The Night Tiger(89)
Captain Singh watches William with sharp amber eyes. “Was she upset?”
“Somewhat.” William takes his glasses off and polishes them. “Her father had found out we’d been friendly and he was sending her away. To an uncle, I believe.”
“And what kind of relationship did you have with her?”
This is the question that William has been dreading. “I flirted with her. I thought she was attractive, and I came by a few times to where she lived and we went on a couple of walks.”
“You didn’t know her long?”
“She had the accident with her leg quite recently.”
Captain Singh nods. “Yes, there wasn’t much time for a relationship to develop.”
“May I ask where this line of questioning is going?” William’s voice is sharp and cold.
Captain Singh spreads his hands. “According to her family, the only unusual change in her routine this weekend was that she went to see you. Her cousin said that she was quite upset when she left your house.”
“Yes, I told you that already. She didn’t want to go to her uncle’s, but I thought she should do what her father wanted. And that she was reading too much into our friendship. Now, please tell me what’s happened to her.”
The captain suddenly becomes brisk. “On Saturday night she went missing from your house for a short while, but was later discovered walking on the road by her cousin, who gave her a ride home on his bicycle. She went to bed as usual. At half past eight on Sunday morning, her body was discovered lying in the bushes a little way from her home.”
“Was it a tiger?” William’s mind instantly leaps to Ambika’s poor sad corpse.
“No, though it seems there was a tiger in your garden on Saturday night.”
“Yes,” says William distractedly.
“I’m afraid in Miss Wijedasa’s case, she was violently ill. We’re investigating the possibility that there was some kind of accident. Or suicide.” His eyes rest thoughtfully on William.
“Suicide? She was upset, but she wasn’t suicidal!”
“Her family doesn’t think she was, either. This morning, the body was brought in for an autopsy.”
“Who did it—Rawlings?”
“Yes. According to his first impressions, she ingested something early in the morning, before breakfast. Perhaps some folk remedy—her mother said she’d complained of stomach pains.”
“So why did you need a statement from me?” William’s head is foggy now, his knees weak with tension.
“We just wanted to confirm her movements this weekend. Though it appears you spent most of Saturday night at the hospital attending to your houseboy,” Captain Singh says smoothly. Is it William’s imagination, or has the man been stringing him along? “When I looked up recent deaths in this area, I noticed that another patient of yours died not too long ago. A salesman—Mr. Chan Yew Cheung of Papan—who apparently dropped dead on the road.”
“I read about it in the newspapers. Poor chap.”
“According to his wife, you were the last doctor to see him.”
“That was for appendicitis, half a year ago.”
“Nothing to do with his subsequent heart failure or broken neck, of course.”
“Is that what happened to him?” It’s the first William has heard about the details behind the salesman’s death. The obituary had only said “suddenly,” but cardiac failure and a broken neck sounds literally like overkill.
“Apparently he’d been drinking and fell into a storm drain, breaking his neck. Though one eyewitness said he’d complained of chest pains shortly before that. There was no autopsy though.”
William supposes not, since there were more than enough plausible causes of death.
Captain Singh thanks him for his time and turns to leave. “You’ve had quite an affinity for deaths and accidents recently.”
* * *
After he’s gone, William sinks into a chair. So Nandani is dead. There’s a hollowness in his gut, a tight misery. Did she die for him? No, that doesn’t seem right. Still, the overwhelming emotion he feels is guilt, because didn’t he wish, fervently and irritably, on Saturday night that Nandani would just disappear?
What would cause an otherwise healthy young woman to drop dead? William puts his hands over his eyes. A terrible suspicion is growing in him that there’s a shadowy power that rearranges events to suit himself. That whole business with Iris, and Ambika, once she started asking for more money. Then the salesman, conveniently dying after stumbling upon his affair with Ambika. And finally Nandani. It’s the fickleness of events that frightens him, as though he only has to say, “I wish it weren’t so!” and the pattern reorders to suit him. Like a dark fairy tale, where all your wishes, however evil and stupid, are granted.
And perhaps, like fairy tales, there’s a price to be paid in blood.
33
Ipoh/Batu Gajah
Friday, June 26th
All week, I scanned the newspapers feverishly to see if there was any mention of a death in Batu Gajah, but there was nothing. Though perhaps an orphaned houseboy didn’t warrant a mention. When I looked at the little glass vial, I couldn’t help recalling Ren’s faint hoarse voice. “Put it back. In his grave,” he’d said.