She nods, tells him she should be heading back inside, and they part ways. Later, she spots him rapping on the trunk of the traveler’s palm as if he were testing it for its timber yield. Whatever else the colonel is, he’s not such an idiot as this man. George decided long before he ever met her to accept Malaya on its own terms.
Yet he won’t let her live as she must live, will he? And how must she live? Weaving her way to the westernmost point of the gardens, she hides behind a fruiting tree—a Dillenia, she sees on the label—and looks toward their house. She can see nothing animate, only the bulky blue shapes of the building, with the little barn sitting some distance away. Without Cleopatra to graze it, the stretch of meadow between here and there has sprung up rather recklessly.
Conveniently, but somehow unexpectedly, Charles Peterborough is the physician to assess Hannah. The colonel is prepared to welcome her home, Lucy notes brightly, after she has been assessed by a professional.
“And that’s Charles?”
“Oh, he’s unassuming, I know. We think of him as a shortsighted, rather awkward conversationalist. Pathologically shy,” Lucy whispers behind her hand. “Actually, he’s a prominent specialist in women’s health. He’s not been practicing here as a medical doctor, in favor of focusing on his research.”
Charles is installed in one of the wings on the third floor, quite apart from Eva’s rooms, Hannah remarks, as she climbs the winding flights of the rear stairwell. The air on the upper level is noticeably thicker. In summer, it must be positively unlivable. Though, of course, in summer, Charles had been at Idlewyld.
“You must be pleased by the sentencing,” she says, after they greet each other and he is fussing with his pen.
The news of the day is that three of his former servants have confessed to plotting and committing willful destruction of property by fire. Each will serve three years of hard labor. The new prison in Kuala Lumpur, says The Malay Mail, will provide “suitable accommodation.” Most of the article concerns the prison facility’s construction and modern features.
“Not particularly,” he replies and does not elaborate.
She wonders if he shares Eva’s opinion that the genduk is the true culprit. Charles looks anything but outraged. Saddened, perhaps. His research, she reminds herself, has been destroyed.
Before he begins his formal questioning, she ventures, “I don’t suppose you know, Doctor, but my husband incinerated my artwork. He ordered our servants to cut my paintings to pieces and feed them into the stove. Each and every painting that I have done here, sir. Many of them were botanical specimens discovered at Idlewyld.”
He listens to this keenly, once or twice pushing his spectacles up his nose.
“I thought I might be able to recreate one of the works that…that I considered especially promising. I tried.” She struggles to keep her throat from locking up. “I couldn’t do it.”
Charles nods slowly. “Yes, I understand that when your husband learned of your deception, he lost his temper.” She nods. “And so you left your house. Were you afraid of him?”
She remembers the feelings of release and relief that came after she told the colonel of her summer spent trekking and painting. “No, Doctor. Just the opposite. I wasn’t afraid of George. I left because I wanted to recreate one of the works.”
“Why did you not return? Apologize? Try to patch it up with him?”
All she can think about now is the original portrait of the hare-lipped house girl, waiting on the easel in the nursery. What she had planned to add to it—the shadows to be deepened on the neck and the fine work still needed for the eyeballs, and how she intended to heighten the intensity of the purples in the small of the back and repeat them in the left nipple and the upper quadrant of the background. She says, “I don’t know.”
He asks her several questions about how she is feeling, physically, emotionally. Then about how she was feeling, physically, emotionally, during the duration of “the episode.” This is how he seems to be referring to the time she spent on her own in the village. She answers as truthfully as possible.
“I think,” he says, “that at the very least you feel life too deeply, Mrs. Inglis. Would you agree that you are oversensitive? Do you care about things that others don’t?”
“Perhaps,” she assents.
“And that the artwork you create is contributing to this imbalance,” he continues, “this excess of sensitivity?”
“Yes. I can see that it does.” She asks, “Have you seen the paintings I arrived with, Doctor? They were removed from my satchel.”
