Dark Road to Darjeeling (9 page)

As I stood, mesmerised by the sight of the place, I noticed the garden gates swung upon their hinges in mute invitation. I looked past them to the ruins of a once-beautiful garden. The statuary had crumbled and the walls had fallen into decay, but the vines and plants were still lush and fruitful, and the path to the door had recently been clipped.

I hesitated. “There is nothing to be nervous about, Feuilly. We are simply calling upon the old gentleman with an eye to gathering some information. Perfectly harmless,” I reassured him as we ventured forward. I heard a rustling in the bushes and then a shriek rent the air, reverberating in the high mountain silence around us.

It was only another peacock, but I started, treading upon Feuilly’s tail for which he scolded me soundly with a brusque noise I had not heard him make before.

“There is nothing quite like an angry peacock to put you in your place, is there?” came a gentle, rueful voice from the
doorway of the monastery—a gentle, rueful
British
voice. I could not see into the shadows, but a hand reached out and beckoned. “Come in and take tea with me, child. Chang will see to the bird.”

I dropped the lead, perfectly happy to be rid of my pretense at last. “Farewell, Feuilly,” I murmured as I passed into the house.

The room I entered was a sort of gallery, set with windows the length of it to overlook the garden. It was dim, lit only with the flame of a single lamp that burned upon a low table, and before my eyes had adjusted, I realised my host had disappeared; only a whisper of silken robe whisking around the corner betrayed his presence.

I followed and found myself in a small, intimate chamber. There were no windows here and the only light came from a series of hanging lanterns fashioned into brass dragons. There was no furniture save for a very low table and a small chest to one side. The floor had been laid with intricately woven rush mats scattered with silken cushions, and the walls were panelled in fragrant wood inlaid with cinnabar.

My host had seated himself nimbly upon a cushion and beckoned for me to do the same. I pondered the best way to do so, then created a sort of organised fall to my knees and thence to the side.

“Well done,” said my host. “Most ladies dither and dawdle. You have comported yourself as a very flower of gracefulness,” he assured me, although I was quite certain I had not.

If I had expected him to call a servant to serve us, I was mistaken, for the little chest was within reach and I soon realised he meant to do the honours himself. A small brazier heated the water, and in a very few minutes he had assembled his impedimenta.

He rocked back on his heels to wait for the water to come to
the boil, and as he did so, I took the opportunity to study him. He was a very little bit younger than I had expected, perhaps sixty, with a full head of silvery-white hair, the locks falling to his shoulders. A single streak of black swept from one temple, giving him a faintly piratical look, and his brows were still firmly marked and dark. He moved with a supple grace that indicated a man of still-frequent activity, and his brown skin bespoke time spent out of doors. He might have been a soldier once, for I had often seen such weather-beaten looks upon the faces of those who had served Her Majesty in such a capacity.

He moved easily, as if the joints that rebelled against so many his age did not afflict him, and his hands, large and surprisingly gentle with the tea things, bore no trace of swelling or stiffness, although I noticed the tip of one finger was missing.

“Have you finished then?” he asked, his voice still gentle.

I started. “Finished?”

He turned and gave me a smile, revealing strong white teeth. He wore Oriental robes, but his beard and moustaches were neatly trimmed as any gentleman walking down Bond Street. “I have given you ample opportunity to take my measure. If you have not done so, I will be vastly disappointed in you, Lady Julia.”

“You know me?”

“Of course! It is my business to know all that happens in this valley. Does that sound sinister? Dear me, I do not intend for it to be so. But I have been in India a very long time, child. I have seen deeds that would make God himself weep. A man who does not know what folk are whispering into their pillows at night is a man who does not wish to live.”

I thought of the Mutiny of 1857, the atrocities committed. None had been spared, not women, not babies, and if the White Rajah had seen any of it for himself, it would have left its mark upon him.

He brought the tea things to the table then, a low bowl for each of us and the large closed bud of a flower. He moved with the deft gestures of a conjurer as he poured the hot water over each, and as the steaming water hit the petals, the flower bud twisted and writhed and burst into flower.

“How beautiful!” I breathed.

