Fever Quest: A Clean Historical Mystery set in England and India (The Isabella Rockwell Trilogy Book 2) (7 page)

“I’m sorry.” Isabella looked down at the note. “Shall I
open this?”

“If you could,” said Mr Jefferies.

Dear Miss Rockwell

I have that which you seek. The mines of Golconda are a day’s ride from where you are. I expect to see you soon. Needless to say, if
you tell anyone in authority of this, your friend’s life will be forfeit. What
happens next is up to you.

Yours in anticipation,

Remus Stone

Isabella blinked. Remus Stone?

“What does it say?”

The Jefferies were looking at her, fearing the worst.
Think! Think! Her mind twisted this way and that, crawling its way up the walls
of the crevasse into which it had fallen. She bent over, hearing the blood
rushing in her ears and seeing stars start to jump before her eyes. Remus
Stone? Colonel Stone? The man in the library with the diamond. Now he wanted Al
Hassan’s package too? Enough to kidnap Midge. Isabella forced a breath in and a
breath out. Mr Jefferies took her arm.

“Are you all right?”

Isabella shook her head.

“Is it terrible news?”

“It’s a note to me from Midge. He … er … got one
of the servants to write it. He says he needed to get away for a bit – that he
would meet me in Hyderabad. It’s only a day’s ride from here.”

Mrs Jefferies’ face was horrified.

“Get away where? From what? He can’t just go roaming about
by himself. He’ll never survive.”

Isabella was in a fog, as her mind searched for a way out.
But the elderly woman in front of her was in a terrible state.

“Mrs Jefferies, please try not to worry. Midge lived with
his sister Ruby alone on the streets of London from the age of five. Survival
is what he does best.”

“But with no money or –”

Mr Jefferies held up his hand.

“That’s enough, my dear. He must have felt he
wanted to continue his travels on his own.” Mr Jefferies took off his glasses.
“And that is his right.”

An hour later, a servant showed Isabella into the
drawing room, where the travellers sat having mint tea and biscuits. It was a
giant shady room with pale silk curtains at the windows and paintings of
surprised British wildlife on the walls. Mrs Rodriguez stood and embraced her.

“My dear, I am so sorry to hear of your news. He left a
note, I understand?”

The whole room, Rose, Livia and all the adults, turned
together to look at her. Isabella felt as if she were on stage.

“He did.”

“Well, what does it say?” said Livia impatiently.

Isabella took a deep breath.

“It says he wanted to travel on by himself. That he would
meet me in Hyderabad.”

“Well, that’s not too far from here, is it?” said Lady
Denier.

“It is a three day journey,” replied the governor’s wife.

“Well then, that’s not so bad, is it?” said Lady Denier.
“It’s not like he’s crossing a desert. You will see him in a few days, then.”

Isabella nodded, careful to keep her face blank.

“Yes, but still,” said Mrs Rodriguez. “I wonder what made
him go off like that. The Jefferies seem like such nice people.”

“Bored to sobs, probably.”

“Livia!” Lady Denier’s voice was horrified, but Livia’s
face was calm as she twisted a dull strand of hair through her fingers.

“Oh, Mama, of course he was bored. Let’s be honest about
it. Travelling with a pair of old turtles across the most exciting countryside
on earth. No wonder he went off. He was probably suffocated. Smothered by
kindness.”

Isabella tried not to smile and looked gratefully at
Livia, who had brought the full extent of her mother’s anger down on her head.

“That’s enough, Livia. Go to your room.” Rose and Isabella
stood to go with her.

“I don’t know where it is.”

The governor’s wife rang for a servant. Midge’s loss had
made the adults nervous.

The two young officers who’d accompanied them had made
themselves scarce at the first sign of discord, and Isabella could hear them
outside, unsaddling their horses and practising their hesitant Hindi on the
grooms.

“I wish I were a man.”

Rose’s voice echoed Isabella’s thoughts as they climbed
the broad staircase. Isabella looked back at her and nodded, her mind
elsewhere.

“Then it wouldn’t matter what I looked like.”

Livia disappeared down a corridor ahead of them.

“Why does it matter what you look like?”

Rose’s face was hard as she looked at Isabella.

“Why do you think?”

