The Night Tiger(33)
“So what does that mean?”
Rawlings steeples his fingers. “The first possibility is that the poor woman was killed by a tiger, perhaps by mauling the throat or suffocation. It’s hard to say because we don’t have a neck anymore. But then the tiger left its kill and returned much later—maybe a day or so—for the rest of the postmortem injuries. What kind of animal does that?”
“Perhaps it was disturbed,” says William. There’s a sick tightening in his gut; a bad feeling that he’s going to hear something that he’ll regret.
“Very few things will disturb a tiger feeding except for humans or another tiger, which would have then eaten the kill. And there haven’t been any reports of people driving away a tiger. We could have waited to see if the animal came back.”
“She was human. A person. We couldn’t leave her out as bait!” Without realizing it, William has raised his voice and a few heads turn.
Rawlings looks at him with surprise. “It’s not like it hasn’t been done before. There were several cases in India when man-eaters were ambushed when they returned to the corpse.”
William has often been accused of being cold and unfeeling, but he thinks that compared to Rawlings, he’s a mess of emotions. If he isn’t careful, people will be suspicious. Swallowing hard, he looks down into his coffee cup.
“In any case, I’m not keen on that theory. It’s much more likely that she died out in the rubber estate and was scavenged by a tiger. Death could be due to natural causes. Another possibility is someone killed her.”
“It’s a long shot to murder,” says William in dismay. “She could have been bitten by a snake. Or any other number of things.”
Rawlings waves his hand dismissively, then leans forward. “You know what I think?”
“What?”
But Rawlings changes his mind, sitting back. “I can’t confirm it yet. But I’m writing it down as a suspicious death. This will go to the coroner’s court.”
This isn’t news that William wants to hear—far better if Ambika were simply the unfortunate victim of a tiger. He recalls how she’d recently asked for more money and wonders if Ambika had other lovers. His chest constricts. If that’s the case, they’ll start looking for everyone associated with her.
“One way or another,” says Rawlings, “the tiger in this case behaved very strangely. The locals will be full of gossip that it’s a ghost tiger or something foolish like that.”
“Keramat,” William says automatically. “A sacred beast.”
Rawlings snorts. “Sacred beast! Exactly.”
William stares across the room, thoughts unspooling like loose threads. Besides the salesman, who else has seen him with Ambika?
He needs to be careful.
* * *
Ren is making an omelet. It’s a tricky, delicate task, requiring patience over a charcoal fire. Since finding the body over the weekend, William has been nauseated and out of sorts. He can’t stomach rich food like chicken in coconut gravy or fried pork chops. Returning early today, he requested an omelet and Ren volunteered to cook it.
Omelets were a favorite of Dr. MacFarlane’s and Auntie Kwan taught him how to make them fluffy and meltingly soft. Ren tips the omelet carefully onto a plate; the secret is to take the eggs off the heat before they’re completely set. Looking up, Ren breaks into a smile and amazingly, so does Ah Long.
“You can serve it yourself,” he says.
Ah Long sprinkles finely chopped green onions on top and fans out a few tomato slices on the side. Setting it on a tray with a starched white napkin, Ren trots off with it. All the way down the long, polished wooden hallway and upstairs, where he knocks at the master’s bedchamber.
Like all the other rooms in the house, the airy, high-ceilinged room is painted white and is quite bare except for the four-poster bed in the center, hung with mosquito nets. The slanting afternoon sun, green and gold through the treetops, gives Ren a sudden feeling of déjà vu. It’s just like the old doctor’s room, back in Kamunting. Except it’s not Dr. MacFarlane sitting at a table by the window, but William, who is writing a letter.
“Thank you,” he says, with a guilty start as Ren sets the tray down.
“Did they find the tiger yet?” Ren asks.
“Not yet. It may be miles away by now.” William takes a bite. “Who made this?”
The worried look returns to Ren’s face. “I did, Tuan.”
“It’s very good. I’d like you to make all my omelets from now on.”
“Yes, Tuan.” Emboldened by this, Ren asks, “May I have permission to take leave soon?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Back to Kamunting. Just for a few days.”
William considers this. Ren has been working here for only a short while. By rights, he hasn’t accumulated enough leave to go anywhere, but he looks so hopeful. “To see your old friends?”
“Yes.” Ren hesitates. “And to pay my respects to Dr. MacFarlane’s grave. I’d like to go before the mourning period is over in twenty days.”
“Of course.” William’s expression softens. “You may take three days off if you like. Check with Ah Long about the dates—there’ll be a dinner party here. You’d better wait until afterwards. Do you need train fare?”