He takes a moment to consider this. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Mrs. Finch thought it might give me some insight into your state of mind.” He tells her it is not unusual for artists to succumb to monomania and even certain states of hysteria. These conditions are aggravated by poor eating, poor socialization, and poor hygiene.
Hannah is close to tears, absorbing what he is telling her. She expected to dispute him, to dislike him. “You think I am an artist?” She seizes her knees, knowing that this question and the hope that stirs it will only reaffirm her obsession. Before he can answer, she says, “You do. You’ve said as much.”
Charles Peterborough advises her to stop painting. She must focus on taking care of her own needs properly—washing regularly, brushing her hair and teeth, wearing clean clothing, paring her fingernails and toenails—and that her husband should arrange for her treatment as a day-patient at a new psychiatric clinic in London. Charles Peterborough, it would seem, knew before Hannah did herself that the colonel had plans to relocate them.
He also prescribes ether on the occasions she is feeling particularly anxious to paint. Also, to overcome any qualms about social interactions. She is to build friendships with “decent people” and avoid being alone. Eat more meat. Eat more frequently. Take up a restful hobby such as gardening. And, once she is given a clear report from her psychiatrist, she (and her husband) could greatly benefit from having a child.
Fifty
Eva Peterborough is the last person George expects to see heading for his house. Not when her pet friend is already there with her at the Residency. He opens the front door himself, just as she’s about to knock.
“Ah. May I have a word please, Colonel?”
She and Charles are such a match, he thinks, and not for the first time. Unattractive, demanding. “Of course,” he replies, ushering her inside. “Would you like me to have some tea pre—”
“Don’t bother.”
It is a rare opportunity to use the conservatory with a visitor. They settle into place overlooking the back lawn. That particular morning has been clear and cool, almost bearable. The bougainvillea is ever-blooming.
“Aren’t you going to ask me how your wife is doing?”
“I believe she’s in good hands. In fact, I’m told that she’s been seen today by your husband, Mrs. Peterborough. Should I be worried?”
She pins her green cat’s eyes on his. “I’m referring to her state of mind, Colonel. Which you ruptured by burning her art and casting her out of her own home.”
George takes a moment to breathe. He must keep his cool with this quick-witted witch. “Perhaps,” he says, “you would be kind enough to tell me how you were supporting Hannah’s mental hygiene by encouraging her to have adulterous relations in the forest, like some animal? And then to deceive and disobey her husband. You forget, Mrs. Peterborough, that I know exactly what kind of depravity you and your husband engage in in the name of research.”
“Yes, of course you do. You came into our home uninvited and snooped through what wasn’t yours. Then you stole from us.”
“Stole? What, the photograph?”
“Trespassing, theft,” Eva cites. “And then, in breach of a promise to your supervisor, you broke confidence by telling Hannah all about it.”
“Come now, talking to one’s wife is no
breach of confidence. Besides, this isn’t state espionage we are talking about; this was your husband’s grubby little operation to look up girls’ sarongs.”
Zinger! He’s longed to tell the woman exactly how he feels about her, the preposterous bitch, and if ever there were an occasion, this is it. Hasn’t she just barged into his house and blamed him for his wife’s undoing?
“It’s outrageous,” George goes on, “that you should accuse me of harming Hannah. God knows why, but she put some sort of store in your opinions. Now look at her.” Rising to stand, he says, “I think you’ve got some sort of unnatural hold over her!”
“What?” she laughs, blushing, incriminating herself.
“And I’ve had quite enough of it, Mrs. Peterborough. You may think you can do as you please with her, but Hannah is my wife. And you are…you are nothing to us. You are pitiful. I’ll ask you to leave our house. Now.”
Eva rises to her feet but moves no further. “I apologize,” she says, sounding nothing of the sort. “Coming here, my intention wasn’t to hurl accusations, Colonel.” Looking down, she begins picking at the tips of her gloves.
