The Chain Garden (14 page)

Lewis had left them to it. Overworked and always busy he preferred to deal with more amenable children who showed gratitude for their good fortune. So the task of trying to make Akhil understand he was safe had fallen to Edwin.

Under the mission’s regime of wholesome food, regular baths, medical care and days structured around basic schooling and physical exercise, Akhil had gradually revealed an intelligence that in an English ten-year-old would have been praiseworthy. In an abandoned deaf-mute street child it was amazing.

Despite being debilitated by the heat, humidity and intermittent fever, Edwin’s work with the orphans and other outcasts cared for at the mission gave him a deep sense of fulfilment. He took particular pleasure in Akhil’s remarkable progress.

But after several months Akhil’s behaviour changed. He became destructive, breaking toys and defacing work into which he had put hours of effort. One day Edwin found him huddled in a shadowed corner of the compound, keening softly while he deliberately and repeatedly cut the soft skin on the inside of his forearm with an ivory handled dagger. Edwin recognised it immediately. Lewis had picked it up for a few rupees in a street market and used it as a letter-opener.

Applying antiseptic and bandages the harassed doctor had shrugged. ‘What do you expect from such a child?’

Edwin quietly returned the dagger to Lewis’s office while he was elsewhere, and said nothing. Desperate to help, wondering if the boy’s self-mutilation stemmed from frustration at his inability to communicate, Edwin pushed himself even harder to find time to give Akhil additional instruction. Akhil responded by following him around like a shadow, convincing Edwin he had solved the problem.
Such conceit. Such blindness.

Lewis’s warning about pride brought him up short. It had never occurred to him that his pleasure in Akhil’s progress might be construed as vanity and thus a sin. Though it was a wrench he forced himself to relinquish some of the boy’s lessons to Lewis. Akhil’s development was what mattered – not who guided it. Besides, weakened by another bout of fever, he was finding it increasingly difficult to cope with the additional work Lewis had apologetically delegated to him.

One evening, after falling asleep over a meal he had little appetite for, he crawled off to bed. Waking with a start several hours later, he lay sweating beneath the mosquito net, and heard a muffled cry.

In the dormitory the boys were quiet. He realised later they had been too quiet for genuine sleep: realised
too late
they had known what was happening but were too frightened to tell. He stood in the passage holding his breath as he strained to hear. It came again.
From Lewis’s room?

That was when the nightmare had begun. Only there was no awakening. He would never be free.

Despite the months that had passed, those horrifying images were still vivid: seared too deep into his memory ever to be forgotten.

Silent on bare feet he had opened Lewis’s door. He had stood unable to move, his brain refusing to accept what his eyes were seeing.

Akhil was sprawled face down and naked on a mound of pillows, his eyes huge with fear and pain above the cloth wrapped tightly around the lower half of his tear-streaked face. His bound wrists were stretched above his head and tied to the rail of the bedhead. Kneeling behind the boy, curved over him like some evil bird of prey, Lewis’s white skin was oily with sweat and gleamed in the lamplight.

Edwin retched, shuddered, and sucked in a gasping breath as terrible realization dawned. Akhil’s destructive behaviour and self-mutilation: Lewis’s accusation of vanity: the additional work designed to keep him busy
and out of the way
: it all made dreadful sense.

He recalled the silence in the dormitory. How long had this been going on?
How many others?
With a roar of rage he dived forward, slamming his fist into the older man’s face with such force that Lewis was thrown off the bed and crashed sideways against a chest of drawers. On top of the chest Edwin saw the dagger. How many times had the child been threatened with it? Or subjected –

Edwin blanked out a thought too horrific to contemplate and reached for the dagger to cut Akhil free. Lewis kicked at his legs and, stumbling backwards, Edwin fell to the floor.

Lewis crawled forward, blood trickling from a swelling cut on his temple, and lunged for the dagger.

Edwin tried to fight him off. ‘How could you?’ he choked. ‘How
could
you?’

Flinging himself forward, using his body to hold Edwin down, Lewis’s mouth twisted in a grotesque smile. ‘What can’t speak can’t lie.’

