My Lady of the Bog (14 page)

Only then, she said, had she drawn the pistol from her purse, watching, with a growing alarm, as the man entered the meadow, using his torch to follow our track. When he was so close it seemed that he might step on me, she’d shouted, “Stop! Now! Drop the knife. Or I’ll fire!”

But if surprised, he didn’t show it, but only leered, she said, shining the flashlight’s beam in her eyes. Maybe he didn’t see the gun. For without another word, he’d readjusted his grip on the Bowie’s handle, and then “like a butcher getting down to his business,” began bending over my sleeping form . . .

“Check his pockets,” Vidya said. “Who is he?” I knelt down, surprised to find a pair of handcuffs on his belt. I opened his billfold, looking for a badge. There was none. Nor do cops carry Bowie knives. Vidya took from his hand the still-burning flashlight and we read the name on his driver’s license: Henry Carlson Lewis Jones. Age 53. With an address in Surrey. “Know him?” I asked.

“No.”

I started to replace it when Vidya said, “Wipe off your prints.” She did the same with hers on the pistol, then let it fall beside the corpse. After that, she gathered our things, and started back to the roadway.

She moved with a certain purpose—a very different woman than the shell-shocked widow I’d encountered only nights ago. She opened the truck’s tailgate and rummaging through the assortment of junk within, withdrew two pairs of work gloves, plus a four-foot length of rubber hose. She gave me a pair and put on the other. “Now bring the truck up alongside the Mercedes.” I did. She handed me the hose. “Now siphon some petrol from his tank to ours.” I was doing that, too, when the crack of a gunshot made me flinch. I could just make out Vidya in the field by the body. What the hell was she doing? Shooting him
again
?

Moments later, she returned. “Right,” she said, and taking the hose, threw it back in the truck. “Now drive,” she urged. “And I’ll follow.”

Once more, I did as I was told. The only thing to do was to leave the scene and continue on, saying nothing. To have called the police would have been suicidal.

When our report of a killing we hadn’t committed had brought upon us such suspicion and grief, to report another, two days later, that we
had
committed (even if in self-defense) would not only immeasurably add to our woes, but would multiply them exponentially. For the government of Britain does not recognize the right of its citizenry to bear arms. And while cutting down greatly on the number of shootings, the penalties for asserting that right are severe. Possession of a handgun carries a mandatory five-year prison sentence. Firing a semiautomatic pistol in public can, theoretically, get you ten.

In other words, what Vidya (and I) were doing was both patently criminal and perfectly right. Clearly, our only sane and sensible option was to cover up our connection to the killing. Every other road—even full vindication of our having acted in justifiable self-defense—could well lead us to half a decade in jail. Or should I write,
gaol
?

I drove slowly, keeping my eye on the lights of the lorry. After nine or ten miles, its engine sputtered, running out of gas. A turnoff appeared, and, alerted by the pick-up’s blinker, I paused at the fork, as Vidya drove some yards down a wooded lane, parking the truck there.

A minute later, she got in the front passenger’s door.

“How are you doing?”

“Tolerable, under the circumstances.”

“Why, may I ask, did we just do that?” I motioned with my head toward the reparked lorry.

“Because if we’d left the truck back there, there’s a good chance when the police found it, they’d find the body. In a day or two, its odor will be rank. I’m just trying to be prudent and careful, that’s all.”

I thought prudent and careful were odd words to use given she’d just shot a man in the face.

I resumed driving. “Where’d you get the gun?”

“It was in Jai’s safe, along with my treasures. I swept them all up and into my bag.”

“And leaving it behind? Tell me again why we did that?”

“Because, without the gun, it’s murder. Justifiable, maybe, but murder all the same. With the gun, suicide’s at least a possibility.”

“A suicide,” I asked, “who shot himself
twice
?”

She turned on me, angrily. “That’s not what you heard!” She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. “I realized as I left, the scene wouldn’t play.”

“Why’s that?”

“FDR.”

“FDR?”

“Firearm discharge residue. So I put the gun in his hand, and fired a shot across the meadow. They won’t find the slug. And I caught the ejected shell. But his hand is now tainted. Without that, even with the gun, they’d have known he couldn’t be the shooter.”

