Fever Quest: A Clean Historical Mystery set in England and India (The Isabella Rockwell Trilogy Book 2) (17 page)

The man watched her.

“You won’t catch them.”

Isabella nodded. She raised her eyes.

“Is there somewhere I could stay with my friends?”

The man pointed to a hostelry over the road.

“That one would be best for travellers. Keep your money hidden.
There are many thieves on this road.”

“Thank you.”

The inn was clean and well-kept. There was no need
to hurry now. The man had been right, they would never catch them. Midge would
disappear back into the bowels of Golconda, all because of one man’s greed and
a belief in something that didn’t even exist. There was nothing she could do to
stop it.

A sickle moon had come out and the wind from the dust
storm had finally died down, so no clouds crossed its silvery path. Isabella
and Rat were on the porch of the hostelry watching the lanterns being lit in
the houses across the road. The girls were fast asleep. There was a squeak of
floorboards and John Rockwell sat down in the rocking chair next to hers and
rolled himself a cigarette. He lit it, and a deep smoky smell rose above them,
but it was not the sweet smell of tobacco. No. These leaves had a bitterness to
them, a sour note hidden by the first vanilla-like smell. She held her breath.
Had her suspicions been correct? How long had it been since they were on the
hillside by the mosque? Two nights? The timing would be right, then.

John Rockwell sighed and stretched out his long limbs. He
leaned his head back against the wood of the chair and closed his eyes.

“So this medicine. How long have you been taking it?”

“Oh. One year. Maybe two.” His speech was heavy and his
voice slurred.

“And Colonel Stone gave it to you.” John Rockwell nodded,
still not opening his eyes. “Can you remember when?”

John Rockwell shook his head.

“I find my memory is not all it should be. Especially
since this.” He pointed to the scar on his face. “It does help my chest,
though. I feel it if I don’t take it.” He stood up. “I will sleep now.”

“Good night.”

Isabella waited until he had gone and then she picked up
the stub of the cigarette and folded it into her pocket. The rocking chair
squeaked as she moved it to and fro, but the rhythm soothed her jangled mind
and helped her to think.

It was true the bath, deep and warm and scented with
orange-blossom soap, had helped, and so, too, had the double portion of beans
and rice washed down with pomegranate juice. Waves of exhaustion rolled over
her one by one, but she clung to consciousness. If she slept now, who knew what
she’d dream about? She didn’t dare.

Now, more than ever, she needed a plan. And a watertight
one; one that would get her into Stone’s presence, for surely he would keep
Midge close by?

She looked down at her hands, clean for the first time in
weeks; her father’s hands, with their long spatulate fingers and prominent
wrist bones. They looked feminine, though, despite the roughness of the skin.
She clenched them into fists and the tendons stood proud, a blue tracing of
veins over the top of them. Now they looked more masculine, with her thumb
tucked beneath her knuckles so it wouldn’t break if she punched someone.

Was that the answer?

Could she travel as a boy? The man at the stall had
thought that’s what she was.

She heaved herself off the rocking chair and went up to
her little room. She took off her sari and angled the small cracked mirror on
the dressing table so she could see her whole figure from top to bottom. Naked,
she looked like a silvery fish, long and shiny, but muscled and strong. Her
shoulders were broader than average, though her chest was not and only showed
two buds which were barely noticeable. Her waist didn’t go in as Livia’s did
and there was little difference between it and her hips. Her legs were lean and
straight with scabbed knees, and her feet, though thin, were large enough to
pass as a boy’s. She pulled on her dhoti and tunic and tucked her hair away.
Then she examined herself from all sides. The straightness of her body was in
her favour, and from both the back and the front there was no evidence that she
was a girl. If anything, it was her face that gave her away. It lacked the
heaviness of the jaw and the broadness of the nose that might be found in a boy
of sixteen But still, the overall impression was good.

Outside there was a clattering as a four-wheeled
carriage pulled up, the driver shouting for hot water and a shave. Isabella
looked back at herself in the mirror, then slid in between her clean white
sheets, smiling. She knew what she must do. For her father. For Midge.

“You want me to what?”