“Well, I…don’t…” He is gruff and remains standing, hoping to expedite whatever conversation is left. “Fine. I accept your apology.”
“However, I know that you are planning on taking Hannah to London.”
“As I said, Hannah is my wife!”
“I mean, the two of you are moving back to London. I realize that this has all been arranged with Lucy and with Charles, and what will no doubt be a convenient diagnosis. The coaching that is going on over there—” She rolls her eyes upward. “Even your rival, E.W., is making himself useful by singing the praises of modern health care and urban appliances for ‘the gentler sex.’ James, to his credit, is the only one keeping out of their game.”
The clever shrew must have her big nose in everybody’s business. She’s making it sound like he went to the Residency with a plan and had them sign to it. He hadn’t. Quite simply, he’d looked down at his unconscious wife—the ether had kicked in, said Lucy—and vowed to save her soul. They’d showed him the state of her clothing, ruined by mud and monkey shit. Those grotesque, perverted half-paintings on the rolled strip of canvas. He’d regretted, honestly regretted, having ever told Hannah to leave, and he vowed to do better by her.
“And what are you telling her, Mrs. Peterborough?”
To his surprise, when the lady responds she sounds genuinely humbled. She tells him she has not been saying much at all. Instead, she’s been listening to Hannah and observing her as she recovers. Hannah has spoken a good deal about Monsieur Godot and of other artists who inspired her. Of her faith. Of letting go.
“Letting go?” he says, querying this phrase. Perhaps Hannah is, with God’s help, willing to stop this nonsense. It occurs to him Mrs. Peterborough could be a helpful source of information, if only he could manage his own irritation with her. “Please,” he says, gesturing for them to resume their seats. “Do you know,” he asks, once they are seated, “has Hannah…expressed a desire to paint since she was brought to the Residency?”
Eva appears to think carefully about this. At last, she says, “I will be perfectly honest with you, Colonel Inglis. Yes. She has.”
“So then this ‘letting go’…what does this letting go amount to, Mrs. Peterborough?” When they left Europe, he imagined that without her precious academy, Hannah might tire of painting. But there was this Henri Godot, lingering, fueling the fire. George had even wondered if Godot had been the true purpose and value behind the art. But Hannah had kept on painting, without Godot and his enthusiastic letters. Without a studio. And if Mrs. Peterborough was right, Hannah may keep on painting even without Sergeant Singh. Exasperated, he says, “It amounts to nothing, that’s what. It’s another lie.”
“Hannah is not in a sexual relationship with Sergeant Singh. She never was. She’s not cuckolded you, Colonel. The only deceit she’s ever engaged in was so that she may pursue her talent.”
“Why are you speaking to me as if I’m an imbecile?”
She runs her tongue over her lips and says, amiably, “I find that with men, mostly, it can be necessary.”
“Excuse me?” These two women have been sharing secrets for months, just as women do, and now it appears Mrs. Peterborough has come to plead some sort of case for her friend? “Has Hannah sent you?” he demands. “Why are you here? What do you want?”
“To warn you, Colonel Inglis. I will ruin you.”
“What?” He is caught off guard by this blunt and vicious message.
“If you do not let Hannah live—let her live and paint as she must, respect her, care for her—I will ruin you. For example, my connections will ensure you do not receive a transfer or a pension, but rather an administrative discharge. ‘Unsuitability due to causes within the officer’s control’ is one option. Not as concise as, ‘dismissed with disgrace.’ Either one would make the rest of your life, socially speaking, full of shame and quite uncomfortable. Financially speaking, well…” She shrugs.
George grips the arm of his chair as he takes this in. Her connections—is that Swettenham? What had James mentioned? Had she already arranged to have the Residency handed to E.W.? He shakes his head, unable to accept what she is telling him, yet unwilling to ask her for some sort of proof.
“I’m not speaking merely of Perak, or even Southeast Asia, Colonel Inglis. I can and I will ruin you in London, or its suburbs, or in some country town. If it comes to that.”
