank you?”
She gave him her smile. “Thank you for caring enough.”
Maliha frowned at a knock on the door. “I didn’t order anything else.”
Valentine jumped up and began to gather the parts of the meal that had come from his room.
“Stop it,” said Maliha. “What are we? Children caught out of bounds?”
“The assumption will be that something we were doing involved being out of bounds.”
She glared at him. “Just be out of sight over there.”
He did as she asked and went to stand so he would be hidden when the door was opened. There was another knock; it possessed less conviction than the previous one and Maliha paused mid-stride.
Valentine started towards her but she held up her hand to stop him.
They waited and there was no further knock, but Maliha could see a shadow moving on the outside. The door handle turned and the door pushed open slowly as if it were pouring honey.
Maliha moved swiftly to the side and stood in front of Valentine. He put his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off.
The sound of distant laughing drifted through the open door from further down the corridor and a man dashed in. He turned to close the door and froze at the sight of them looking at him.
“Ray Jennings,” hissed Maliha. She and Valentine stepped forward as one. Maliha pushed the door shut as Valentine once again slammed the rodent of a man against the wall, pressing his forearm into the man’s neck.
Maliha stood with her back against the door.
“I’ll shout for help, so help me I will,” Ray almost choked.
“How angry are you feeling, Mr Crier?”
“Angry enough, Miss Anderson.”
“Did you know, Ray?” Maliha said casually. “The last person who made Mr Crier angry died painfully.”
Ray coughed. “Really?”
“Oh yes. You really wouldn’t like Mr Crier when he’s angry.” She moved in on the two of them until she was close to his weasel face which was going red. “Nor me, and I’m not feeling very friendly at the moment either.”
Ray did not seem to have anything further to say and, now that she thought about it, she couldn’t recall the last time he took a proper breath. His eyes were beginning to glaze over. She looked at Valentine and came to the conclusion that he really was very angry and unlikely to let up the pressure on Jennings’ neck in the near future.
A dead body in the hotel room, even that of a low-life like Ray Jennings, would be an inconvenience. She put her hand on Valentine’s arm. “That’s probably enough, Mr Crier. I believe Mr Jennings has got the point.”
Valentine let him go and Jennings slumped to the floor.
“I hope you haven’t killed him.”
Jennings groaned.
“He’s not dead,” said Valentine in disgust.
“Put him on the sofa.” Maliha went to the table and poured a glass of water. She turned back to see Valentine tossing Jennings into the cushions where he bounced once. He stared at Valentine in terror. Maliha handed Jennings the glass. Pain lanced across his face as he swallowed a mouthful. He sipped instead.
Valentine confronted her. “And you said we should leave him alone.”
“I didn’t expect him to start breaking and entering.”
“I’ll contact the British Consulate and have him shipped back to England. I know some people that can get him locked up permanently.”
“That’s not legal,” croaked Jennings.
Valentine turned on him. “Oh no, Mr Jennings. It will be completely legal. A traitor like you can be locked up indefinitely or just hung.”
“I’m not a traitor.”
“You are if I say you are.”
Jennings opened his mouth to utter some further bravado but no sound came out.
Maliha shook her head at Valentine then turned to Jennings. “Now you understand the potential risks perhaps you’d like to explain why you broke into my room.”
vi
The perambulator supplied by the hotel was brand-new. Amita could smell the freshness of the wood and the mattress material. They had also supplied sheets and a pillow to go with it.
It had been delivered by one of the desk staff with a chambermaid pushing the pram itself. The design provided a rain and sun hood that concertinaed from the head end, and a rain sheet that clipped over the body.
Amita changed the baby’s nappy and dressed her in a light dress. Too much heat was not good for babies. She prepared several bottles of water. Setting out with a baby was like organising army manoeuvres.
When Barbara had finished dealing with the staff and signing a note saying she was happy for the cost of the pram to be added to their bill, they set off. Amita felt like a nanny—then again that’s effectively what she was. She spent more time looking after the baby than she did dealing with Maliha’s needs, but then her mistress was significantly less demanding. And considerably more considerate. Amita quickly learnt that young babies are very selfish creatures.
But that was all right because little Baba was the sweetest thing she had ever met and when the baby smiled for Amita it made her melt with happiness. Their baby might need a lot of attention but she gave back so much.
They exited the hotel and the doorman assisted in getting the pram down the stairs. Baba was completely hidden from view so no doubt he could pretend to himself that she wasn’t black.
