‘It doesn’t matter any more,’ replied Peake. ‘I must go. Right now.’
He took one last look at the babies, who had settled quietly by the fire. They smiled as they looked at him, their eyes bright and filled with a playful curiosity. At last they were safe. The lieutenant walked to the door and took a deep breath. Exhaustion and the throbbing pain in his leg overwhelmed him after the few moments of rest. He had used the last reserves of his strength to bring the infants to this place, and now he wondered how he was going to face the inevitable. Outside, the rain was still lashing down but there was no sign of his pursuer or his henchmen.
‘Michael …’ said Aryami behind him.
The young man stopped but didn’t turn round.
‘She knew,’ lied Aryami. ‘She knew from the start, and I’m sure that, in some way, she felt the same for you. It was my fault. Don’t hold it against her.’
Peake replied with a nod and closed the door behind him. For a few seconds he stood there, under the rain, finally at peace with himself, then he set off to meet his pursuers. After retracing his steps back to the abandoned warehouse, he entered the dark building once more in search of a hiding place.
As he crouched in the shadows weariness and pain fused slowly into a drunken sense of calm, and his lips betrayed a faint smile. He no longer had any reason, or hope, to go on living.
THE LONG TAPERED FINGERS in the black glove stroked the bloodstained tip of the nail poking through the broken plank near the entrance to the warehouse. Slowly, while the assassins waited in silence behind him, the slender figure, whose face was hidden under a black hood, raised the tip of one forefinger to his lips and licked the dark thick blood as if it were a drop of honey. A few seconds later the hooded figure turned towards the men he had hired a few hours earlier for a handful of coins and the promise of further pay when they’d finished the job. He pointed inside the building. The three henchmen scurried through the opening made by Lieutenant Peake a short while earlier. The hooded man smirked in the darkness.
‘You’ve chosen a sad place to die, Peake,’ he whispered to himself.
Hiding behind a column of empty crates in the depths of the warehouse, Peake watched the silhouettes of the three men as they entered the building. Although he couldn’t see him from where he stood, he was certain that their master was waiting on the other side of the wall; he could sense his presence. Peake pulled out his revolver and rotated the cylinder until one of the two bullets was aligned with the barrel, muffling the sound under his tunic. He was no longer running away from death, but he was determined not to travel this road alone.
The adrenalin coursing through his veins had eased the pain in his knee until it was just a dull, distant throb. Surprised at how calm he felt, Peake smiled again and remained motionless in his hiding place. He watched the slow advance of the three men through the passage until his executioners came to a halt about ten metres away. One of the men lifted a hand to stop the others and pointed at some stains on the ground. Peake raised his weapon to his chest, cocked the hammer, and took aim.
At a new signal, the three men separated. Two of them went sideways while the third made straight for the pile of crates, and Peake. The lieutenant counted to five, then suddenly pushed the column of boxes forward. The crates crashed down on top of his attacker while Peake ran towards the opening through which they had entered the warehouse.
One of the killers surprised him at a junction in the corridor, wielding his knife close to the lieutenant’s face. But before the thug could even blink, the barrel of Peake’s revolver was thrust under his chin.
‘Drop the knife,’ spat the lieutenant.
Seeing the ice in the lieutenant’s eyes, the man did as he was told. Peake grabbed him by his hair and, without removing his weapon, turned to the assassin’s allies, shielding his body with that of his hostage. The other two thugs moved menacingly towards Peake.
‘Lieutenant, spare us the drama and hand over what we’re looking for,’ a familiar voice murmured behind him. ‘These are honest men. With families.’
Peake turned to see the hooded man leering at him in the dark, just a few metres from where he stood.
‘I’m going to blow this man’s head off, Jawahal,’ Peake snarled.
His hostage closed his eyes, trembling.
The hooded man crossed his arms patiently and gave out a small sigh of annoyance.
‘Do so if it pleases you, Lieutenant. But that won’t get you out of here.’
‘I’m serious,’ Peake replied.
‘Of course, Lieutenant,’ said Jawahal in a conciliatory tone. ‘Shoot if you have the courage required to kill a man in cold blood and without His Majesty’s permission. Otherwise, drop the weapon, and that way we’ll be able to reach an agreement that is satisfactory to both parties.’
The two armed henchmen were standing nearby, ready to jump on Peake at the first signal from the hooded man.
‘Very well,’ Peake said at last. ‘What do you think of this agreement?’
He pushed his hostage onto the floor and, raising his revolver, turned towards the hooded man. The first shot echoed through the warehouse. Jawahal’s gloved hand emerged from the cloud of gunpowder, his palm outstretched. Peake thought he could see the crushed bullet shining in the dark, then melting slowly into a thread of liquid metal that slid through Jawahal’s fingers like a fistful of sand.
‘Bad shot, Lieutenant. Try again, only this time come closer.’
Without giving him time to move, the hooded man leaned forward and grasped the hand with which Peake was holding his weapon. He then pulled the end of the gun towards his own face until it rested between his eyes.
‘Didn’t they teach you to do it like this at the academy?’ he whispered.
‘There was a time when we were friends,’ said Peake.
Jawahal smiled with contempt.