To Isabella, Rose always looked as if she were trying to
copy Livia. She would wear her hair in the same style, and if Livia wore a brooch
to hold her shawl on her shoulders, Rose would appear with a similar one the
next day. But Livia’s face was a one-off and Rose’s eyes weren’t quite as large
and her hair wasn’t quite as blonde and her face, when it was still, had no
sweetness to it, just hard angles and that narrow chin. It must have been
difficult to grow up with someone else so similar to you in age and station,
but so much more beautiful.

“So you can make a good marriage?”

Rose looked down; her cheeks had gone pink.

“Of course.” Rose seemed distant for a moment, her eyes
looking out the window. “It’s what’s expected.”

“I’m glad I’m not seventeen,” Isabella said.

“I’m eighteen in a month. Papa says I need to get a move
on.”

Isabella nodded. “I know.”

“How do you know?” Rose’s eyes were narrowed.

“Everyone knows about the girls who come here to find
husbands. Don’t worry.” Her voice softened. “It’s very normal.”

“I hate it.” Rose’s voice was as quiet as a breeze through
leaves.

“I would, too.”

“You don’t have anyone you have to please, though, do you?
You can do what you like.” Isabella was surprised at the venom on Rose’s face,
the set of her jaw and her sudden pallor.

“Not quite. I have to take care of Midge.”

Rose snorted.

“Yes, but you’ve even managed to shirk that
responsibility, haven’t you? Now he’s gone, you must be thrilled. You’ve even
less to worry about. I quite admire you, really.”

Isabella felt a rush of blood to her face.

“I didn’t ‘shirk’ my responsibility for him. It was his
choice to travel with the Jefferies.”

“Only because you were so foul to him. Poor little chap, I
don’t blame him.” Isabella felt her throat closing. “You were clearly the beat
of his heart and then Livia comes along, all hair and charm, and you drop him
like a hot coal.”

A servant appeared in front of them. It wasn’t until
Isabella was safely inside her room and had locked the door, that she could let
the tears which threatened to choke her spill down her face and into the white
lace pillow on her bed, embroidered with “Home Sweet Home”.

Isabella guessed she’d fallen asleep. The sun
suggested it was well past lunchtime; she must have slept through it. She
wasn’t hungry, though. She splashed tepid water on her face and drank some
water flavoured with lemon that had been left in a glass bottle in her room.
The blue dress she’d been wearing that morning was thick with dust, so she took
it off and washed herself all over. Then she put on Abhaya’s soft golden sari
and brushed her hair out around her shoulders. Her reflection looked back at
her from the mirror above the dressing table.

Her nut-brown hair had thickened up in the last year, so
she plaited it into a shining braid which hung over one shoulder. Abhaya’s sari
made her look taller and the orange suited her tanned skin. Her face was
thinner, she noted, and her eyes still a bit puffy from where she’d cried
herself to sleep. Otherwise, apart from her height, she looked as if she was
Indian born and bred, as if she’d washed off the last of her Englishness along
with the dust of the road. She shivered. It had been a long time since she’d
felt the air, thick as treacle, of an Indian mid-afternoon on her naked toes.

She walked to the window. The sun fell hard on the grass
outside and the view seemed to sit in bands of bushes, trees, clouds and sky.
Nothing moved at this time of day, when each breath had to be taken with care,
such was the heat. Isabella drank another glass of water. The pleasure of being
home and finally alone overcame the racking guilt she felt about Midge and
Captain Lucas.

She padded downstairs and out the door onto the front
porch. All the horses had been put away and the servants were napping, except
for the punka-wallah, who sat, a pile of bones in a stretched brown skin,
hunched over a set of cards. They were not playing cards but showed pictures of
chariots and horses, men hanging upside down and brilliant stars.

“What are you doing, Papa-ji?”

He started.

“Goodness, you made me jump.” He looked her up and down.
“I had thought you were a ferenghi.”

Isabella squatted down next to him.

“I am learning. I am neither one nor the other. Neither
European or native.”

“That is no bad thing.”

He picked up the cards in front of him.

“Are those tarot cards?” She’d seen similar, one scorching
day at market with Abhaya. There had been a man who spoke Hindi with a heavy
accent whilst he interpreted the cards. That hadn’t stopped a line of people
from standing all day in the heat to see him.

The punka-wallah nodded, and then handed them to Isabella.

“Shuffle them with an empty mind.”

Isabella shuffled and tried to return the pack, but the
old man held up his hand.

“No, I must not touch them until you have laid out your
cards. Make the sign of a cross with ten cards on the silk scarf, turning them
face up as you go. Then keep hold of the pack until we have finished.”