Barbara had acquired instructions to the library from the desk.
“I really don’t wish to spend hours reading old newspapers,” said Barbara. She was using her stick and they progressed quite slowly. Amita was aware how much Barbara’s health had degenerated in the time she had known her, and she was surprised Maliha had not commented on it. It was not like her to miss something like that.
“Do you?”
“No, mem sahib.”
Barbara stopped in the street forcing other pedestrians to go around them. “Oh don’t ‘mem sahib’ me, Amita,” she said. “You have opinions, tell me what you think.”
Amita briefly looked at Barbara before casting her eyes down again. “I think they will not let me or Baba into library.” If Mrs Makepeace-Flynn did not want to be called mem sahib it was difficult to know what to call her.
“Which means it has to be me.”
“Perhaps I find someone who will know?”
“I don’t want to be wal
king around all day either.”
“I understand library is often very cool, perhaps you could go inside and wait? You could ask people there and they may help you?”
“And you’ll have the baby?”
“If that is acceptable.”
“Don’t see much of a choice.” Barbara set off again at a slightly faster pace. “Maliha is a good girl but she can be so single-minded she forgets to take others into consideration.”
“Yes, mem sahib.”
Barbara grunted.
Amita watched as Barbara climbed the library steps. Each one was clearly an effort after walking for nearly half an hour. She never complained about her physical condition, but perhaps that was because Amita was only a servant.
They had agreed to meet in two hours and Barbara had said that if she could not find anyone to talk to she would do as Maliha had asked and read some newspapers.
They had passed a sign for a park a short distance back, so Maliha turned the pram around after checking to make sure little Baba was all right. Her skin was cool enough and she was fast asleep.
The park looked pleasant with lots of trees and paths running between tall bushes with elegant flowerbeds scattered among them. It looked so artistic that it was clearly artificial. There was also a sign forbidding entry to blacks. If Barbara or Maliha had been there they would have insisted on her accompanying them. But by herself it was not worth the risk.
Instead she pushed the pram along the road that ran around the park’s perimeter. The buildings were all new and built in an unfamiliar style. It was European of course, but not the British she was familiar with; they looked somehow wrong.
As the road rounded the far end of the park she saw a black woman pushing another pram and heading into the park. A segregated area no doubt. Amita followed and indeed there was a sign indicating that indentured blacks were allowed in this area.
Which meant that there were several women with their mistresses’ children. Some pushing prams and others sitting rocking them with their hands or feet. Amita choose a younger looking girl sitting on her own in the shade of a huge tree with multiple trunks. It looked as if it had been there a long time and Amita guessed the park had been built around it.
The two of them sat side by side in silence for a while. Amita got out a bag of fruit. “Would you like apple?”
“No, thank you.”
As they were in the shade Amita put down the hood of the pram. Baba was still fast asleep. The girl peered into the pram.
“I don’t know if you can bring a black baby in here.”
Amita laughed. “Sign said blacks allowed.”
The girl smiled. “Where are you from?”
“Ceylon.”
“Where’s that?”
“India.”
“Oh,” the girl looked at Baba again. “Why have you got a black baby in such an expensive pram?”
“My mistress found her,” said Amita then realised how bad that sounded. “By accident. Child’s mother died. We find child’s family.” And in saying those words Amita felt a pang of sadness.
“Oh,” said the girl. “I’m Zakiya.”
“Amita.”
“Who’s your mistress?”
“Do you know Maliha Anderson?”
The girl shook her head.
“She is great investigator. When someone is murdered she will find killer and bring them to justice.”
“Like police.”
“Cleverer than police.”
The baby in the girl’s pram made little crying sounds. Not continuously but now and again as if trying to attract attention.
“Peter does that when he’s bored.” She leaned across and lifted the boy onto her knee. He was older than Baba and seemed very aware of his surroundings. When Zakiya smiled at him he giggled.
“He seems good child,” said Amita. The girl nodded. “My mistress went to see Mama Kosi.”
That got a reaction. The girl looked horrified and crossed herself. She looked as if she was going to leave.
“My mistress heard children are going missing.”
The girl’s fear intensified. “Why talk to me about it? I have done nothing.”
“No,” said Amita. “No one says you did anything. But you know about it?”
Peter cried and the girl bounced him on her knee until he laughed.
“Can you tell me anything about it?” asked Amita again.
“They say an evil animal spirit walks in the city. It is angry and at night it takes children away. No one knows what happens to them; they are just gone.”
“How many?”