‘That time, Lieutenant, has passed.’
‘May God forgive me,’ muttered Peake, pulling the trigger again.
In an instant that seemed endless, Peake watched as the bullet pierced Jawahal’s skull, tearing the hood off his head. For a few seconds light passed through the wound but gradually the smoking hole closed in on itself. Peake felt the revolver slipping from his fingers.
The blazing eyes of his opponent fixed themselves on his and a long black tongue flicked across the man’s lips.
‘You still don’t understand, do you, Lieutenant? Where are the babies?’
It was not a question. It was an order.
Dumb with terror, Peake shook his head.
‘As you wish.’
Jawahal squeezed Peake’s hand. The lieutenant felt the bones in his fingers being crushed under his flesh. The spasm of pain made him fall to his knees, unable to breathe.
‘Where are the babies?’ Jawahal hissed.
Peake tried to say something, but the agony spreading from the bloody stump that had been his hand paralysed his speech.
‘Are you trying to say something, Lieutenant?’ Jawahal whispered, kneeling beside him.
Peake nodded.
‘Good, good.’ His enemy smiled. ‘Frankly, I don’t find your suffering amusing. So help me put an end to it.’
‘The children are dead,’ Peake groaned.
An expression of distaste crept over Jawahal’s face.
‘You were doing so well, Lieutenant. Don’t ruin it now.’
‘They’re dead,’ Peake repeated.
Jawahal shrugged and slowly nodded his head.
‘All right,’ he conceded. ‘You leave me no choice. But before you go, let me remind you that, when Kylian’s life was in your hands, you were incapable of saving her. She died because of men like you. But those men have gone. You are the last one. The future is mine.’
Peake raised his eyes to Jawahal, and as he did so, he noticed the man’s pupils narrowing into thin slits, his golden irises blazing. With painstaking elegance, Jawahal started to remove the glove on his right hand.
‘Unfortunately you won’t live to see it,’ Jawahal added. ‘Don’t think for a second that your heroic act has served any purpose. You’re an idiot, Lieutenant Peake. You always gave me that impression, and now all you have done is confirm it. I hope there is a hell reserved especially for idiots, Peake, because that’s where I’m sending you.’
Peake closed his eyes and listened to the hiss of fire just inches from his face. Then, after a moment that seemed eternal, he felt burning fingers closing round his throat, cutting off his very last breath. In the distance he could hear the sound of that accursed train and the ghostly voices of hundreds of children howling from the flames. After that, only darkness.
ONE BY ONE, ARYAMI Bose blew out the candles that lit up her sanctuary until only the hesitant glow of the fire remained, projecting fleeting haloes of light against the naked walls. The children were now asleep and the silence was broken only by the rain pattering against the closed shutters and the occasional crackling of the fire. Silent tears slid down Aryami’s face as she took the photograph of her daughter Kylian from the small brass and ivory box where she kept her most prized possessions.
A travelling photographer from Bombay had taken that picture some time before the wedding and hadn’t accepted any payment for it. It showed Kylian just as Aryami remembered her, with that uncanny luminosity that seemed to emanate from her. Kylian’s radiance had mesmerised all who knew her, just as it had captivated the expert eye of the photographer, who had given her the nickname by which she was still remembered: the Princess of Light.
Naturally, Kylian never became a true princess and had no kingdom other than the streets she grew up on. The day she left the Bose home to go and live with her husband, the people of Machuabazar had said farewell with tears in their eyes as they watched the white carriage carry away their Black Town princess for ever. She was scarcely more than a child at the time.
Aryami sat down next to the babies, facing the fireplace, and pressed the old photograph against her chest. Outside the storm raged on and Aryami drew on the force of its anger to help her decide what she should do next. Lieutenant Peake’s pursuer would not be content simply with killing him. The young man’s courage had earned her a few valuable minutes, which she could not waste, not even to mourn for her daughter. Experience had taught her that there would always be plenty of time to lament the errors of the past.
SHE PUT THE PHOTOGRAPH back into the box and took out a pendant she’d had made for Kylian years ago, a jewel she never had the chance to wear. It consisted of two gold circles, a sun and a moon, that fitted into one another to make a single piece. She pressed the centre of the pendant and the two parts separated. Aryami strung each half on a separate gold chain and put one round each of the babies’ necks.
As she did so, she considered the decisions she must make. There seemed to be only one way of ensuring the children’s survival: she must separate them and keep them apart, erase their past and hide their identity from the world and from themselves, however painful that might be. It was not possible for them to remain together; sooner or later they would give themselves away, and she could not take that risk. Aryami knew she had to resolve the dilemma before daybreak.
She took the babies in her arms and kissed them gently on the forehead. Their tiny hands stroked her face and fingered the tears that rolled down her cheeks. Both babies gurgled cheerfully at her, not understanding. She hugged them tight in her arms once more then placed them back in the improvised cot she had made for them.
She then lit a candle and took paper and pen. The future of her grandchildren was now in her hands. Taking a deep breath she began to write. In the background she could hear the rain easing off and the roar of the storm fading towards the north as an endless blanket of stars unfurled over Calcutta.
