The Night Tiger(90)
Chinese sometimes exhumed a grave. Bone-picking, it was called, when remains were disinterred seven years after death to be sent back to an ancestral village. If you had no family and died in a foreign land, you’d become a hungry ghost, wandering and starving forever. To prevent that, the bones were carefully washed with wine and laid out on a yellow cloth, before being packed in a jar. If even the smallest bone was missing, a substitute must be made.
Incomplete sets and broken promises. Dark thoughts, like an eel twisting in my head. I was so preoccupied that on Friday, Mrs. Tham told me to take the rest of the day off.
“Worried about your mother, are you?” she said.
I thanked her guiltily, though I was less anxious about my mother’s health—which was improving—than her debts. Things had been a little too calm in the shophouse, no doubt because my stepfather had suddenly realized he could be widowed again. But all that goodwill might fly out of the window if a debt collector showed up. Clenching my hands, I tried to quell my rising apprehension. If Shin were around, it would have been some comfort. He was the one I most wanted to talk to about Ren getting shot and how the finger had returned to me, though I shuddered to think of Shin’s reaction if he discovered I’d been working as paid entertainment. A shadow lay between us; I couldn’t go running to confide in him. But the most pressing worry was Ren—whether he was alive or dead, and if my last-minute plea to Yi had made any difference. So when Mrs. Tham shooed me out of the dress shop, I headed straight down to Batu Gajah. I’d asked Kiong, after I’d given my notice to the Mama, for the address of the house that we’d gone to. He’d been reluctant.
“If the boy died,” I said, “I’d like to make a soul offering. He was an orphan, wasn’t he?”
Kiong grunted, then scribbled the address on a slip of paper. “First place I’d try, however, would be the district hospital. That’s probably where they took him if he survived.”
* * *
When I arrived at Batu Gajah Station, it was midafternoon and just as hot as the day we’d cleaned the pathology storeroom. The hospital had seemed busy enough that I could probably risk a quick visit without running into Shin or narrow-faced Y. K. Wong.
As I got off the train, I noticed two men approaching, heads bent together. One was very tall and stoop-shouldered, with a great beak of a nose. He looked familiar, and I realized that I’d seen him at that ill-fated party. The other was William Acton. I darted behind a pillar, hoping they’d pass by, but they stopped right on the other side.
“Thanks for the ride.” That was the tall one.
“Glad to save you the walk. You really think it was murder, Rawlings?”
Who had died? My thoughts leaped to Ren. But Rawlings was speaking again. “That, or suicide. There’s no doubt in my mind that she either took it herself or someone poisoned her.”
“God. I can’t believe it.”
“Wasn’t she at your house on Saturday night—the local girl sitting in the kitchen?”
“Yes. She was a patient of mine, and she was friendly with Ren.” He sounded oddly defensive.
“No need to blame yourself. Time of death was early Sunday morning, so who knows what happened.” This was a bit too hearty, as though the other man had also seen through Acton’s denial. “It was likely a vegetable toxin, though we may not be able to test for it. I’ll ask the lab in Ipoh. Budget won’t run to sending this all the way to KL if it’s just a local girl committing suicide or taking some fool remedy. Farrell will have my head for it.”
There was a sigh. “All right. Thanks for letting me know.”
The quick clip of footsteps. I stayed where I was, thinking furiously. If William Acton really was the fifth Virtue, then he must be Li, order and ritual. He’d been with Dr. MacFarlane when his finger was amputated, and his name was also on Pei Ling’s mysterious list. And now, someone else had died.
I waited a few minutes until I was sure they’d gone. The finger in its glass vial was in my pocket, since I couldn’t leave it where Mrs. Tham might find it. I considered replacing it in the pathology storeroom, but I had a bad feeling. Somehow it had wormed its way out of there and buried itself in the dark earth outside William Acton’s bungalow, as though it had an agenda. The idea made me shudder.
Deep in thought, I stepped off the curb without looking and was honked at. Startled, I raised my eyes to find that the car was an Austin, and William Acton was driving. I felt like kicking myself—what was the point of hiding only to be run over by him five minutes later?
“Louise,” he said, leaning out of the window. “Want a lift?”
Since he’d already spotted me and it was a long, uphill walk to the hospital, I climbed in. Acton didn’t seem surprised to see me, just distracted, as though he was mulling something over.
“How is Ren—your houseboy?” I said. “Is he all right?”
“He’s still in the hospital. Are you working there today?”
He probably assumed I had a job there since I’d been cleaning up the pathology storeroom. But relief was flooding me. Glorious, heartfelt relief. Ren had survived!
“My brother’s an orderly. I was just helping out.”
“Your brother—you mean the chap who was with you the other day?”