White Death

Chapter One

Exeter Crown Court 1822

Don't look to the side.

Don't catch anyone's eye.

Don't let them know who I am.

I feel sweat soaking into my armpits, sour and wet. There's no room to wipe my brow, which is squashed under the best bonnet to hide my face. Huddled on the benches at the top of the court, are the good citizens of Exeter, eager to hear the lascivious details that a criminal conversation case gives them.

There's nothing they enjoy more than a case like this. It's better than the May Fair, better than harvest. It's better even than the fortune teller who comes every Midsummer's Eve, and, for sixpence, predicts who'll be married, who'll be with child - and who'll be with child without being married.

A woman in a black stuff bonnet munches on an apple on my left-hand side. Meanwhile there's a strong smell of the piggeries from the man on my right whose fat thighs are spread across the narrow bench. I try to move away, but he just grins and splays his knees further.

Like smoke, the lawyers' words curl round the jury first, as befits the distinguished men who have to be selected for a case like this. And then, as they breathe out in disgust, the words rise to the benches at the top where we ordinary folk sit and wait to hear tales of gawping chambermaids, ostlers witnessing kisses, self-righteous landladies hiring out rooms.

'Which one's which?' Black Bonnet leans across me to Fat Thighs.

He grunts, takes a swig from a grimy bottle and gestures down.

'That's him. The husband down there on the left. The lover's the one over there on the right.'

She smacks her lips approvingly.

'Good looking fellows both of 'em.' She leans again. 'But where's the woman?'

There are no women down on the court floor. Only men, in their black robes and white wigs, flitting around, murmuring to each other. The jury are all men too. After all, only a man can understand what another man's honour is worth.

A thin woman with pockmarks reaches over the bench behind me towards Black Bonnet.

'My cousin says she's seen her.'

'What does she look like?'

'As you'd expect,' says Pockmark. 'Blonde hair and painted -.'

I tuck a lock of my red-brown hair away from my unpainted face.

A fussy-looking man comes bustling in, looking for a seat.

'Make way,' he says. He's followed by a girl carrying a sheaf of paper and his quills.

To my surprise, everyone squeezes up without complaint.

'That's the stenographer,' Black Bonnet whispers in my ear. 'Takes down all the reports for the papers. Might even make the Morning Post, a case like this.'

She clears her throat. ‘You ready, Martin Heyward? What’ve you got to tell us?'

The man sweeps the bench with a handkerchief before he sits down.

'What can I tell you, Mrs Brown? The case hasn't started. Although,' and here he isn't able to resist, 'there's a lot of interest. Not just the Devizes and Wiltshire Gazette. The Belfast Commercial Chronicle. The Examiner. All asking for copy. And The Statesman wants a good nine inches.'

Black Bonnet and Fat Thighs look at each other and snicker; Pockmark tuts.

'We've seen the men,' says Black Bonnet. ‘So, who’s the woman? What’s her name?'

I hold my breath. I look up and see the girl with the papers is staring straight at me.

My real name hasn’t been heard for fifteen years.

Chapter Two

Fifteen years earlier, Hyderabad, India

Wellesley-sahib was coming. He was coming. The Governor-General of the East India Company was actually coming, here to Hyderabad.

His name had swooped around the compound like the flap of a crow pheasant's wings for several days now. Wellesley - Wellesley - Wellesley...It curled round corners, flew on the breath of the wind and jumped out of cooking pots when you least expected it.

Up in the Big House there was tremendous fussing, and down here in the women’s house where Ela and I lived, everyone was all of a flutter. The cooks complained that every rice seller and buffalo milk producer had doubled their prices, while the sweepers grumbled that they had been put to work polishing and mending every chair and mat. Every dhobi-wallah was run off their feet, washing and starching uniforms; every syce was grooming the sahibs’ horses until their manes and tails shone.

Twenty palanquins had been ordered to carry the sahibs around the town. No – forty. Fifty even. The Governor General himself would of course arrive on an elephant; the most placid, well-trained one was being searched for. No one wanted a re-run of the unfortunate incident with the previous governor.

But this wasn’t a normal visit. Papa would be an honoured guest because he’d alerted Wellesley-sahib to the fact a band of Thugs had planned to rob and kill him on the road to Hyderabad.

Sahibs were obsessed with the idea of Thugs. They claimed it was no longer safe to travel to many places because of these terrifying hordes who robbed and strangled their victims. And the dastardly cleverness of the Thugs and the stupidity of Indian law meant such men could not be executed for murder, because under the law, no blood had been shed. They used special bright yellow scarves, Papa had explained one day, picking up one of Maa's dupattas. He crept up behind me, the scarf floating down over my eyes and then to my neck. Ela shrieked - despite being a year older than me she screamed at anything.

As the dupatta caressed my throat, I pushed down my fear. 'Go away you Thug,' I said in my best imitation of Papa's voice. 'Don't you know I’m James Price? The Honourable Political Agent of the East India Company in Hyderabad!'