For a split-second Edwin didn’t believe,
couldn’t
believe, what he’d heard. As fury roared through him he forgot his calling, forgot his vows and lashed out with feet and fists, driven by loathing, horror, and his own terrible guilt, to punish,
to destroy
.

Lewis gave a sudden jerk, a strangled groan, and fell backwards. Dazed, heaving air into starving lungs, Edwin pushed himself up, wiping the sweat from his eyes with a shaking hand.
His hand was covered in blood.
For a moment he stared at it, not understanding. Then he saw the swathe of bright red spots splattering the wall.

His gaze swivelled to Lewis slumped between the chest and the wall, hands pressed to his belly where the dagger’s ivory handle protruded amid slowly welling blood.

‘Oh dear God.’

Lewis raised pain-dulled eyes. ‘No doctor.’

‘But –’

‘No.’ A spasm of agony tightened Lewis’s grey-white features. ‘Better this way.’ The words rustled like dead leaves.

A muffled whimper from the bed jolted Edwin from his paralysis. Swallowing the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him he grabbed the crumpled nightshirt from the floor and laid it across Lewis’s lower body to hide the terrible wound and the worst of the blood.

Then on trembling legs he stumbled to the bed. Pulling the gag from Akhil’s mouth, he tried to reassure, to soothe, not recognising his own voice as he fumbled with the knots that tied the boy’s arms to the bedhead. His hands shook, his fingers were weak and clumsy. It would have been quicker to cut the cords. But the only knife – he shut off the thought.

Akhil was racked by tremors. Shock had turned his face the colour of tallow and his eyes were glazed. Ripping the sheet from the bed Edwin wrapped it around the shivering child and carried him back into the dormitory. As heads rose from pillows he ran his tongue over paper-dry lips.
Jesus Christ, how often had they watched this happen? How many others had there been?

‘Go back to sleep. You are safe now.’ His voice cracked and his throat closed. He swallowed hard. ‘You are safe. I promise you.’

Drawing the covers over Akhil’s quivering body, Edwin gripped the boy’s shoulder for a moment. God alone knew if he would still be there in the morning. But right now there was no time to do more.

Back in Lewis’s room the air was thick with the sickly-sweet smell of blood. Edwin’s gorge rose as he crouched beside the man he had admired and trusted; the man he had considered a friend. He gazed helplessly at Lewis, head and heart pounding with shock, rage and horror at what he’d done.

Lewis’s head rolled against the wall as he looked at Edwin. Once more his face contorted with pain. ‘Couldn’t stop. No strength, no will.’ His grimace of self-loathing shook Edwin to the core.
What was it like to be Lewis?
But his brief sympathy was crushed by a sudden stark vision of Akhil’s scarred arms and the gag that had smothered his cries while his eyes screamed silent terror.

Revolted, Edwin drew back, and saw the pale lips twist in recognition. Stiffening suddenly, Lewis tried to straighten, his gaze fastening on Edwin’s. ‘Remember, it wasn’t your –’ His eyes widened, his mouth opening as if in surprise, then with a long slow rattling exhalation, he slumped back against the wall, his body flaccid, his eyes half-closed and empty.

As a wrenching sigh caught in Edwin’s throat, jerking him back to the present, he wiped his face with the towel and wished he could as easily wipe away the memories.
Remember.
As if he could ever forget.

Folding the towel he laid it beside the flowered china basin. Then swiftly removing the rest of his clothes he pulled on his nightshirt and slid between Lucy Angove’s crisply ironed sheets, inhaling the faint fragrance of lavender that perfumed most Cornish linen chests.

He closed his eyes desperate for sleep. He didn’t want to think any more. He felt battered, bruised. But it was hopeless. Once started, the nightmare had to run its course. Suddenly he was back in Chowringhee.

Chapter Fourteen

On his arrival at the tall, elegant building Edwin had been led up a wide curving staircase to the room where he was to sleep, and told to remain there. Someone would come to him.