Isabella did as she was told, intrigued by the intricate
drawings that appeared before her. The cards were soft to the touch, years of
use making some of them as flimsy as rice paper. She hoped none would come
apart in her hand.

She sat back and the old man ran his hands over the cards
and nodded.

“Very good.” He peered at the cards and sucked on his only
remaining tooth. “Now.” He hummed a bit. “Great loss brings you here, but
there’s a part of it that is unfinished. Something happened a long time ago,
with no sense of an ending. Does that sound right?”

Isabella looked out at the distant black hills shimmering
in the heat haze. Where should she start?

“Yes, Papa-ji. My ayah, Abhaya, died of cholera and I
didn’t say goodbye. My father also disappeared. I tried to find him, but I just
made everything worse. I don’t know which one you might mean.”

“Not your ayah. The Sahiba Abhaya is very close to you. I
can feel her here now. Surely you’ve heard her speak to you?”

Isabella thought of when she’d felt breezes graze her
cheek and yet the leaves hadn’t moved. How in her moments of greatest need
she’d heard Abhaya’s voice as clearly as if Abhaya stood behind her. How the
memory of her had helped Isabella restart Princess Alix’s breathing when all
Isabella’s efforts seemed futile.

“Yes. I’ve heard her.”

“Well, then. This is not about her. She has passed over,
and is at peace with herself and you.” Isabella found herself in tears. “No.
This must be your father.”

The card the old man held was a faded picture of a knight
in shining armour carrying a silver sword. “The Knight of Swords. A brave and
able soldier.”

Isabella smiled and wiped her nose on the hem of her sari.
“Yes, he was.”

“Indeed. Many wonderful qualities come with this card, but
look. See how he isn’t wearing his helmet and his scabbard is unbuckled?”

Isabella squinted at the card. “Oh, yes.”

“Though he is brave, he is also foolish.”

“No, he’s not,” Isabella said hotly.

“I do not say this to upset you. I am just telling you
what the cards say. Whatever has happened to him is due to his own rash
behaviour.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Isabella said stiffly. “I
don’t even know if he’s alive.”

The punka-wallah leaned forward and took a card from the
pile in Isabella’s hand. “He is still alive.” Each word was like a heavy stone
tossed in a deep pool. He paused and narrowed his eyes, his beaked nose even
more prominent. “But you know this already.”

Isabella took a deep breath.

“How do you know?”

“I can see a letter. I feel very cold, the room is moving
and I can smell the sea.”

Isabella shivered. His description had taken her straight
back to the little blue cabin on the
Mauritania
where she’d opened
Prince Ernest’s letter, never imagining for a moment what it might contain.

“Yes. You’ve described where I found out he might be
alive. Is there a chance I might find him?” Every part of her prayed she would
hear a “yes” from the old man’s mouth.

He looked at her and muttered to himself.

Isabella hunched herself forward. “What did you say?”

“It’s not straightforward.”

Isabella raised her eyes to heaven. Her belief in him was
being stretched to its limit. The punka-wallah caught the look.

“With cards like these you can’t afford to be flippant,”
and he leaned over to Isabella and smacked her sharply on the hand. “Look,
child! Look at this. The Tower, the Magician, Judgement and the King of Coins.
The only positive card I can find is the six of Cups, and that’s only here
because you dropped it.”

The old man’s tone held a harsh note of pleading. Isabella
felt bad. She didn’t want to offend him. Taking the smirk from her face she
said, “I’m sorry, Papa-ji. What else do you see?”

“I see you losing your way. You have the Moon card, which
causes things to appear not as they actually are, and look here – Judgement.”

She looked at the card of a stern man balancing a pair of
scales in each hand.

“A day of reckoning. You will be judged for something for
which you are not responsible.”

Isabella shuffled about on her haunches, preparing to
stand. She’d had enough of this.

“Like they judged you in London.”

Isabella went still.

“When who judged me in London?”

“They say you are a thief, that you stole the shining ring
that sits at the bottom of your father’s bag.”

“I didn’t steal it! Alix gave it to me –” Isabella clapped
a hand over her mouth, barely able to believe what she had just heard.

“It is a convenience to blame you, nothing more,” said the
punka-wallah with a satisfied expression. “It will amount to nothing.”

“You did that on purpose.”

Isabella’s mouth hung was open and the hairs on her arms
and the back of her neck rose as she realised there was no earthly way he could
have known about Alix’s ring.

