My Lady of the Bog (22 page)

Had my Lady’s original title then been Alba Maere, meaning White (or Good) Spirit? Or was it perhaps Alba Mara, meaning the exact opposite: Fairy of Death?

“Believe in elves and fairies, Willie?”

“I’d na say yes, and na say no.”

“Smart. Still, there’s something about them I don’t understand. I mean, are they bad or good?”

“They’s elementals, sir, don’t you know?”

I shook my head. “No. I don’t. What do you mean?”

“Well . . . what be an element?”

“Oh, earth, fire, water . . .” I replied.

“Right. Now is water bad or is water good?” Willie answered himself. “Depends, don’t it? If the water’s in a cup of tay yer drinkin’ or it’s washin’ yer clothes, it’s good. It’s not so good if yer drowin’ in it, see my pint?”

I did.

Adding Willie to my list of local sources, I was checking my e-mail when the title of one of them stayed my hand. I clicked on its attachment:
Rukmini1.jpg
. There were also a
Rukmini2
and
3
, which, when opened as well, filled me with the keenest sense of despair.

In the first photo, a naked Vidya Prasad was seated astride some faceless fellow, her full, brown-tipped breasts thrust before her, head thrown back in a frieze of bliss. In the second pic, the boy was on top, and a woman’s red-stockinged legs clamped round his waist. That the girl was Vidya was beyond discussion. The third and final JPEG was the second shot uncropped, revealing just beyond the couple, a woman’s painted toes.

“Where did you get these?”

“Off the Net.”

She was quiet for a moment. “I suppose I could claim it isn’t me.”

“You could. Thing is, it
is
you.” I waited. “Care to comment?”

She took a breath through flared nostrils, closed her eyes and sat back on the couch. Then she replied, “Only that they were shot and posted without my permission.”

“You mean, you didn’t notice somebody was taking your picture while you were fucking?”

She flushed at the cruelly worded question. “I wasn’t . . .
posing
. If that’s what you think.”

“You weren’t making a porn flick? That’s good to know, since it seems there
were
other people present.”

She nodded. “It was a party.”

“Party?
I think the word is
orgy
, Vidya. Or is that what they call a party in Kenya?”

“It wasn’t Kenya,” she said, obstinately missing my point. “It was
Roma.”

“Ah,
la dolce vita
,” I cracked, with an irony I didn’t quite feel. “And how did this . . . ‘exciting alternative lifestyle’ . . . come about? I thought you were in Kenya, educating poor African children.”

“This was afterward, when I went to Berne for university. I fell in with a group of kids . . . not
bad
, just
wild
and into all the things kids are into . . .”

“Don’t tell me. ‘Sex. Drugs. And rock ‘n’ roll . . .’ Or was it hip-hop?”

“Then I met Ivan.”

“I thought his name was Ibrahim.”

“Before Ibby. He said he was a Russian Prince . . . ”

“But turned out to be just another hustler from Croatia.”

She smiled wanly. “Not Croatia. But by then he had introduced me to Ibby and his gang.”

“Who were . . . ?”

“The oddest crew, I thought at first. Later, though, I really came to adore them.”

“Yes,” I said, “I can see from the photos.”

Vidya laughed with a sort of weary self-derision, then described to me how Ibrahim Saluk Habib—twenty-two years her senior—had courted and won her. “You must understand this: Indian families are extremely protective. I was brought up wrapped in a silk cocoon. At nineteen, I wasn’t permitted to go to a
restaurant
alone. It wasn’t until I went to Berne that I began to experience . . .
other
things.”

“Like?”

“Wine. European culture.
Men
. At first, it was a lark. A grand adventure. Ibby was smitten—with my title as much as by me, I think. We travelled all over: the Aegean, Monte Carlo, Amsterdam, Bali. There were private jets and spas and
masses
of servants and a constant stream of gifts: jewelry, cars, food and drink, entertainment and fine clothes. It was intoxicating. One day I’d be shopping in Nassau; the next, flying off to Telluride to ski. A fortnight later, we’d be in Maui, having a luau.”

Now it fell into place: the clothes, the
serious
jewels, the ardor and sophistication of our erotic encounters, the cigarettes and French inhaling, her international queenly style, hosting skills and hard, high polish. “But how did he afford it? Didn’t you wonder?”