The room was simply furnished, functional rather than welcoming, walls and ceiling painted a flat cream. The deep window was hung with dark green curtains. A plain fawn rug covered the polished wood floor between the bed and wardrobe. A white woven coverlet shrouded the bed. Beside it on a cane stool stood an oil lamp and a box of matches. The only other furniture was a plain table that would double as a writing desk, and a straight-backed chair.

After unpacking his soap and razor, hairbrush, nightshirt and towel, Edwin placed the empty bag beside the wardrobe and sat down on the edge of the bed to wait. Some time later a knock on the door roused him from the numb state of non-thinking the doctor had told him was the aftermath of shock. Lacking the will or energy to move he simply called, ‘Come in.’

The man who entered was short, plump and balding. Peering over pince-nez clinging halfway down his snub nose, his eyes were as bright and sharp as a bird’s. He wore a black suit, a stiff white collar, a black tie, and a warm smile that released something in Edwin’s chest.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Philpotts. My name is Drew. I will be speaking on your behalf at the forthcoming enquiry.’

Edwin watched dumbly as he crossed to the table, opened his leather case, took out a pen and several sheets of paper, then pulled the chair forward and sat down.

‘I’d like you, if you will, to describe exactly what happened the night Mr Preston died.’

Edwin noticed he said
died.
Not
was killed.
Or worse,
was murdered.
He swallowed and took a shaky breath. He wished he didn’t have to go through it again. A tide of shame engulfed him. He should not complain. It could all have been so very much worse. He had expected the police to be involved. But the doctor had said it was an internal matter that did not concern the Indian authorities and would be dealt with by the Mission Board. Weak from shock and fever Edwin had accepted this.

He forced himself to think back, to relive scenes and events he would have given everything he possessed to be free of. After a halting start he was once again caught up in the horror of that night. Words poured from him. Drew made notes, interrupting occasionally to ask a question.

Eventually Edwin stopped, his head in his hands.

‘Thank you, Mr Philpotts. That is most satisfactory.’

It took a moment to penetrate. Then Edwin’s head jerked up.

Drew had recapped his pen, gathered up his notes and was on his feet, hand extended. Edwin rose and shook it.

Reaching the door, Drew looked over his shoulder. ‘The hearing will take place tomorrow morning at eleven. Naturally you will attend but you will not be required to speak. Indeed should you find yourself moved to do so I strongly urge you to resist.’ He flashed a brief smile. ‘That is
my
job.’

Edwin stared at the closed door.
Most satisfactory?
What had he meant?

Following a night of very little sleep Edwin bathed, dressed, forced down half a cup of tea, and followed an Indian servant down the sweeping staircase and across the wide hallway into a lofty room.

They were seated behind a mahogany table: five black-suited sombre-faced men who would determine his future.

Drew repeated in broad outline what he had been told the previous afternoon. There was nothing Edwin could argue with, certainly nothing untrue. And yet…

The Board asked no questions. They did not even retire. Their deliberations consisted of low-voiced murmurs, nodding heads. Edwin realised then that discussions had already taken place: that the purpose of the hearing was simply to observe proper procedure. He should have been shocked, or at least surprised. He was beyond both.

A few moments later he heard the soul-shattering events neatly disposed of as
a tragic accident.
Then he was asked to stand as the most senior member of the Board had addressed him.

‘Mr Philpotts, we do not hold you responsible in any way for the unfortunate happenings that have been disclosed at this hearing. Nor is there any question mark over
your
standards of work or behaviour.’

Relief at the Chairman’s exoneration made Edwin’s heart lurch. His eyes burned and he swallowed repeatedly. He had been terrified they would think he had been aware of what Lewis was doing. That he had deliberately kept silent. He could not have borne it if they thought that. Yet how would he ever have convinced them otherwise?

‘However … ‘

He should have expected it. There was bound to be a
However.