Zakiya shook her head. “No one knows. Always it is the poor families and no one knows. The police they do not care because it is the children of the poor blacks.”
Amita stood up; she did not want to be late meeting Barbara back at the library.
“Can your mistress stop it happening?” asked Zakiya.
Amita took the brake off the pram and turned it. It bounced on its springs.
“My mistress is goddess of vengeance. She will stop it.”
vii
Maliha stood over the little man. Back in England he had seemed bigger, and more dangerous. There he had been in his element with allies and the ability to run back to London if things got too hot for him. Here he was on his own.
Valentine had relieved him of his camera and placed it on the table.
“So, Ray, do you mind if I call you Ray?” she said.
He shook his head.
“What are you doing here?”
“Getting a story,” he said.
“What story?”
“I reckon following you will always lead to a story.”
“And did it?”
He glanced at his camera but said nothing. Valentine had been lounging against the wall in a way that implied he was not threatening but somehow managed to convey the precise opposite. Now he stood up straight.
“I really think you should answer my questions—truthfully.”
“Yeah, I got some interesting pictures of you going along the balcony to his room and not coming back for over an hour.”
“And where were you when that happened, Ray?”
“You’re not denying it then!”
“Ray, where were you when you took those pictures? On the ground on the road opposite?”
He nodded.
“Six flights down,” she said. “That’s a long way for a little camera like that.”
“If I say it was you doing the dirty with him,” he nodded in Valentine’s direction, “then that’s what people will believe.”
Maliha held up her hand to stop Valentine from hitting him.
“And is that what you want to be remembered for, Ray?”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Wouldn’t you prefer people to compare you with Winifred Churchill?”
“That cow? I don’t think so.”
“That cow who gets front page coverage, articles in The Times, and knows several members of the Royal family personally.”
“Nothing special about that, she’s got connections. She’s a toff herself.”
Maliha stood back, closed her eyes and sighed. How was it possible that someone could be so ... stupid.
“Which would you prefer, Ray, a sleazy scandal story for some rag that everyone will forget and will do nothing for your future career, or something so big it’ll make all of Winifred Churchill’s stories look like reports about the village fete?”
She went to the window while her words sank in. No doubt it would take a while; he had probably never even considered the possibility that he might actually get to report on something significant.
Of course that did require this to be a major case. It was not certain how the British public might respond to another story about the Transvaal. The second Boer War was still fresh in everyone’s mind, and Kitchener had done some very bad things to win. The British were still paying to get the Boer farmers back on their feet.
On the other hand, if she was right, this would be a story about women and children. That would always work.
“What story?”
She smiled.
* * *
Barbara pushed her way through the doors from the cool of the library’s interior into the hot air and sunshine. It was as hot here as it could be at the Fortress, but the humidity was always high there. The heat here was a lot drier which made it more tolerable. Perhaps she should retire to Johannesburg.
She shook her head. She was already retired and all her friends were in Ceylon. She was too old to change now.
Amita was waiting at the side of the road with the baby. She saw Barbara coming out and hurried up the steps to assist her.
“Would you like me to get you a taxi, mem sahib?”
Barbara wanted to say no, it was such a short way to the hotel, less than half a mile. But the walk here had exhausted her and even with the rest she had had in the library she still felt weak. She nodded.
Amita looked at her with concern. “Are you well, mem sahib?”
“I’ll be fine.”
The first taxi driver had argued about taking the pram but Amita had simply hailed a second one while the first was still there on the kerb. The second driver was more amenable.
Amita helped Barbara inside, and took little Baba from the pram while the driver strapped it on the top of the steam-powered vehicle. The first man stood and watched. Barbara tried to moved forward to help Amita climb in but found her body was unresponsive. She felt as if she could not breathe; as if someone were sitting on her chest.
Pain shot through her back. “Amita...” she breathed making almost no sound. She felt pins and needles crawling up from her fingers digging into the muscles of her arm. Numbness seeped through her from her extremities to her heart and she could not move.
She heard Amita shouting at the driver through what seemed to be layers of cloth. She had the sensation that they were moving fast; she could not see properly and her eyes did not want to obey her. She worried about the baby and whether the pram would fall off the roof.
Then she got angry with herself; she couldn’t afford to be ill.
They stopped and there was a bustle around her. She found herself being carried on a stretcher. She was not sure where they were. The lift was a blessed relief for a short time; something about being in the lift relieved her of some of the pressure. Though she still felt numb.
Thunder over the Grass Page 6