I understood. In the States, we called it GSR, gunshot residue. “Can I ask you something?”

“Don’t
ask
if you can ask it. Just
ask
,” she said irritably. She started scrabbling through her pocketbook, then stopped and looked around. “I thought I left a plastic change purse here. On the dash. It had some cigarettes in it.”

“How do you know this stuff? About . . . GSR? And murder investigations?”

“I know firearms,” she said, setting down the bag, and placing her hands in her lap, apparently resigned to doing without one. “I was taught to shoot when I was a girl. As for the other, it’s common knowledge. Don’t you read mysteries?”

“You mean murder mysteries? No. I read field reports, research papers.”

“Well, bully for you!”

I laughed. I deserved it.

“It’s vital the body isn’t found for some time. The gun’s pointed backward, his thumb on the trigger. But even then”—she extended her arm toward the windshield—“it can’t be more than eighteen to twenty inches.”

“He was a big man. Say, twenty-four.”

“And I shot him from at least four feet away. The residue around the wound won’t match the shorter distance.”

“Unless,” I said, “the evidence is degraded by a week in the sun. And by whatever critters find him.”

“Yes,” she sighed, “or, at least, that is the plan.”

1.
The
Shrī Lalit
ā
Sah
ā
sran
ā
ma

2.
Translator’s Note: it is difficult to fix the exact location of the action. This cannot be the same Indore as the later princely state, since modern Indore is east of Rajasthan and was founded in 1731.

Part IV

ALBION

In one corner
of the infinite and indivisible
Supreme Consciousness,
there is a mirage-like appearance.
This we call the world
.

The Yoga Vasishtha

Chapter 19

W
hile I drove, Vidya nodded off, her head bouncing lightly on my shoulder. The gray dawn was suffused with a fine pelting rain that smelled of Scotland and the sea. If it were raining in America like this, no one would have been about. But here, in the English countryside, old ladies in macs and wellies went about their marketing unfazed, riding their bicycles through puddles down the country highway.

I thought of the rain falling on the face of Henry Carlson Lewis Jones, and wondered if it would wash away the evidence. Then I remembered he was face down. His killing, coming so close upon Jai’s, was chilling. What bothered me most was the thought that he hadn’t been a mortal threat at all, that despite the knife (and his forced entry of our vehicle) he was just some old fool sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. I mean, how could Vidya be so certain of the man’s intent? He couldn’t have been more than a silhouette. Or maybe she hadn’t been certain at all, but was only pretending. Maybe, like me, she was scared shitless, and had overreacted, killing a phantom.

But if his death was chilling, leaving him felt even colder. He was likely someone’s father, husband or son, whose presence would be missed. Then again, the prospect of years in a British prison was absolutely freezing. And though with luck and a great solicitor we might get off with eighteen months plus time already served, even eighteen months was not an option. There was nothing for it now but to accept what had happened, let it be and carry on.

When I parked, Vidya woke. “There?”

“Almost. But first, I need to talk to someone. Do you want to sleep? I won’t be long.”

She looked through the bug-smeared windshield at the hospital’s faded brick façade. “No.” She stretched. “I’ll come with you.”

We went inside. In her long skirt, Vidya seemed to be floating almost footless, down the hall, her hips swaying to some African beat. I admired her spirit. Her husband was dead, we had a homicide charge hanging over our heads, we’d killed a man and covered it up—yet despite it all, she seemed composed and, you might have thought, unburdened.

I brought her first to the hospital canteen, where we chewed stale biscuits and sipped mugs of milky tea. We held hands, for the sweetest intimacy had developed between us.

Not that I knew much more about her, for she was closemouthed to an extraordinary degree. Don’t get me wrong. I
liked
this about her: that she didn’t continually chatter like some, turning every hangnail or broken heel into a psychodrama. On the other hand, this made it difficult to find out much about her.

After breakfast, we headed for Strugnell’s office. I wanted to tell him firsthand what had happened and see what sort of advice he could give. On the way, we passed a familiar door.