HAVING REACHED THE AGE of fifty, Thomas Carter thought that the city that had been his home for the last thirty-two years had no more surprises in store for him.
In the early hours of that morning in May 1916, after one of the fiercest monsoon storms he remembered, the surprise had arrived at the door of St Patrick’s Orphanage in the form of a basket containing a baby and a sealed letter marked personal and addressed to him.
The surprise was two-fold. Firstly, nobody bothered to abandon a baby in Calcutta on the doorstep of an orphanage, for there were plenty of alleyways, rubbish dumps and wells all over the city where it could be done more easily. Secondly, nobody wrote letters of introduction like the one he received, signed and leaving no doubt as to its author.
Carter examined his spectacles against the light, breathed on them, then wiped them with an old cotton handkerchief he used for the same task at least a dozen times a day – twice as much during the Indian summer.
The baby boy was asleep downstairs, in Vendela’s bedroom. The head nurse had been keeping a watchful eye on him since he’d been examined by Dr Woodward, who’d been dragged out of his bed shortly before dawn with no other explanation than a reminder of his Hippocratic oath.
The infant was essentially healthy. He showed some signs of dehydration but didn’t seem to be suffering from any of the catalogue of ills that cut short the lives of thousands of children, denying them the right even to reach the age when they’d be able to say their mothers’ name. The only things that had come with the child were the gold pendant in the shape of a sun that Carter held between his fingers, and the letter – a document which, were he to believe its content, placed him in a very awkward situation.
Carter put the pendant in the top drawer of his desk and turned the key. Then he picked up the letter and read it for at least the tenth time.
Dear Mr Carter,
I feel obliged to ask for your help in the most painful of circumstances, appealing to the friendship that I know united you and my late husband for over ten years. During that time my husband never ceased to praise your honesty and the extraordinary trust you inspired in him. That is why today I beg you to heed my plea with the greatest urgency, however strange it may seem, and if possible with the greatest secrecy.
The child I am obliged to hand over to you has lost both his parents. The murderer swore he would kill them and then wipe out their descendants. I cannot reveal the reasons that led this man to commit such an act, nor do I think it appropriate to do so. Suffice it to say that the discovery of the child should be kept secret. Under no circumstance should you inform the police or the British authorities, because the murderer has connections in both that would soon lead him to the boy.
For obvious reasons, I cannot raise the child myself without exposing him to the same fate that befell his parents. That is why I must beg you to take care of him, give him a name and educate him according to the principles of your institution, so that he grows up to be as honest and honourable as his parents were. And it is vitally important that the child should never learn the truth about his past.
I don’t have time to give you any more details, but I will remind you once more of the friendship and trust you shared with my husband in order to justify my request.
When you finish reading this letter, I beg you to destroy it, together with anything that might lead to the discovery of the child. I am sorry I cannot undertake this request in person, but the seriousness of the situation prevents me from doing so.
In the hope that you will make the right decision, please accept my eternal gratitude.
Aryami Bose
A knock on the door interrupted his reading. Carter removed his spectacles, carefully folded the letter and placed it in the drawer of his desk, which he then locked.
‘Come in,’ he said.
Vendela, the head nurse of St Patrick’s, put her head round the door; as usual her expression was stern and efficient. She didn’t seem to be the bearer of good news.
‘There’s a gentleman downstairs who wishes to speak to you,’ she said briefly.
Carter frowned.
‘What about?’
‘He wouldn’t give any details.’ Her tone s
eemed to imply that any such details were bound to be vaguely suspicious.
Vendela hesitated, then stepped into the office and closed the door behind her.
‘I think it’s about the baby,’ the nurse said anxiously. ‘I didn’t tell him anything.’
‘Have you spoken to anyone else?’ Carter enquired.
Vendela shook her head. He gave her a nod and put the key of the desk in his trouser pocket.
‘I can tell him you’re not in,’ suggested Vendela.
For a moment Carter considered the option, but decided that if Vendela’s suspicions were correct – and they usually were – it would only reinforce the impression that St Patrick’s Orphanage had something to hide. That made up his mind.
‘No. I’ll receive him, Vendela. Ask him to come in and make sure none of the staff talk to him. Absolute secrecy on this matter. All right?’
‘Understood.’
Carter heard Vendela’s footsteps as she walked down the corridor. He wiped his glasses again. Outside the rain was hammering against the windowpanes once more.
THE MAN WORE A long cloak, and his head was wrapped in a turban, which was pinned with a dark brooch shaped like a snake. He had the affected manners of a prosperous North Calcutta merchant and his features seemed vaguely Hindu, although his skin was an unhealthy colour, as if it had never been touched by sunlight. The racial melting pot of Calcutta had filled its streets with a fusion of Bengalis, Armenians, Jews, Anglo-Saxons, Chinese, Muslims and numerous other groups who had come to the land of Kali in search of fortune or refuge. The man’s face could have belonged to any of those races, or to none.
Carter could sense the stranger’s eyes burning into his back, inspecting him carefully as he poured tea into two cups on the tray Vendela had provided.
‘Do sit down,’ said Carter to the man. ‘Sugar?’
‘I’ll take it the way you take it.’