‘However, we have a duty and responsibility to look beyond the immediate. We have to consider and circumvent any potential repercussions. You will appreciate that it has taken years of committed effort by a large number of very dedicated people for the mission and its work to be accepted by the Indian authorities. You will also understand how vital it is that nothing should undermine our good name. We cannot afford even a whisper of scandal’

Edwin’s relief turned to uncertainty, and uncertainty to dread.

‘So I’m afraid it will not be possible for you to remain at the mission.’

He flinched as if he’d been struck. He should have foreseen this. They could not possibly afford to have him around, a constant reminder of something best forgotten.

‘Having read the doctor’s report on your recent health problems, the Board believes it would be best if you returned to England and a less physically demanding ministry.’

At least they weren’t forcing him to leave the church
. Relief swung to resentment.
How could they? He had done nothing wrong
. Then realisation stopped his breath.
He had killed a man.

Unpleasant duty done, the chairman smiled and rubbed his hands. ‘I daresay you’ll be glad to go home again, eh?’

Edwin had stared at him, beyond speech.
Home?
His home was here. Apart from his schooling, he had lived in India all his life. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. The decision had been made. No amount of pleading would change it. He was an embarrassment. His efforts counted for nothing against the past, present and future work of the mission. Of course he had to go. But he wanted –
needed
– to go to somewhere familiar.

‘S –s-sir? M-m-ay I ask one f-favour?’

The chairman’s smile grew wary. ‘What is it?’

‘Could a place be found for me in Cornwall? It’s where my family came from and where I went to school.’

He sensed their relief. He wasn’t going to make a fuss.

After more shared glances and nods the chairman said, ‘I don’t see why not. I’m sure the fresh air and milder climate will soon restore you to good health. I will ask Mr Drew to draft the relevant letters.’

Edwin was not permitted to return to the mission. He never found out what happened to Akhil. Within days, dazed at the speed with which everything had been arranged, he was on a ship back to England.

Grace lifted an apricot negligee from the drift of silks, gauze, and lace piled on the white satin counterpane. She recalled her mother wearing it the morning the letter arrived announcing the twins’ homecoming. It seemed such a short time ago.

Folding the frilled chiffon she laid it gently in the tissue-lined trunk standing on the floor beside the bed. She wiped her eyes and nose, tucked the damp handkerchief into the waistband of her skirt and picked up another bedgown. This one was white gauze trimmed with pink ribbons. She could hear her mother saying that knowing she looked attractive speeded her recovery and she owed it to her visitors to make an effort.

Grace fumbled for the handkerchief again. She wasn’t ready for this erasure of her mother’s presence. It was too soon. She didn’t understand her father’s urgency.

They had met in the hall the previous evening. She had been on her way to bed.

‘Grace, I want you to sort out your mother’s bedroom; her clothes and so on, as soon as possible. Start tomorrow.’

Her shock must have shown on her face for his expression immediately hardened. ‘Look, nothing will bring her back. So it can’t make any difference whether you do it now or in six months’ time.’

Except to her, whose grief
and guilt
were still raw.

‘I’ve neither the time, nor the…’ he gestured helplessly. ‘It’s a woman’s job. You’re her eldest daughter so …’

It’s your duty. A
utomatically Grace completed the sentence. Heard first in childhood when she was too young to fully understand what it meant, that phrase had formed her character, shaped her life. Now bereft as she was of love or comfort, it kept her functioning.

‘You were close to her. You will know what todo with everything, how best to dispose of… I want it all gone, Grace. No reminders.’ He took a breath as if he were about to add something. Instead he turned away. She saw a muscle twitch in his rigid jaw as he ran a hand over his cropped head.

Their paths had rarely crossed since the funeral. She had been – she recoiled from the shameful memory of her uncharacteristic behaviour –
unwell
. He had spent his days away from home visiting various engineering works.

Overhearing Thomas Coachman tell Violet that master had been all over Cornwall looking at new equipment for the mine Grace had been surprised. She had understood the mine to be in financial difficulty. Either she had misunderstood or the problems had been resolved.

She gazed at her father. How often she had wished his tongue might be less quick, less scathing. It was rare to see him lost for words. He had never been an easy man to know.

