The Linnet Bird: A Novel (75 page)

This was the man who would finally destroy me, and who would raise my son.

I had to stop him from what he was about to do to me. I had to protect my child.

I
KNEW THE TIMING
must be perfect. I didn’t sleep that night but nevertheless arose early in the morning and bathed. I had no weariness. I smoked my pipe, but only to prevent my body from going into painful spasms. I had Malti pay special attention to my hair, and I chose my dress carefully. I sat at my dressing table and studied myself. Now I understood how Faith had felt in her last days at Simla. There is a tremendous lifting, as if a heavy yoke has been taken from one’s shoulders, when one knows with complete certainty what one must do. That there can be no other way.

Malti looked at me strangely. “Mem Linny? I don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand?” I swiveled so I was facing her.

“Last night you appeared so distressed when you left Sahib Ingram’s room. And yet today you appear more at ease than for a long, long time. What is it, mem, that I see in your face? It appears to be happiness. But that cannot be, with the sadness of this house.”

I smiled at her. “It’s not happiness, Malti. Not yet. But there is the future. We must light new lamps for the future.”

Malti shook her head, confused. The rest of that day I sat on the verandah and played with David, my mind whirring, planning. At one point I looked toward the windows of Somers’s room and saw Dr. Haverlock staring at me. He turned abruptly when I met his gaze.

I went to Somers’s room. Dr. Haverlock sat at the desk there, writing. Was it the commitment report he worked on? He stopped when he saw me, and looked at Somers, lying on the bed.

“Do you want something, Linny?” Somers asked, his voice deceptively concerned. “Or have you forgotten something?”

“I thought you might need fresh water.”

Somers gestured to the full pitcher beside his bed. “But Linny . . . it was you who brought this in just before Dr. Haverlock arrived.”

“No. No, it wasn’t. It must have been one of the servants.” I hadn’t been to Somers’s room that day.

Somers shook his head, smiling gently, and, raising his eyebrows slightly, looked at Dr. Haverlock.
You see?

Dr. Haverlock studied my hands. I realized I was lacing and unlacing my fingers. I stopped, but he had already turned back to his paper and continued writing. I left the room, but lingered in the hallway. I heard Dr. Haverlock tell Somers it was done; I heard Somers assuring Dr. Haverlock that he would receive what had been promised when all matters had been taken care of.

He was making his plans. It was time to finalize mine.

I
T WAS EASY TO
acquire a supply of
dhatura
from a box wallah that very day. The shrub’s English name was thorn apple. It was one of India’s indigenous plants, growing wild in rank soil and wasteland. I remembered Nani Meera’s caution about using it. In the right amounts it could be useful in limiting the coughing fits due to pertussis, as well as problems in the bladder. Although the large white corollas of the flowers had narcotic and sedative properties, these properties were found to be even stronger in the leaves when powdered.

The entire plant had elements similar to those of belladonna, only stronger, and overdose caused fatal poisoning.

A
LTHOUGH EVER GAINING
in strength, Somers was thankfully still weak, and there were sudden moments of extreme fatigue and feebleness. While recuperating he enjoyed cooled tea, much sweetened, and called for it many times a day. I took it upon myself to fetch it from the cook and carry it to him each time he requested it, as any concerned wife might. By the way he looked at me the first few times I appeared at his bedside with the tray, his lip lifting in a sardonic, quizzing movement, I knew he thought I was trying to prove to him that I wasn’t mad, that I was attempting to appear normal. I allowed him to think this of me.

I started with very minute amounts. I had to be extremely careful; it must look as if he had finally succumbed to his oldest and truest Indian enemy.

Within two days he had regressed considerably, his face dry and flushed. He had difficulty swallowing, and was given to muttering and restless, purposeless movements. On the third day he fell into a sleep so deep it was impossible to wake him for many hours; I knew it could eventually lead to coma. When he finally did stir and open his eyes, which had grown gummy, the pupils were dilated and fixed. I continued to get him to swallow a few sips of tea each time he was conscious, crying to the servants that he must have fluid.

As I wrung my hands in front of Dr. Haverlock, I said a silent prayer of thanks that the old man was so lacking in medical knowledge. “He appeared to be rallying,” I said. “What has caused this turn?”