“Ibby? Rich as Croesus. His business made astonishing sums. And he didn’t fancy paying taxes. That was another reason we were always on the go.”

“That, and to stay ahead of the police.”

“
Police
? Hardly! Ibby was a most respectable soul. Your own vice president, Mr. Bidenji, had us to lunch in Delaware. Another time, the president of Columbia . . .

“. . . University? Oh, you mean, Pictures?”

“. . . the country, held a fête in Ibby’s honor. Ibby wasn’t some common criminal.”

“Just an
un
common one.”

“Really, I don’t know why you’re saying that,” she said, petulantly.

“Vidya, the guy’s an arms dealer. A black marketeer! Didn’t you know that?”

“Arms dealer?” She didn’t seem disturbed. “I suppose he might have sold some arms. He bought and sold a lot of things. Anyway, your own country happens to be the biggest producer of guns and
mis-syles
in the world. Why do you produce them if you don’t want them sold?

“And as for smuggling, you’re more foolish than I imagined if you believe it entirely wicked. How do you think those of us living in underdeveloped countries acquire goods? If there were no smugglers, no one would have a color telly, VCR, perfume, soap, lipstick, CDs or even a bottle of mineral water! It’s fine for
you
to lecture us on the evils of black marketeering when you can go to ‘the mall,’ as you call it, and buy a dozen of anything you choose!”

“All right.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Later, I had an experience . . . that . . . made me see how
few-tile
incessantly feeding one’s appetites were. And . . . ultimately unfulfilling. So, I left.”

“With a chunk of Ibby’s cash.”

She looked irate. “Without a
sou!
I
did
take the jewels given as gifts, and my clothing—but they were mine, after all.”

“Yeah. You’d earned them.”

She let that pass.

Still, I pressed her. “And . . . ?”

“. . . I flew to Delhi and spent two months in Udaipur with my Lakshmi Auntie. I was there when she got a call from Jai’s family, who were seeking a suitable bride. I was twenty-seven, an old maid by their standards. They’d convinced themselves, I think, I would marry Ibby and when I didn’t they were shocked. They desperately wanted me to marry and by then I was not so deeply opposed. Anyway, I found Jai
gallant
and, more than that,
humane
. He was everything I believed a husband should be.” She paused. “Until I met you.”

“It’s not the pictures, Vidya. I’m not a prude. And you certainly have a right to your past. It’s that you
lied to me
. You’re not even Vidya! You’re Rukmini Patel!”

“I most certainly am not. Patel is the name I used to get out of Kenya. And I used it in Switzerland because I didn’t want it known I was there. Later, I found it useful. But when I left Ibby, Rukmini stayed behind.”

I shook my head. “Why didn’t you ever tell me all this?”

She paused for a moment. “Perhaps for the same reasons you never told me about that waitress in Boston you shagged in the loo while your date sat with Jai, eating clam chowder.”

“There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“None of my ex-lovers might have murdered your husband.”

“And you think
Ibby
did? That’s rich. If you’d ever met Ibby Habib, you’d know just how absurd that is.”

“What about his bodyguard? Big burly guy without a neck.”

She shook her head. “He’s capable of it, surely. But Bunzo does nothing on his own. And why on earth would Ibby hurt Jai?”

“Jealousy?”

“Flattering, but I hardly think so. Ibby had a string of women. There were a dozen young beauties in line behind me.”

“So you don’t think some character from this chapter of your life might have offed Jai.”

“No, I don’t. And if so, I can’t imagine who or why.”

“So that leaves us with some dirty pictures.”

“Yes. And your knowledge of my
pahst
, which isn’t as impeccable as you may have imagined.”

I considered this. “Did Jai know?”

“Oh, yes. He called me his ‘crimson woman.’ He said he’d sown wild oats himself, but it was so long ago, they’d all been eaten!”

“So who sent me those pictures?”

“I
cahn’t
say. But I’m glad they did.”

“You are?
Why
?” I asked, truly mystified.

“Because,” she said, after a moment’s consideration, “it’s a terrible thing to be loved for whom you’re not.”

Chapter 30

T
hat evening the local paper announced a body found in a Wiltshire field by members of the Wiltshire Wings, a birdwatching club, had been identified as Henry Lewis Jones. As it was barely three days since the night of his killing, I worried about the condition of the corpse.

