My Lady of the Bog (12 page)

I ordered up dinner, but Vidya didn’t touch her seafood salad. “Look, I can order something else . . .”

“It’s brilliant. It’s just . . . I don’t think I’ll ever be hungry again.”

I studied her. God, she was lovely. Her face had the sheen of beaten gold, a hint of the Timurid or Hun in the cheekbones, and a dramatic Indian nose that flared like a sail and led her face like the prow of a ship. It had a daring yet delicately thin and hawk-like line, almost Egyptian in its profile.

Now she produced a battered pack of
Silk Cuts
. I lit one for her and she sat for a while, smoking, saying nothing, staring off at Turnham Green, letting the smoke drift from her lips to her flared nostrils. It was something I believe is called “French inhaling.”

“Where’d you learn that?”

“What? Oh,” she said, dashing out the butt. “A stupid trick. At convent school.”

“You’re
Catholic?
”

She shook her head. “It was the best school in Nairobi.” She looked apologetic. “I don’t smoke—anymore. I just threw these in my bag.”

I laughed. “You mean, they belong to some cop?”

She smiled wanly.

“Let me ask you something.”

“You may ask,” she said, stabbing another cigarette between her lips in a way that did not promise an answer.

“When did you find Jai?”

“Midnight,” she said without hesitation, pluming the smoke past my ear.

“So you weren’t at the ‘after’ like you told the police?”

She looked surprised. “You don’t really think I go out drinking alone until four o’bloody clock in the morning.” She gave me a look that said if I did, I was an idiot. “I was there for a moment round
hof
eleven.”

“But why do that?” I said. “Lie, I mean?”

I waited. No answer was forthcoming. Finally, I asked, “Are you sure of the time you got back home?”

“The clock in the hall was striking twelve.”

“And . . . ?”

Again, I waited for some explanation about why she’d lied, or what had happened next, but she offered none and finally—it was like pulling teeth—I asked, “And what were you doing between midnight and the time you called?”

She paused, then stubbed out the half-smoked fag. “I’m afraid I
cahn’t
tell you.”

I found this retort incomprehensible, considering how critical her answer was. Was I expected to take her innocence on faith, without even a clear and convincing explanation? I thought for some moments. “Can you give me a
hint
?”

She held my gaze steadily, then looked away. “Whilst in Mumbai, we stopped at a shop for antiquities. The shopkeeper was an old mate of Jai’s. There was the usual palaver and the sipping of
chai
. And that’s when Jai brought out the book.”

“Book?”

“The one you sent him.” She looked me in the eyes. “The
enchaunted
one.”

I looked into hers. “You mean,
enchanting
, don’t you?”

She sat back, looking half-amused. “My dear man, I am not some villager whose first language is Gujarati. I am well aware of the different meanings connoted by its past and present participles.”

“And how would a book become enchanted?”

“How? By
chaunting
over it, I presume.”

I felt a sudden strange
frisson
. She reminded me of an urban archeological dig. At street level stood a modern building with elevator banks and computerized lighting, but if you went to the cellar and dug in the foundation, you came across nameless ritual objects, the buried bones of sacrificed sows, stone phalluses and other bizarre, primordial things.

“And what did the dealer say?”

“He looked it over carefully. He even prized out a jewel and examined it beneath a lens. In the end, he pronounced it quite authentic.”

“Authentically enchanted?”

She didn’t smile. “The authentic memoirs of an Indian prince.”

“I have the translation. Jai e-mailed it to me last night.”

“You’ve read it?”

“Just a bit.”

“Ah, do,” she requested. “And now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Tonight,” I pronounced, “we cross the border to Indore.”

Ghazil raised his eyes; concern deepening his brow. “Our orders,” he said, “are to proceed due south.” He turned and squinted off at the horizon. “Even your brother went no further than this.”

“I know,” I said. “I saw his mark.” And I described to him then the pillar of victory.

“Ah, ha!” Ghazil said with a sudden bark, as though recalling something marvellous. “I haven’t seen one of those in years!”

“It’s a barbaric custom that was almost lost. Happily, it is being revived by our family.”

Ghazil savoured my insolence. Then he intoned, “Such things serve a purpose.”