The barber looked shocked and stopped sharpening his razor
on the strop hanging off his belt. Isabella settled in his chair. It was just
before dawn and she was his first customer.

“Shave it off. And my eyebrows.”

The barber looked pained as he grasped her hair in a brown
shining handful.

“Such beautiful hair …” Then his face perked up. “Can
I sell it?”

Isabella frowned.

“I don’t care what you do with it, so long as you get a
move on.”

A few minutes later her hair sat in a heap on the floor
and she was running her hand over the unfamiliar shape of her skull. It felt
wonderfully cool. Then the barber tilted her face and with a feather touch took
off each eyebrow, dusting the unwanted hairs off her cheeks with a soft shaving
brush. Her moon face stared back at her in the mirror, fuller and rounder now
without its curtain of brown. She took out a long piece of fabric and tied it
around her head. Her small ears stuck out from her head and made her look
awkward, and her features lacked definition without the feminine upsweep of her
eyebrows. As a disguise, it was perfect.

She headed out into the growing heat of the new day and
found an apothecary’s, where she filled Abhaya’s pouch until each pocket bulged
with its own remedy. How wonderful it was to see it full again. She tied the
leather laces tightening them with her teeth.

The apothecary was staring at her.

“Have we met before?” Isabella shook her head and looked
down, eager not to attract attention. “I could give you something for your hair
loss, if you would like.”

She looked up at him. His face was kind and open.

“No, I’m not ill. I’m afraid I did this to myself.”

“But why?” His voice dropped. “Is it the burrowing lice?”
Isabella nodded with a pretend grimace. “Ahh. I understand, I had them myself.
Very difficult to get rid of, but this should help with the eggs left in the
skin.” He took out a small bottle of white syrup.

Isabella reached into her pocket and pulled out the
cigarette stub.

“Papa-ji, can I ask you one more question? This” – she
held the stub up to her nose – “to me smells like datura leaf. What do you
think?”

“You took your time, baba.”
Abyaha’s voice was
filled with laughter.

Isabella smiled.

Her last stop was the horse-dealer.

“You’ve an albino Arab here, I’ve heard.”

The horse-dealer was a weaselly man with restless hands
and an ingratiating manner.

“I certainly do. A fine animal. Just right for a young sir
like yourself. But expensive …” He slid a glance towards the bag that
rested on her hip.

“I’ve got money if he’s the right horse,” she replied.

The horse-dealer bent towards the ground in an apologetic
bow.

“Of course, sir. I never meant to suggest anything
different.”

“Just show me the horse.”

Isabella was amazed at the freedom she felt, dressed as
someone else. Or was it just the freedom of being a man? To do as she wished,
when she wished. Welcome to the land of men, where rudeness was just an
extension of one’s power rather than considered a personal attack, the way it
was with women. She was enjoying herself.

“Here she is.”

“She?” Isabella was surprised. How had she missed this?

“Yes, she.”

And he was right. He was a she, and she was as beautiful
as the morning sun with long lines and a tail of silver which touched the
ground. She looked at Isabella with her brown eye and pricked her tiny, tufted
ears.

“How much?”

“Her old owner said to make sure she went to a decent
home.”

“I will give her a decent home.”

The man still hesitated.

“I don’t believe you have enough money.”

Exasperated, Isabella got out a pile of rupees.

“Is that enough?”

The man’s eyes widened.

“Yes, that’s enough. But I saw your own horse yesterday.
He is a fine animal. Why do you also need this one?”

She looked back at the dealer.

“I’ve got someone to collect.”

The man nodded and put the mare’s saddle on her back. Her
saddle blanket was scarlet and her bridle carried the same colour noseband.

“Have you anything plainer?”

“Of course, but this is a good bridle …” He shrugged
and brought out another, plain and brown, with some of its stitching frayed.
“She’ll carry a good load a long way, that’s for sure.”

Isabella pulled herself into the saddle.

“I hope she’ll get the chance.”

The others woke at lunchtime. Livia took one look at
Isabella’s head and burst into tears.

“Why did you do that?”

They were waiting for John Rockwell, who was finding it
hard to get going. Isabella was fairly sure she knew why.