Papa had laughed so much at that that he dropped the dupatta. 'Magnificent!' he said. 'That would definitely scare any Thug away. What a girl!'

He looked at his pocket watch then and tutted. ‘Time to get back,’ he said. I stood up as he did.

‘Can we come with you to the Big House this time, Papa?’

He turned and gave me a hug, his moustache bristling against my hair. ‘Soon, my darling,’ he said. ‘But not until after Wellesley’s been – it’s going to be a full house.’

‘There’s plenty of room,’ I objected.

Maa said nothing but picked up her threads to start sewing again.

‘Oh, don’t, my darling,’ he said, moving past me to kiss her hand. ‘You know I’d love nothing more than to have you there. Not that I’d get any work done.’ He laughed but Maa did not smile. ‘And given Fitzpatrick’s situation now – well he’d be nothing than sympathetic.’

A year ago, Fitzpatrick-sahib, a very high-up member of the East India Company had – it was said – turned Muslim and gone through a marriage ceremony with a girl called Khair-un-nissa. But I was sick of hearing about Fitzpatrick - and Ochterlony-sahib who paraded his eleven Indian bibis behind him on elephants every evening in Delhi, or even Thomas-sahib who’d forgotten to speak English, such was his love of India. What did it matter what they did, while we still had to stay in the women’s house and endure the snickers of the servants and the averted eyes when we ventured out?

‘You know how much you mean to me,’ Papa was addressing Maa again. ‘Remember girls how I felt when I saw your mother?’

‘You were meant to do business with our grandfather and his mills, but then you saw Maa’s green-blue eyes, as changing as the Musi river and your heart was pierced like a dagger,’ we chorused.

‘Yes. And here we are. She’s still as beautiful fifteen years on. My loves, you know I’ll do my best so that we’ll be together soon.’ His tone turned peevish. ‘Why would I have given our daughters their English names otherwise? Why would I have baptised them?’

Soon after, dropping a kiss on Maa’s lips, and a brief hug for Ela and me, he left. As soon as he’d gone, I turned to Maa.

‘Why can’t we go to the party?’

‘Oh, why would we want to?’ Maa got up and started sorting threads for the next embroidery she was planning. I followed her.

‘The cooks say there’s going to be nautch girls dancing, and five types of sweets, and even fireworks. Papa didn’t even haggle over the price. Just said they had to be the most splendid that Hyderabad had seen.’

Still Maa said nothing but continued to sort her threads. Ela sat down cross-legged on the floor, brushing her hair.

‘Maa,’ I said, my hands clenched into fists. ‘We should be going to the party. If Wellesley-sahib is going to honour Papa, we would want to be there. Fitzpatrick-sahib would take his family. Ochterlony-sahib would -’

‘Stop it, Mary Ann,’ interrupted Maa. ‘While the English are here, you stay inside. Don’t argue any further.’

‘But -.’ My lamentable temper broke out. ‘It’s not fair Maa. We should be there. We’re his family! I speak like he does – no chee chee accent. Ela and I look like him -’ I gestured to my sister’s complexion.

‘Be quiet, Mary Ann!’ Maa’s voice, usually sweet and low, was sharp. ‘Stop talking about things you don’t have any idea about.’

‘But Maa - .’

‘We’re not going to the party. No one is allowed to go out of this house, until the English go -,’ and at this her voice wavered slightly. But she cleared her throat and continued. ‘Now, I won’t have you talk back to me like this. Go to your bed.’

Ela was looking at me, her eyes begging me not to say any more. I turned on my heel and in the bedroom, threw myself on the mattress.

Anger. Rage as red as that goddess Kali that the Hindu children feared surged through me. Even the servants would get to watch from the corners while we stayed here. And a nasty sneaking thought against my angelic mother, why did she allow this when other women didn’t? We were his children. She was his woman. Surely, we had the right to be sitting and clapping when Wellesley-sahib told the Company how much he owed to Papa.

The cotton throw that served as my covering at night had taken the brunt of my anger and now had several threads unravelling where I’d yanked at it. Two hands took it out of mine.

‘I can sew this back,’ said Ela. ‘Shall I take it?’

‘If you like,’ I said ungraciously.

‘I’d like to.’ She sighed. ‘You need to stop arguing with Maa and Papa over this, Mahzarin.’

At that I bounced upright. ‘Ela Price,’ I said. ‘Don’t be so prissy. Are you saying that you don’t want to be in the Big House? You of all people?’

She flushed at that. It had been last summer; Maa had not been well and we’d gone to beg medicine off the second cook in the Big House. All was quiet. There were no sahibs around; there was a big meeting down at the parade ground.

So instead of heading straight back I lingered to peer through the windows into the Big House’s dining room. Just to see what it was like... Ela tugged at my sleeve to make me move on, but I shrugged her off.

‘Mahzarin….’

‘Come on,’ I said in a whisper. ‘Just let’s look.’

‘Mahzarin,’ said Ela. But when I edged towards the door, she followed me.