I went online but found nothing more. Other than the body’s identity, the police weren’t talking. Entering the search term “Wiltshire Wings” however, returned another story, also dated today, announcing the sighting of a rare “Indian White-backed Vulture” by members of the Wiltshire Wings “feeding in a Wiltshire field.”

It took me a moment to put the stories together, and to realize on what the bird had been feeding. At once, my hopes danced and flared. Then I thought, what was becoming of me, that such a grisly event could make me feel so happy?

I called and asked Strugnell if he could find out more.

“Not easily. They keep that stuff under lock and key. I’d have to have a bloody good reason. Anyway, I have my own problems. Palace wants to know when I’ll rule on the treasure. Even though it’s lost! And I can’t—can I?—’til I know who your bleedin’ Lady Albemarle is! And why the hell they buried her with it.”

“Look, it’s clearly ‘Treasure Trove.’ Whoever she is, she was sacrificed, and the treasure was buried as a sacrifice along with her. You don’t make the gods an offering intending to take it back.”

“Can you prove that?”

“No. But I will.”

“Who can?”

“Why don’t you ask Rumple?”

“Typical academic. Moves at the speed of shite. I need answers, Donne, and I need them now.”

“Christ,” I said, “you sound like my father.”

“Well, least you had one. Mine ran off when I was two.”

“And your Mum?”

“Ah! Died when I was young.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Wooland.”

“Topped herself.”

Something thick and ill in his voice made me pause. He grunted. “Watching the telly, Lilly and me, when I noticed something out the corner of me eye.”

“What was it?”

“Mum. She’d set herself alight and was coming through the kitchen—not a word out of her, mind you.”

“Set herself
on fire?”

“Doused herself with kerosene and struck a match.”

“While you were watching
TV
?”

He named the show.

“Jesus, Wooland, what did you
do
?”

“First . . . didn’t know what it was, did I? There were just these . . . flames. Then, through them, I recognized Mum.”

“Good God, man! What was she doing?”

“Burning. She passed behind us and went out to the porch.”

“. . . was she . . .
screaming
?”

“Not a word out of her,” he said almost proudly. “Not a peep. Outside she just sort of . . . folded. I remember trying to get near her and getting . . .
fried.”

“What did you do?”

“What
could
I do? I was only nine. Watched her. Burn. Patches of pink showing up through the char, and her hair—Mum had the most beautiful, curly red hair—flaring then powdering black ’til she was bald.”

“You watched her . . .
die
?”

“Oh, no. She lingered for a week and actually died of some infection.” He said this with the barest minimum of emotion, as if he were describing a pile of burning autumn leaves.

“Jesus, Wooland,” I said, aghast.

“Way I see it, Mum was in a load of pain. Only way out was to end it all.”

“Still, there are lots of ways to end it all, don’t you think?”

“She was a good Mum,” he said loyally.

I bit my tongue.

“May I make a suggestion? With all the nightmares you’ve been having, it might be a wise to see a shrink.”

“Why should I when I’ve got you?”

“Because I’m an
anthropologist
, Wooland.”

“Oh, I don’t need a shrink. Just a good jaw now and then.
There!
” he said, apparently knocking back a beer. He smacked his lips. “See?” he said, belching lightly. “Feeling better already.”

I asked that Willie keep an eye on Vidya, then walked across the downs. It wasn’t my conversation with Strugnell, but the one with Vidya that disturbed me. And it wasn’t the pictures. I didn’t give a rat’s ass about the pictures. She, like us all, was entitled to her past. No, it was the feeling I was being played, and in ways I didn’t understand. And for a moment then, that shadowy tongue that had licked my heart before licked my heart again.

For I couldn’t seem to get my arms around Vidya, in any way but one. Every time I did, she morphed into something new.

Social hostess. Shell-shocked widow. Sexual temptress. Life saver. Faculty wife or gangster’s girl? Swinger or gunslinger? Social worker or cover-upper? Dear companion or codefendant?

Or, maybe, I thought, she’s just a complex, beautiful, fascinating woman, and as paradoxical as are we all. Yeah, that sounded closer to the truth.

I passed the stone circle. A field of gorse and heather descended to a cattle path that wended its way past the wishing pond. It glittered in the grayish light. Lost in thought, when I looked up again, my Lady’s grave was visible in the distance.