He smiled a magician’s smile. “Exquisite, is it not? The same thing happens in your teapot everyday, although I daresay you do not see it. The water touches the dry leaves, and in that moment, they dance and they struggle, and give themselves up to the water, yielding the gift of their fragrance, their essence. It is called the agony of the leaves.”

He poured his own water then settled himself upon his cushion.

“Now, my dear. Drink your tea and brighten an old man’s hour and tell me why you have come.”

I sipped at the tea. It was faintly scented with jasmine, the perfume light and ethereal upon my tongue. “It is about the peacock. I’m afraid Feuilly is a bit noisy at present and Mrs. Cavendish requires her rest.”

He nodded. “Poor child! I heard she has fallen ill. I know I need not ask you to convey to her my best wishes. She has suffered so in these past months. It grieves me.”

I was touched by his compassion toward Jane. “She has. And she says you have been a good friend to her.”

If the lighting had been better, I am certain I would have seen a blush upon his cheek, for he looked suddenly pleased and ducked his head a little. “She is a lovely girl, and it was good of her to come and befriend me, the old hermit upon his rock,” he said, smiling ruefully at his surroundings.

“How did you come to live in such a place?” I ventured. “It is an extraordinary site, but so remote. I should fear loneliness.”

He regarded me for a long moment, and I could see the ghosts of the past in his eyes. “When you are as old as I am, you come to realise that there are worse evils in life than loneliness.” He fell silent and when he lifted his cup, his hands trembled a little. A sip of the tea seemed to revive him and when he replaced the cup, his hands were steady once more. He smiled again. “Besides, sometimes I am fortunate enough to have the company of beautiful young ladies to while away my loneliness.”

It was my turn to sip silently at my tea, although privately I had thought my emerald-green silk quite becoming.

“People in this valley have been very kind,” he went on. “They were naturally nervous of a stranger in their midst and curious stories were put about. I am accustomed to such idle talk,” he added, and I saw a gleam alight in his eyes. They were curious eyes, of so bright and piercing a blue as to recall the Mediterranean sky, and I thought that when he was a young man, he must have been very handsome. I wondered if some of the gossip about him might have its root in the fact that he was still a striking-looking man. “But I cannot blame them,” he went on. “I am a figure fit for curiosity with my old-fashioned and solitary ways.”

I nodded toward his costume, collecting the rest of the room with my glance. “But one only has to look about to understand it. Such clothing is exotic, but I daresay comfortable. And the house itself is lovely, far different from what I expected.”

He spread his hands, and I noticed he wore a significant emerald upon his finger. “It was a monastery and a convent school, but it was for a short time a palace as well, and the prince who brought his bride to this place fitted it for her every comfort. It has fallen to decay, like the man who dwells within,” he added with a smile of deprecation, “but it is still worthy of some admiration.”

“Also like the man who dwells within,” I returned.

He broke into a delighted smile. “I begin to think you engage in a flirtation, Lady Julia! I must say, nothing charms an old man more than a young woman who will take the time to offer him a bit of flattery. You have bewitched me, child. And I will offer you in return the compliment of honesty. You did not come about the peacock.”

I opened my mouth, but he waved, the emerald glinting in the lamplight. “Do not deny it. Your reputation for curiosity precedes you. You are astonished that I should know so much? My dear, I have a broad and varied acquaintance. One does not live so long without meeting a number of people,” he said waggishly. “But one of the advantages of an hermetic life is that one may write to them without suffering the burden of their company. I have heard stories of your impetuosity and your abilities as an amateur sleuth. You have come to delve into some mystery in our valley, and I wish to offer myself as a humble henchman of sorts. I do not stir from this place, not a step will I take beyond the garden wall, but the walls have eyes and the walls have ears and they relate what they know to me. My servant, Chang, is friendly with many of the other house servants. I hear tales, and if you will confide in me, I will do you whatever service I can.”

I hesitated and he was clever enough not to press me further. “That is very kind of you, sir, but I am here to support Jane.”