He stares. Incredibly, the woman is as cool as a cucumber. The only possible sign of upset is the flaring of her large nostrils. Finally, she asks in a pitying voice, “Are you understanding me, George?” and for a moment he is back at his mother’s knee, flummoxed by what he’s done wrong.
“I—I assure you,” he answers, sticking his chin out and clearing his throat, “I am not proud of how things have unfolded, Mrs. Peterborough. And I appreciate your concern for Hannah. I must tell you: I love my wife. I love my wife very deeply. I can assure you, I will do my utmost to care for her.”
Eva Peterborough looks him over, perhaps considering whether to say anything further, then makes her excuses to leave.
Fifty-One
A week or so after I’d seen Thomas Munk’s Nude House Girl, he emailed me. I was packing for Malaysia at the time and when I saw the subject line on my phone, I tossed my wicking travel socks aside and lay down on the bed.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: ledger of art expenditures
Dear Nancy,
It was very nice to meet you the other day. Your obvious appreciation for my paintings quite moved me. As I happened to have some time on my hands yesterday, I took the liberty of contacting Miranda Buckley at Fulgham House. Miranda has access to the many archival ledgers that comprised the financial accounts of the estate while it was owned by the Pellingham-Peterborough family. Attached is a scanned copy of several pages of the ledger for Art Acquisitions and Expenditures, roughly 1885 through 1914. I’ve had a quick look myself, and noted that there appear to be multiple expenses related to Hannah Inglis. See what you think!
Warm regards,
Tommy
I charged out of the bedroom to find my laptop, in the lounge, and opened the email message there, clicking immediately on the attached PDF. The old ledger pages were better described as browned than yellowed, over which lay the black grid of the chart and a steeply slanting inky script.
Daphne was saying something, coming up behind me to peer at the screen. I focused on the line entries, scanning down the rows. Who had kept the books? I wondered. Surely not Charles or Eva. Their family’s status warranted a professional accountant. Eventually I came to an entry whose description read: Comm. for ptg H. Inglis. The entry was dated 1896 and associated with £200. Not a bad sum for the era, I was pr
etty sure. Comm., I surmised, referred to “commission.” At least, I could think of no other possible meaning. Here, it seemed, was empirical evidence that Eva and Charles Peterborough had purchased Hannah’s art.
“Jackpot!” I said, causing Daphne to gasp. She set a cup of tea down next to me.
“Thank you,” I said. “How much do you think £200 was worth in 1896?”
“I’ll Google it!” She beetled off to the kitchen, where their old PC was tucked in a corner.
I continued scanning down the ledger, conscious of Tommy’s forewarning of “multiple expenses related to Hannah.” Sure enough, after a stretch of a year or so, I saw a similar descriptive note, Comm. ptg H. Inglis, this time associated with £25. Then another with the same phrasing, another £25. None of the entries, I remarked upon, referred to numbers or the names of paintings. What exactly was being commissioned? On such a regular basis? The entries for H. Inglis came once every two months for a period of…thirteen years. Thirteen years!
This pattern was fairly easy to see during the Peterboroughs’ relatively nomadic travels through Australia and Indonesia (because there were often only two or three other line items), and more difficult to spot once the family had returned to the home in England and was selling and purchasing many other works of art.
“Adjusting for inflation,” Daphne called out, “£24,173.”
“Oh my God. That can’t be for a painting,” I mumbled to myself. What was it for? I took a gulp of tea and sat frowning at the screen. What was it for? In Malaya, where the British pound must have gone far further than it did in London, Hannah could have bought a home with that amount. Or traveled. I skimmed down to the next H. Inglis entry I’d highlighted. “Or lived for fifteen months without needing a penny.”
Daphne had come back into the room. I told her at last what I was looking at. “Ooh,” she said, “imagine giving that amount of money away! So posh, weren’t they? And you say they kept giving her money, did they, for thirteen years?”
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