But not showing his feelings didn’t mean he had none, or that they weren’t as painful as hers. He had lost his life-partner, the mother of his children. How would she feel in such circumstances? She couldn’t even begin to imagine. So though what he was asking appalled her, how could she refuse?

Blinking back ever-present tears she had tentatively touched his arm. ‘Of course I’ll do it, Papa.’

The faint fragrance of lavender swelled the lump in her throat. So many clothes. So many memories. She wished Violet were with her. Violet’s practical common sense would have made the task more bearable and two of them could have done it in half the time. But her grandmother had been adamant.

‘No. You can’t have Violet. If you’re so anxious to turn out your dear mother’s closets and her hardly cold in her grave, you must do it alone. I’m not well. I need Violet here with me. Now go away. I can’t bear the sight of you. Heartless, you are, cruel and heartless. Oh, I wish Zoe was here. She would understand. She’s such a comfort to me. Not like some.’ Closing her eyes, she had turned her head away.

Each bitter recrimination another hammer-blow on her bruised spirit and too tired to explain, Grace had gone.

Folding the last of the frothy garments she laid it gently on top of the others. Her mother’s jewellery had been taken care of by the will. She and Zoe had each inherited various pieces. Some were family heirlooms some were gifts from her father. The twins had received other items for when they married.

She straightened up. Her swollen eyes were gritty and sore. Her head throbbed. She felt utterly wretched. Crossing to the wardrobe she hesitated for an instant then opened the double doors. Her mother’s perfume wafted out, piercing her like a blade. Tears welled, blurring her vision then spilling down her cheeks as she drew a trembling hand across a rainbow of silk or satin-lined lace gowns, finely embroidered cotton blouses, skirts and jackets of taffeta and velvet.

Clutching handfuls of the rich materials she buried her face in them, convulsed with grief.
She was so lonely.
Suddenly a wave of anger engulfed her, so powerful, so violent, she almost blacked out.

Bathed in perspiration she staggered backwards, sank onto the bed and gripped the carved post, her hands slippery on the polished wood. She must not faint.
Breathe.
As the roaring in her head receded she was aware of someone knocking. She forced her head up. The door opened and Mary’s head appeared.

‘Ah, Grace, Kate said I’d find you – my dear, are you all right?’ Quickly closing the door, she hurried forward. ‘Of course you’re not. How could you be? Oh, my sweet girl, this must be dreadfully hard for you. I had hoped – But no, this isn’t the time. I’ll come back another…’

‘No, please don’t go.’ Fumbling for her handkerchief, Grace pressed it to her temples and upper lip. ‘I’d rather you stayed, honestly. I’d be glad of your company.’

‘Well, if you’re sure.’

‘I’m fine now. It was just –’

Mary nodded. ‘I know. I remember after my parents died. I had to deal with all their personal effects. Though they were ill and tired, and death was a release, it was still difficult. In fact it was terrible. And they were far older than your mother.’ She paused. ‘Grace, all this,’ she gestured, ‘her clothes, her personal bits and pieces, they’re only
things.
You don’t need those to remember her. You have a lifetime of memories to enjoy whenever and wherever you choose.’

What memories? Her mother
’s frequent illnesses? Constant anxiety? Trying to keep the twins occupied and quiet? Zoe complaining, or running to Granny Hester and winning comfort and treats by telling tales?

She caught her breath
,
shocked and horrified at the thoughts cannoning around the inside of her head.

‘Grace? Is something wrong?’

‘No. I’m – It’s –’ With enormous effort, Grace pulled herself together. ‘Would you like some tea?’

Mary’s frown of concern softened into a shy smile. ‘Maybe later, meanwhile I’m glad to find you alone. There’s something – I have some news. I – that is, we – wanted you to be the first to know.’ She stopped. Then seating herself beside Grace on the bed she folded her hands in her lap. ‘Your father has asked me to marry him.’

It seemed to Grace that time slowed. She was aware of turning, seeing Mary’s brows pucker in her anxiety to explain, to be understood, Mary’s voice coming from a long way off.