“Do you want to see something . . .
amazing
?” I said, and I turned the handle on impulse, letting the door swing open wide.

My Lady was lying on an aluminum gurney, looking—I don’t know any other word to use—horrific. After the autopsy, they had not sewn her back up. An incision ran from her throat to groin.

But my shock was nothing compared to Vidya’s. It took her a moment, I think, to comprehend what she was seeing. Then, when she did, she jerked as though scalded. “What
is
this?” she demanded.

“It’s . . . the body of . . . Albemarle. The girl whose grave the book was in.”

“But you said you were showing me something
amazing!
” Vidya glared at me with a fury I had not seen till now, and for a moment I thought she might go for my eyes; then her features reefed and she began to weep, rocking gently in the classical way that women have mourned the dead forever.

Whatever possessed me to do what I had, given all she’d just been through? “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Vidya,” I said, taking her back out into the hall. There, she continued to weep, though no one paid us any mind. People cry in hospitals all the time, I suppose.

“I killed a man last night,” she said. “I’ve never killed a man before.”

“I know,” I said. “And we’ll have to live with it. And you know what? We can—and will.”

I drew her close and held her until her tears had ceased. She sniffed and rubbed her eyes, smearing her cheeks and fingers with
kohl
. Accepting a tissue, she blew her nose—
honk!—
a comical noise that only endeared her to me the more, then excused herself and headed for the WC. I watched until she disappeared into the bathroom, then went back inside.

Christ alive, what the hell had I been thinking? For the creature before me was a patent horror, an eviscerated witch. She looked positively insectival, like those larval skins cicada nymphs, after years underground, bequeath to trees and fences. For this was the impression I had of my Lady. She was no longer there. Whatever presence I had sensed was gone, leaving behind this torn and empty shell.

Just then, the coroner came in. He blinked behind his rimless glasses and offered me an embarrassed smile that said he’d seen our little drama. “You’re back!”

“Wooland . . . tell me, what’s wrong with this picture? This really is obscene, the way she’s been left. I mean, she may be just a ‘specimen’ now, but once upon a time, she
was
a living human being.”

“Didn’t mean to upset you . . .or your friend. Don’t believe I know her . . . do I?”

“No.”

He waited for more, but I wasn’t in the mood.

I wanted to cover my Lady’s remains. I found a piece of plastic sheeting.

“As the coroner, you have access to the police database, do you not?”

“I do, I . . .”

“I need you to look up a name for me. Henry Carlson Lewis Jones. White male, 52. Address in Surrey.”

“It’s a bit irregular.”

“Yeah, well, so are you.” It came out wrong. Here I was asking the man for a favor while insulting him.

He looked hurt. “C’mon,” I said. “A joke. It’s been a rough few days.”

He nodded and started to go, when there was a god-awful noise and a sudden stench. The coroner was huddled over the sink. He came up teary-eyed, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

“Bit of a bug, I’m afraid.” He ran the water. “Donne, I’ll give you a call a bit later. Right now, I really need to go home.”

Chapter 20

W
hat had we hoped to find in Dorset? Peace, sanctuary, acceptance, freedom? Would any one of these have been so much to ask?

The report of Jai’s murder had made that morning’s
Daily Mirror
, and the phone was already ringing as we came in the cottage door. Apart from reporters requesting interviews, most of the calls were from colleagues and acquaintances, ringing to express their sympathy and concern. Still, the subtext of most, if not all, was clear: I’d been besotted by a foreign enchantress. For my own sake and for my career’s:
dump her, ditch her, head for the hills!

Even more disappointing were my contacts at the Dorset Constabulary. After bragging for months about their influence and power, they claimed to have little leverage with New Scotland Yard—and they certainly couldn’t be seen meddling in an ongoing murder investigation!

One of the more supportive calls was from my department head at Exeter. Expressing his shock and horror at Jai’s murder, he wanted me, “Al,” to know the college stood behind me all the way. What a “tip-top job” I’d been doing lately! What with my Lady and the commission.
Total faith, feather in their cap, chin up, pip, pip
.