“And to winkle out the truth about her husband’s death?” My expression must have betrayed my astonishment, for he gave a chuckle that ended upon a wheeze. “It was not so very difficult to guess,” he said, his tone laced with apology. “I should not have sprung it upon you, but you must see that I want to help. I have not many opportunities to offer my aid to anyone these days. I am an aging chevalier without a quest, a knight whose armour
has grown rusty and whose eyes are dim. But I am yours, dear lady, if I can perform any service, however small.”

He swept me a courteous bow then, and I felt a surge of pity. He was a curious character, doubtless full of interesting stories from his travels, but who would know of that here? I thought of Miss Cavendish and that she would not call upon him because his house bore the whiff of the disreputable. I thought of the gentlemen who came to while away a few hours, perhaps in cards or a bottle of old port. Such evenings must be few and far between, and with only his Chang for company, the old gentleman must be lonely in ways I could not imagine.

And then I thought of the investigation. My erstwhile partners had deserted me to pursue their own interests, Portia to nurse Jane and Plum to trail lovelorn after Miss Thorne. If I meant to win an advantage over Brisbane, I should have to take every possible opportunity presented to me.

The White Rajah was waiting, expectant.

“Of course,” I said, feeling a little abashed when I saw the expression of sincere pleasure suffuse his face.

“Marvelous! How kind of you, my dear, to brighten an old man’s day. Now, what would you like to know?” he asked, presenting me with a plate of tiny almond biscuits. I had not seen them upon the table, nor had I seen him remove them from the chest. He seemed to conjure them from thin air. But his expression was thoroughly bland, and I told myself I must simply have let my attention lapse.

I thought a moment, recalling myself to the matter at hand. “You are quite right. I am not convinced that Freddie Cavendish’s death was a murder, but the trouble is, I do not know enough to determine if it was suspicious at the time. How exactly did he die?”

“Snakebite,” the Rajah said promptly.

I felt a little queasy. “How awful!” A sudden thought assailed me. “Are there many venomous snakes here?”

“Any number, my dear, but it was no venomous snake that bit him. No, Freddie was careless. He was bitten by a very tiny, very tame snake, a creature so docile it lives in a lady’s coiffure.”

“Percival!” I cried, nearly upsetting my cup.

The White Rajah winced a little. “That is rather fine Japanese porcelain, my dear. I have so few of them left.”

I settled the cup and gave him a smile by way of apology. “Are you speaking of Cassandra Penny feather’s pet?”

“Ah, you have met the good lady,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Is she not a delight? I confess, I do appreciate a bit of eccentricity and Mrs. Pennyfeather does not disappoint. She calls here upon occasion, or at least she used to do,” he said, a trifle wistfully. “I suppose she is far too busy, now the children are growing up and she has her art.”

“I am sure that she is,” I said dismissively. I was far more interested in Percival. “If Percival is not a poisonous snake, then how did its bite come to kill Freddie?”

“Infection, I’m afraid. Such things are far more common in India than in England, you know, even at this elevation. Freddie seemed to be coming along quite well, and then he fell ill, violently so, with an infection of the blood. He died in a few days.”

I turned the facts over in my head. “No one would have caused such a bite deliberately. There is no point if the snake is not venomous. But blood poisoning could have been brought on by a doctor’s incompetence,” I said slowly.

The White Rajah nodded sadly. “Poor Llewellyn! He was desperately in love with his wife. But tigers are a real threat in the Himalayas from time to time and she was unlucky. He carries a tremendous burden of guilt over the whole affair.”

“Because he was not with her when she was attacked?” I hazarded.

“Because he could not save her. There is no greater grief to a man than losing a woman he might have saved,” he said softly, and something in his voice made me believe his comment did not speak only to the doctor’s situation. Some past grief had marked the Rajah and left him as he was, a slightly ridiculous, lonely, kindly old man.

“I understand he has become an inebriate,” I said, nibbling at an almond biscuit. They were featherlight and crisp, melting upon my tongue.

The Rajah shrugged. “He is Welsh. No head for strong drink, and a melancholy streak to boot. Many an evening he has left this house the worse for wear. He nearly finished my entire supply of port last winter!” he added, looking affronted.