“A cheap circus trick.” The old man smiled, showing his
gums. “But I need you to take me seriously. There is much at stake.”

Isabella exhaled. “Well, it worked.”

“Good.”

She hesitated and then took a deep breath.

“I have a friend, a young boy. Do the cards talk about him
at all?” She inched towards him, the stone porch warm beneath her feet.

The old man drew another card. The picture was of a lovely
woman sitting in rich red-and-gold robes surrounded by adoring children.

“Yes. The Empress. Mother Nature, as you would expect.” He
was talking to himself again and he bent close to the ground. “Now, pass me a
card.” Isabella did as she was asked. “Now, this will be your friend and we
will put him next to …” As his fingers touched the card, he stopped
speaking.

Isabella sat forward. “What is it?”

He flipped the card over with a sigh. It was blank; bone
white with a rim of black.

“It’s blank,” said Isabella, looking up at the elderly
punka-wallah.

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

A little flame of fear rose in Isabella’s chest. “Why are
you apologising?”

“Because I can’t help you any more.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not allowed to read any further.”

“But you were going to tell me about Midge.”

“My child, I have told you about Midge.”

“No, you haven’t.”

The punka-wallah lifted the blank card, his face gentle.
“This is Midge.”

Isabella blinked rapidly. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

The man spread his hands over the cards. “These cards
represent your future. Look back on your life in five years’ time and this is
what you will see.”

Tears filled Isabella’s eyes as realisation dawned.

“So if this is my future, Midge is …”

He nodded. “Yes. In this future, Midge no longer exists.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and she couldn’t speak.
The old man placed his hand over her own.

“The cards foretell only the future they see for you at
present.”

“So I could change it?”

“We all have the power to change our future.”

“But how will I know I’ve succeeded?”

“You won’t.”

Dinner was quiet. The banter and excited chatter of
the carriage journey had given way to a stiff formality. The Jefferies had
already left. The older ladies sat together talking in hushed tones and finally
Livia and Rose were allowed to come and sit with Isabella, who felt as welcome
as a pariah dog at a picnic. She could feel Lady Denier’s regret at allowing
her to travel with them, as if it had pulled a chair up to the table and then
sat in her lap. She pushed her food around her plate; she couldn’t eat, and
what she had forced down had been tasteless.

“Early bed for all of us, don’t you think?” Said Rose.

Isabella nodded.

“Lady Denier hates me.”

“No she doesn’t. She just hates scandal and it didn’t help
she saw you squatting on the porch this afternoon. She thought you were a
native.” Rose’s voice trickled ever onwards.

Isabella’s mind was made up. She would leave tonight. She
could travel far more quickly on her own.

“Are you all right, dear?” Mrs Rodriguez looked at her.
Isabella had been unaware she had held on to her for longer than usual.

“Yes, just wanted to give you a thank-you hug.”

“What for?”

“For not telling me how awful I’ve been about Midge. For
letting me find out I was wrong by myself.”

Mrs Rodriguez patted her cheek. “You’re a good girl
really. All the attention from your episode with Princess Alix just went to
your head.”

Isabella looked at her shrewd, kind face and wished she
could tell Mrs Rodriguez the truth. She wanted Midge back by her side. Every
time she thought of him she got a tummy ache, as if the cord of friendship that
connected them had been stretched too far and too tight. If Stone wanted the
packet, he could have it. Nothing was worth more than Midge. Not even a promise
to Al Hassan.

One by one they climbed the broad stairs, Livia dragging
her feet and Eloise hanging over the banister in the hope of Captain Lucas
coming out of the dining room.

Isabella looked at the girls. She was really very
fond of them. She would miss them, but it was a great relief to turn the key in
the lock of her door. She took off her silk evening dress and hung it in the
wardrobe, and quickly shrugged her way into her nightwear. It must look as if
she were going to bed, should anyone come in. She’d hardly unpacked her bag, so
repacking it didn’t take her long. She took only her Indian clothes; instinct
told her she would travel more easily as a native. Then she settled down to
wait.

The trouble with warm countries is that there are
people asleep everywhere, thought Isabella as she crept downstairs. No one had
to get under cover, so everyone just slept where they pleased. On the streets
of London you’d have frozen to death before morning, so the city was deserted
in the middle of the night. Not so here. Indeed, there seemed to be more people
around at this time of night than there were during the day. She wondered why
she’d bothered waiting as she tripped over two servants sleeping outside on the
porch.