“I need to enter the city of Golconda as a boy. Stone
knows I’m going to follow Midge, he will be expecting me. I thought if I
arrived as a horse-dealer, I might find it easier to get in.”

“But what about us?” asked Rose. “You need someone with
you, it’s too dangerous …”

Isabella dug around in her pocket until she brought out
the nine seeds, pearly gray in the sunlight.

“I need you to take these for me.”

Rose’s eyes were round with surprise.

“Me?”

Isabella laughed.

“Yes, you.”

Rose’s cheeks flooded with colour.

“Don’t you think Livia should … um … wouldn’t
she be better at … ?” Rose tailed off miserably, not even able to finish
her sentence.

“You are the right person for the job,” said Livia,
throwing a skinny brown arm around Rose’s shoulders.

Isabella smiled at Livia and then turned back to Rose.

“You are stronger than Livia. You’re a better rider and
you blend in,” she said, looking at Rose through narrow eyes. Rose had grown
and now was as tall as Livia. She’d put on weight and though she was still
thin, her shoulders were strong and her arms and legs, after weeks of riding,
were well-muscled. Her skin was burnt to chestnut brown and her mousey hair was
thick and shiny with touches of greenish blonde at the front. She could almost
be taken for a member of a light-skinned native tribe from the north.

“I want you to look after these for me. You might have to
take them onto Lucknow for me.”

Rose blushed with pleasure and tucked the seeds away
inside the dhoti which, Isabella had noticed she now wore all the time.

“You will be coming back, however.” Replied Rose.

Isabella looked at Rat, who was trying to coax a beetle
out from under one of the porch steps.

“I hope so.”

“And your father?” asked Livia.

The owner had brought the four horses around to the front
of the hostelry.

“I’ve other plans for him –”

But she was cut short by John Rockwell’s arrival
on the porch. He was dishevelled and his eyes were wild. For a moment they
rested on Isabella and he looked as if he was about to say something important
to her, but then the slow, sweet expression came back over his face, a curtain
blocking out the sun.

The road was looking familiar and she estimated Golconda would soon come into view.

Cobra had taken one look at Colonel Stone’s mare and
fallen in love. When they weren’t on the road, Cobra spent his time resting his
great black head against her silver flank and his bad humour became a thing of
the past. He didn’t even mind Rat licking out his manger on the few times they
didn’t sleep in the open. Isabella grudgingly admired Colonel Stone’s taste in
horses, before her mind clamped shut.

She found it was best she not think too much about
anything – Midge, her father, or Rose and Livia – otherwise the worry became
too much and her throat would close, her breathing would become shallow and
she’d have to put her head between her knees. But there was no longer any
question of turning back. The days bled into each other in a muddle of red dust
and sunsets. The land had flattened out and the growing jungle of vegetation on
either side of the road was full of game.

Every evening, in front of their tiny fire, Isabella sat
deep into the night, grinding up a mixture of powders. She put these with some
dark and bitter-smelling leaves and water into a tiny tin mug over the flames
so it would bubble slowly. All night long she sat up with the mixture,
re-filling the cup with water when the liquid got too low, adding extra leaves
if the solution got too weak. By the time the grey light of dawn rolled over
them, Isabella had a cup of bitter, thick brown liquid which she decanted into
a small glass bottle. Then she mixed twelve drops of it with a cup of clean
drinking water.

“I hope you’re right, Abhaya. That’s all I can say.” Her
voice was no more than a whisper on the wind, as she poured the contents of the
cup into John Rockwell’s water canteen. She swallowed her fear and summoned
Ruby’s face as she had lain dying in London, blood bubbling from the corner of
her mouth.

“Midge?” Ruby had whispered.

Isabella had been cradling and rocking her, watching the
bloom of red on Ruby’s chest grow ever wider.

“I’ll take care of Midge.” She’d answered before
her throat had closed and tears spilled down her cheeks. When she died, Ruby’s
face had been peaceful. She’d believed in Isabella from the start, had never
questioned her judgement or tried to second-guess her. And she’d trusted her
with her most precious possession: her brother. Now Isabella’s debt to Ruby was
being called in, she would do her utmost to repay it.