The Night Tiger(123)

Is it disappointment, or triumph, in her eyes? “You won’t do that.”

“Lydia, I can’t perjure myself for you.”

“Then for Iris,” she says, her eyes glittering. “I know what you did.”

William’s throat closes, bony fingers pinching it, squeezing the air out of him. “What are you talking about?”

“You drowned her, that day on the river.”

That day on the river, the light slanting green and gold. Iris turning angry, the black mood coming down on her. Accusing him again in her unending jealousy, jabbing her finger in his chest in the way that absolutely maddened him in all their quarrels so that he shoved her, hard. Or did she trip and fall by herself? Even he can’t remember, or doesn’t want to.

“It was an accident!”

“She would never stand up in a boat. Not ever, no matter what you said.” Lydia’s not pretty at all now, not one bit. She looks like a witch, her eyes wild and cunning. “Iris had a bad sense of balance. We all knew that at school. Something to do with her ears.”

“Lydia—”

“And even after she fell in, you didn’t pull her out.”

He’d thought he’d teach Iris a lesson, let her flounder for a bit before pulling her out. But she’d gone under very quickly, the heavy woolen skirts dragging her down. So fast that William thought she was playing a joke on him, holding her breath to pretend she was in trouble. Who knew that a person could drown so quickly, so silently, without any of the wild thrashings that he’d imagined? By the time he went after her, she was nothing but dead weight.

“Lydia!” He has to stop her, spewing out these hateful words.

“Iris wrote me letters. Lots of them. About you and how she thought you were cheating on her. I have a letter written right before she died, saying she was afraid you’d kill her.”

Don’t panic, William thinks, biting down. After all, that’s what he did about Iris. She was leaning over and then she fell in. No, we hadn’t quarreled. Still, there were whispers and rumors that followed him. The same insidious tale of betrayal and cowardice, enough to cut him at the Club, enough to drive him to another place, another country. He fights to control himself.

“She was hysterical, manipulative.”

Lydia leans back. “You’re right.” There’s a faint smile on her face. “But you might be charged, given the circumstantial evidence, if you went back home.” Another sip of tea. “I’ve made it fair, haven’t I? I’ve told you all about myself. Though unlike you, I can easily deny everything.”

“What about the deaths of all those people? The salesman, Ambika, Nandani?”

“Why, you killed them. They were all in your way. I’ll say you got rid of the women because you wanted to marry me, but I turned you down. The police are already suspicious about Nandani being in your house right before she died, and if they dig up the talk about Iris from back home, it won’t look good for you.”

Silence. He hears the pounding rush of blood in his head. If he springs up right now, he can catch her by her long white throat. Dig his thumbs in until she stops breathing. Why, why is this happening again? Her resemblance to Iris, the same sticky, hysterical demands. It’s as though Iris has returned from the river and she’ll never be satisfied until she drags him under.

“What do you want, Lydia?”

She’s going to play her trump card, whatever it is. Stomach leaden, William knows that he’s been completely outfoxed by her.

“I love you,” she says.

He gets up. Circles behind her, his mind racing through different possibilities. Shove her forward, crack her head open on the coffee table. She’s infected him with her madness.

“So you want to get engaged?” A gun accident then. Showing Lydia the Purdey. But he’s already shot Ren accidentally. Too suspicious.

“Yes. I’d like that.” She smiles, as though he’s just proposed on bended knee. “I’ve already told the police, but it would be nice to make it official. We could have a party.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“A toast then?” she says. William numbly picks up his cup and clinks it against hers. Play along; buy some time, he thinks, draining the tepid, bitter tea. No amount of milk and sugar can disguise the vomit rising in his throat as he forces it down.

A swish of skirts, that light scent of geraniums that he hates now. He shows her to the door. Good manners, even if it’s killing him. Lydia pauses, her eyes bright. “After we’re married, I can’t be compelled to testify against you. Nor you against me. It makes it fair, doesn’t it?”

William wants to scream, smack her head into the wall, but he says through gritted teeth, “Why do you care for me at all?”

“Iris introduced us back in England, though you don’t remember. It was a party at the Piersons’; you liked me, you really did. Afterwards, you kissed me in the hallway. I couldn’t stop thinking of you for days.”

Memory. The ticking of the grandfather clock, that quick, feverish fumble in the darkness. He’d been so happy with Iris that day, her pert face never more alluring, that he’d cornered her, so he’d thought, in the hallway. And afterwards, there’d been days of brooding sulkiness. Iris complaining that he’d drunk too much that weekend, the accusations that he’d brushed off, attributing them to her neuroses, his aching head. He says with sharp, sudden understanding, “That was a mistake. I never knew it was you.”