“Yes,” I said, “to nauseate.” For the smell of the heads wouldn’t leave me alone.

“So you think it is wise? Raiding Indore, I mean?”

I turned in its direction. Star sapphires, pigeon-blood rubies, emeralds of the finest water, amethysts, carbuncles, garnets and gold were all mined from her rich, dry waste, so that if one had possessed that enchanted collyrium, which allows one to view the treasures of the earth, instead of a desert—tan and severe—you would have seen streams of Indian silver and frozen underground rivers of gold flowing through a glittering jewel-studded garden! Indore was, as the poet said, “a hell full of good things.”

On the one hand, I couldn’t blame Shri Ghazil. As my vizier, it was his office to question whatever I did, so that thought would be brought to our least endeavours. Still, it annoyed me. Just once I would have loved to hear him respond, “Yes, a wonderful idea!” But Ghazil is not like that and never will be.

And anyway, the true goal behind our entry to Indore was, I knew, neither jewels nor intelligence. Nor was it ivory, silks, silver, gold nor moonfaced maidens of a marriageable age to adorn my father’s court and harem. Its purpose was even more pure and primeval: to cover ourselves with blood and glory, so we could ride like the wind, feel the night in our hair, test our mettle, flesh our swords and enact our youth upon the plains of Hindustan the way Ghazil had enacted his upon the sands of Aragon. The problem with Ghazil was that he was always attempting to find rational reasons to support the instinctual.

The nature of a hawk is to soar through the ether. You may say, if you wish, that it is gathering intelligence on the disposition of the pigeon population—but its wings, lost in the joy of their soaring, know no such thoughts or bounds.

Chapter 17

S
ay what you will about death, it’s empowering. Tragedy, like some great, black Germanic banner, unfurls eagle wings in the sky of your life, obliterating, for a time at least, the dust-gray rags of everyday existence.

This, at least, is how I felt upon waking: as if, while I’d slept, the world had been dipped in a liquid significance. It was a feeling I hadn’t had since the night that we’d recovered my Lady. Then I realized it was more than just Jai’s death that had touched me; it was
love
. For Vidya.

I got up, showered, dressed and went down to the lobby. I wanted to read what the newspapers had to say about the murder, but after buying several, as I was turning to go . . .

“Morning,” Houlihan said right behind me. “Widow awake?”

“Let the poor girl sleep. She’s done in. What’s your
problem
, Lieutenant?”

“
S’
not me with the problem. It’s her. See, nobody remembers her at the ‘after’, except for a minute or two around eleven when she come in to use the phone. No one remembers her after that. And
that
ain’t possible. Or are you telling me this
babe
, dressed in a gold
robe
, wearing a
dot
between her eyes, sat
four
friggin’ hours
alone
at a table and
nobody
approached her?
Nobody
tried to pick her up? If ya think that, fella, you’re not fully aware of the effects of testosterone and are a lost soul in a strange world.”

I sighed. “What does it matter
when
she got home? She didn’t
do
it.”

“Odds say she did. Murder takes place at the victim’s residence between midnight and six a.m.?
Spouse
did it—usually. While the
second
most likely person is the one who phoned it in.” He grinned.

I rolled my eyes.

“Time of death’s been established ’tween eleven and three. She got a
reasonable
alibi for those hours, we’d like to hear it. So as we can cross her off our list, get on with our investigation. Then again, we’d like to hear yours: ‘Asleep alone in my hotel room’ don’t really cut it.

“Anyway it is now, she had plenty a time to go home, do the dirty, lose the weapon and after cleaning up and calming down, decide she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life staring out a window in the British equivalence of Kerhonkson, New Yawk or Shawangunk or some other godforsaken upstate facility. Don’t blame her; wouldn’t wanna neither.”

“Listen,” I said, “if she were going to kill her husband, why would she do it like that? With a six-hour hole that she can’t account for?”

He thought for a moment. “Maybe it was
your
idea.”

“Me?” I said. “And what was
my
motive?”

“Girl like her, some guys want so bad they go a little crazy. I mean, hell, I’m sure you thought about it—what it’d be like. And I don’t mean just between the sheets, though I can’t say that would hurt too much, eh?