Dr. Haverlock shook his head. “One never knows how these foreign diseases will work on their victims.” I stared, wide-eyed, into his face. “I fear it’s become much more serious. My diagnosis, Mrs. Ingram, is brain malaria.”

I put my fingers to my lips in consternation. “Brain malaria?”

“His slipping in and out of consciousness, as well as the mental confusion, are both symptoms. Should he start showing signs of jaundice, or perhaps convulsing . . .”

“But—but he
will
recover, won’t he?”

“Now, my dear, you mustn’t distress yourself unduly. Your state is quite delicate—”

“Dr. Haverlock.” I stood tall. “I’m not in any state, delicate or otherwise. Are you telling me that Somers may not recover from this bout? Tell me the truth, Dr. Haverlock.”

The old man took both my hands in his and shook his head, an insincere expression of sympathy on his face.

W
HEN
D
R.
H
AVERLOCK RETURNED
the following day, he made a cursory check of Somers and then led me into the study. “Please prepare yourself, my dear,” he said.

I waited.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you that your husband’s death is imminent. I doubt he’ll survive the night.”

I allowed myself to crumple to a chair, lowering my head and covering my face with my hands. “Please dismiss the servants,” I said through my fingers, “but stay with me.” When we were alone, I looked up.

“I wanted to speak to you in complete privacy, Dr. Haverlock,” I said, no longer putting on a show of distress. “About unfinished business.”

“Now, now, Mrs. Ingram. You mustn’t worry. I’ll take care of everything here. And very soon you will be back home, where people who know how to care for you can help you through the difficult times you’re facing. And you mustn’t concern yourself over the child. Mr. Ingram left strict instructions as to—”

I stood, coming straight to him, stopping so close to his face that he took a step back. “Do you really believe me to be mad, Dr. Haverlock?”

His eyes shifted. “Your husband knew what was best for you. There are many ways, many new developments in caring for those unfortunates, such as yourself, who—”

I interrupted. “And there are many ways, I assume, that a man such as yourself may be . . . how shall I word it? May be persuaded to see the truth.”

Dr. Haverlock’s chin jumped once, encouraging me. He was so transparent.

“I know you must be weary of working. You’ve devoted your life to helping people, Dr. Haverlock.” The words swam out warmly, slippery, clean. “You deserve to spend the remainder of your years in pampered luxury, either here or at home. Whatever sum my husband and you agreed upon for writing your . . . recommendation with regard to my future and that of my son, I will double. If you put that letter in my possession, and we speak no more about it.”

His chin jumped again, and by that subtle twitch and his hesitation, I knew I had him. He took my arm and had me sit beside him on the sofa, glancing around, although the room was empty. “I may have been hasty in my estimation of your condition, my dear,” he said. “Your poor husband made his request out of concern for you and for his son.”

“And you realize that Somers has been deeply affected by his constant battle with malaria all these years,” I said. “You also know that due to this he may have been lacking in clarity this last while. I understand, Dr. Haverlock”—my voice grew low with a shared conspiracy—“how well I understand what an awkward position he put you in. Please. I insist you tell me what sum you are owed for the strain this whole unpleasant situation has caused you. Come now, what will it be?”

He gruffly cleared his throat. Sly old goat. He was afraid of naming the price in case it was lower than what I was prepared to double.

I went to the desk drawer, took out the wrapped package I had put there this morning, and brought it back to the sofa. I set it between us and untied the string. The paper fell away, revealing my huge pile of saved bills, the amount I had been pilfering from Somers for years and had kept so safe and hidden. Now it gave the impression of a king’s ransom.

The physician licked his thin, dry lips, his breath quickening. I could almost hear the greedy ticking of his brain. “Oh my, Mrs. Ingram. Dear, dear. I don’t wish to appear grasping, but, in reality, all of this has caused me a great loss of time and, as you say, a considerable strain on my own constitution, which hasn’t been well of late. I’ve grown quite bilious. It wouldn’t be gracious to speak of the sum Mr. Ingram and I discussed, but . . .” Again, his eyes longingly caressed the money so close to his thigh.

I patted his sleeve. “I understand, I’m sure,” I said, pity in my voice. “Would you be carrying anything with you, Dr. Haverlock, that we might exchange?”