Outside the door was the punkawallah – the servant whose job it was to operate the punka fan when any sahibs were in the room. He lay slumped against the wall, eyes shut, sleeping but with his hand still on the pulley ready to wake and start as soon as it was needed. Otherwise it was deserted.

I beckoned to Ela and stifled a gasp as we tiptoed over the threshold. It was so big, and crammed with furniture. Unlike the women’s house where we sat on the mats to eat with our hands, the sahibs had a huge table, set with - I counted – twenty chairs. The frames were highly polished mahogany with plump red velvet cushions on the seats. Set on the table were the knives, forks and spoons like Maa would put out on the occasions that Papa dined with us; the heavy silver glistened in the light; my fingers itched to weigh their cool heaviness. Keeping an eye on the snoring punkawallah, we stole in further. Ela ran her fingers along the satin of an overstuffed sofa, while I headed for the table where the detritus from breakfast had not yet been cleared away.

I traced my finger round one of the scalloped edges of the china plates and tried to imagine what it would feel to eat off something so delicate and fragile every day.

‘Think of sitting here,’ I whispered to Ela. ‘Everyone applauding as you come in, the guest of honour… Getting the first taste of all the dishes.’

Ela laughed but I could tell from the way her hand smoothed the tablecloth that she was imagining the same - even if she wouldn’t actually admit it.

On the back of one of the chairs was a cloak which had been discarded carelessly. I picked one up, the thick wool feeling soft under my fingers. It was a dull blue that would look wonderful on Ela; I arranged it around her shoulders; and we sat down at the table.

‘Miss Ela Price, can I introduce you to his majesty King George,’ I whispered in my best Papa tones. ‘Your Majesty, please meet Miss Price.’

I made a mock courtesy twirling my hands as if I were the King himself. And then – crash – I hadn’t noticed the silver tiffin box on the table; it went toppling to the ground with what seemed like an almighty noise.

The punkawallah’s eyes flew open and he immediately started pulling the fan as if his life depended on it. Ela and I sat goggling for a moment, and then the worst – there was footsteps. I sprang up and dived behind the sofa. Ela meanwhile was transfixed to the spot. I gestured to her to move – do something! But it was too late.

In came a woman; one of the agents from Surat was passing through with his wife and this must be her.

‘I heard a noise -.’ She stopped and looked at Ela, whose fingers now wrapped themselves more tightly around the cloak. ‘I’m sorry – I don’t think we’ve met? Are you…?’

Ela’s mouth gaped. On anyone else it would have looked like the great hornbill yawning, but managed to look beautiful. Certainly, the woman’s voice softened. ‘What a remarkably pretty girl you are. Do you live here?’

Ela nodded.

‘Where’s your ayah then?’ She frowned. ‘She shouldn’t have left you alone.’

The woman thought Ela was a young memsahib. Confirmed by her next words: ‘What’s your name? Are you Captain Warr’s daughter? Or Dr Peterson’s?’ She looked at Ela closely.

‘I - I.’ Ela didn’t know what to say, her eyes were darting around like a cornered bush rat.

There was only one thing to do. The woman turned, puzzled when she saw me pop up from behind the sofa.

‘Sorry, sorry memsahib,’ I said, sounding as chee chee as I could; it set my teeth on edge but it was the only way. ‘We go now – very, very sorry.’

At that the woman sniffed, but she turned to Ela again, whose cloak was now gaping open revealing her shalwar kameez. ‘What? - who are you?’ she said.

‘Come now missy,’ I said, grabbing Ela by the arm, almost making her lose her balance. ‘Bye bye memsahib,’ I gabbled again. I pulled Ela out of the room, running back across the compound away to safety. It was only when we got back there and crept into Maa’s room that we realised we’d left the medicine behind.

It still festered in my mind; the saccharine sweetness when the woman had thought Ela was a ferenghi; the way her face had changed when she had heard my voice. She’d left the next day, and Papa had never said anything so whether the incident had even been mentioned I didn’t know. But I’d noticed – even if Ela thought I hadn’t – the way my sister’s eyes looked wistfully back towards the house.

‘We should be there,’ I repeated, and Ela rolled her eyes. But she still took the throw with her to mend.

I hugged my knees to my chest. Damn Ela, just like Maa, not wanting to upset anyone. Then a thought occurred to me: if we had done it before – what if I were to do it again?

Another cloak – or an English dress – filched from the dhobiwallah who was responsible for washing the clothing between all the Company houses. My hair brushed and shining. There in front of everyone, showing myself as whom I was – the daughter of Price sahib.

What would Maa say? At this my resolve faltered. But when she realised that I’d done this for the best and there wouldn’t be any more hiding then she’d be grateful. How clever of you, beti, how wonderful of you. But it would be best not to tell her; let her be overcome with happiness when Papa and I came to claim her from the women’s house.

So there. A few moments more to compose my face and walk back to Ela and Maa with a suitably penitent look and join in sorting the threads, as if the party for Wellesley could not be further from my mind and all was forgotten.