“With a woman like that, the world treats you different. Guys look you over twice, and all the chicks wanna know what you got in your pocket ’cause you must be hot, be with a babe like her. Walk in a joint? Hey, you’re guaranteed a table.
Maître
d’s
love
dolls like her: gives a place
tone
. Then again, she’s loaded. You aware of this?” He sighed, as if the fact depressed him. “Yeah. Thought maybe she’d knocked him off for his
shekels
, but it’s
her
has got the dough.”

“How much could she possibly have?”

He looked at me. “Sorry. I can’t divulge that information.”

“Lieutenant,” I said, with as much composure as I could muster, “why don’t you go back to Coney Island? Leave this thing to Scotland Yard.”

“Can’t. I got another three weeks . . .”

I turned on my heel.

“Hey,” he said, stopping me with his fingers—a thumb and a pointer that closed on my shoulder like a vise. “Be
nice.”

“You
be nice,” I said, removing his hand and starting off again.

“Donne,” he shouted after me, “you sleeping with her?” The concierge and several of the hotel’s guests paused in midbusiness to await my reply.

“Lieutenant, if I were, you’d be the last to know.”

“Well, if you are,” he said, “or planning on it, sleepin’ with her, I mean, lemme give ya word a warning.”

“No, thanks.”

He gave it, anyway, to my back. “Sleep lightly.”

Chapter 18

V
idya was awake and had ordered breakfast: coffee with heated milk, rolls and sweet papayas. Despite it all, it was a lovely morning and I didn’t wish to spoil it by uttering Houlihan’s unholy name. The sunlight, pushing past the blowing curtains, was hot on our faces, and where it touched the crystal glasses, little brilliant rainbows fell. We ate, talked, and sipped for hours, cried about Jai and laughed over nothing, immersed in that joy that comes to new lovers—a joy made all the more precious by our awareness we were on an island in the stream of time and would soon have to face the bloody mess all around us. Yet despite the past and our threatened future, in those moments, taking breakfast with Vidya, drinking in the wine of her presence, I felt happy—truly happy—for the second time in my life.

Now, as she rummaged for something in her wallet, I noticed a photo of a younger, plumper Vidya Prasad standing by a lake backdropped by snow-capped mountains. She was dressed in a wool suit quietly tailored to her curves, her shoulders shawled by one of those intricate, brilliantly printed Hermès silk scarves. “Which one’s Everest?”

“None—as they happen to be the Swiss Alps.” She paused. “This photo was taken at Montreux—on Lake Genève.”

“And what were you doing in Switzerland at the time?”

“Posing for this picture.”

“Before and after the picture was shot.”

“Attending university.”

“Really,” I said, jumping upon this crumb of information. “What school was that?”

“I was studying,” she said, “political science.” She waited a beat. “I had this dream—fantasy, really—I could do some good for my country, Kenya.”

“And . . . ?”

“My efforts were met with incredible resistance.”

“What kind of resistance?”

“Oh. Racialism. Extortion. All manner of red tape.”

“Such as?”

“Such as HIV-positive air force colonels who demanded I bonk them before they would grant me a certificate of occupancy for a one-room native school.”

“You sound bitter.”

“Yes? Well, I’m not.” And with a quick kiss to both my cheeks, she disappeared to shower and dress.

I spent another several minutes drinking in the love I felt for her. It felt divine. Then I opened up the papers and my happiness departed. For in one was a story by a celebrated “Irish” New York writer, whose hard-boiled, somewhat schmaltzy style conveyed what he called “the human side of the headlines.” Today’s was entitled:

CLUELESS

The Professor     In the Study     With the Knife

He was Jai Prasad, one of England’s top scholars. She was Vidya, his young, royal, and beautiful new wife. They should have been sublimely happy, and perhaps they were, until into the picture slipped Xander Donne, an American anthropologist and ex-student of Prasad’s. “Donne was the son Jai never had,” said Assistant Dean Claude J. Remus, “and like some sons, he was a disappointment. Jai had been grooming him to continue his work, but recently there had been, by all accounts, a serious rift between them.”

Several witnesses noted a palpable tension between adopted son and surrogate dad when on July 28, Donne attended a wedding dinner at the professor’s London home
.