The Midnight Palace - Страница 4

Доступ к книге ограничен фрагменом по требованию правообладателя.

In the early hours of that morning in May 1916, after one of the fiercest monsoon storms he remembered, the surprise had arrived at the door of St Patrick’s Orphanage in the form of a basket containing a baby and a sealed letter marked personal and addressed to him.

The surprise was two-fold. Firstly, nobody bothered to abandon a baby in Calcutta on the doorstep of an orphanage, for there were plenty of alleyways, rubbish dumps and wells all over the city where it could be done more easily. Secondly, nobody wrote letters of introduction like the one he received, signed and leaving no doubt as to its author.

Carter examined his spectacles against the light, breathed on them, then wiped them with an old cotton handkerchief he used for the same task at least a dozen times a day – twice as much during the Indian summer.

The baby boy was asleep downstairs, in Vendela’s bedroom. The head nurse had been keeping a watchful eye on him since he’d been examined by Dr Woodward, who’d been dragged out of his bed shortly before dawn with no other explanation than a reminder of his Hippocratic oath.

The infant was essentially healthy. He showed some signs of dehydration but didn’t seem to be suffering from any of the catalogue of ills that cut short the lives of thousands of children, denying them the right even to reach the age when they’d be able to say their mothers’ name. The only things that had come with the child were the gold pendant in the shape of a sun that Carter held between his fingers, and the letter – a document which, were he to believe its content, placed him in a very awkward situation.

Carter put the pendant in the top drawer of his desk and turned the key. Then he picked up the letter and read it for at least the tenth time. Dear Mr Carter, I feel obliged to ask for your help in the most painful of circumstances, appealing to the friendship that I know united you and my late husband for over ten years. During that time my husband never ceased to praise your honesty and the extraordinary trust you inspired in him. That is why today I beg you to heed my plea with the greatest urgency, however strange it may seem, and if possible with the greatest secrecy. The child I am obliged to hand over to you has lost both his parents. The murderer swore he would kill them and then wipe out their descendants. I cannot reveal the reasons that led this man to commit such an act, nor do I think it appropriate to do so. Suffice it to say that the discovery of the child should be kept secret. Under no circumstance should you inform the police or the British authorities, because the murderer has connections in both that would soon lead him to the boy. For obvious reasons, I cannot raise the child myself without exposing him to the same fate that befell his parents. That is why I must beg you to take care of him, give him a name and educate him according to the principles of your institution, so that he grows up to be as honest and honourable as his parents were. And it is vitally important that the child should never learn the truth about his past. I don’t have time to give you any more details, but I will remind you once more of the friendship and trust you shared with my husband in order to justify my request. When you finish reading this letter, I beg you to destroy it, together with anything that might lead to the discovery of the child. I am sorry I cannot undertake this request in person, but the seriousness of the situation prevents me from doing so. In the hope that you will make the right decision, please accept my eternal gratitude.

Aryami Bose

A knock on the door interrupted his reading. Carter removed his spectacles, carefully folded the letter and placed it in the drawer of his desk, which he then locked.

‘Come in,’ he said.

Vendela, the head nurse of St Patrick’s, put her head round the door; as usual her expression was stern and efficient. She didn’t seem to be the bearer of good news.

‘There’s a gentleman downstairs who wishes to speak to you,’ she said briefly.

Carter frowned.

‘What about?’

‘He wouldn’t give any details.’ Her tone seemed to imply that any such details were bound to be vaguely suspicious.

Vendela hesitated, then stepped into the office and closed the door behind her.

‘I think it’s about the baby,’ the nurse said anxiously. ‘I didn’t tell him anything.’

‘Have you spoken to anyone else?’ Carter enquired.

Vendela shook her head. He gave her a nod and put the key of the desk in his trouser pocket.

‘I can tell him you’re not in,’ suggested Vendela.

For a moment Carter considered the option, but decided that if Vendela’s suspicions were correct – and they usually were – it would only reinforce the impression that St Patrick’s Orphanage had something to hide. That made up his mind.

‘No. I’ll receive him, Vendela. Ask him to come in and make sure none of the staff talk to him. Absolute secrecy on this matter. All right?’

‘Understood.’

Carter heard Vendela’s footsteps as she walked down the corridor. He wiped his glasses again. Outside the rain was hammering against the windowpanes once more.

The man wore a long cloak, and his head was wrapped in a turban, which was pinned with a dark brooch shaped like a snake. He had the affected manners of a prosperous North Calcutta merchant and his features seemed vaguely Hindu, although his skin was an unhealthy colour, as if it had never been touched by sunlight. The racial melting pot of Calcutta had filled its streets with a fusion of Bengalis, Armenians, Jews, Anglo-Saxons, Chinese, Muslims and numerous other groups who had come to the land of Kali in search of fortune or refuge. The man’s face could have belonged to any of those races, or to none.

Carter could sense the stranger’s eyes burning into his back, inspecting him carefully as he poured tea into two cups on the tray Vendela had provided.

‘Do sit down,’ said Carter to the man. ‘Sugar?’

‘I’ll take it the way you take it.’

The stranger’s voice betrayed no accent or emotion of any sort. Carter swallowed hard, then fixed a friendly smile on his lips and turned round to pass his visitor the cup. A gloved hand, with long fingers sharp as claws, closed round the scalding china without a moment’s hesitation. Carter sat down in his armchair and stirred sugar into his tea.

‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Carter. I suppose you must be very busy, so I’ll be brief.’

Carter gave a polite nod.

‘What is the reason for your visit, Mr …?’

‘My name is Jawahal, Mr Carter,’ the stranger explained. ‘I’ll be frank. My question may seem odd to you, but have you found a child, a baby, just a few days old, either last night or today?’

Carter frowned and did his best to look surprised. Nothing too obvious, but not too subtle either.

‘A baby? I’m not sure I understand …’

Jawahal smiled broadly.

‘I don’t know where to begin. You see, it’s rather an awkward story. I trust you’ll be discreet, Mr Carter.’

‘But of course, Mr Jawahal,’ replied Carter, taking a sip of his tea.

The man, who had not tasted his cup, relaxed and launched into his tale.

‘I own a large textile business in the north of the city,’ he began. ‘I am what might be described as comfortably off. There are those who would call me wealthy, and rightly so, I suppose. I’m responsible for a number of families and I’m privileged to be able to help them as much as I can.’

‘With things the way they are, we all need to do what we can,’ said Carter, his gaze fixed on those two dark inscrutable eyes.

‘Yes, of course,’ the stranger continued. ‘The matter that brings me to your worthy institution is a painful one, and I’d like to put an end to it as soon as possible. A week ago a young girl who works in one of my factories gave birth to a baby boy. It seems that the father of the child is an Anglo-Indian rogue who disappeared as soon as he heard of the girl’s pregnancy. I’m told that the girl’s family come from Delhi. They’re Muslim, very strict, and they were not aware of the situation.’

Carter nodded gravely.

‘A couple of days ago one of my foremen told me that, in a fit of madness, the girl fled from the house where she was living with some relatives. It seems she was intending to sell the child,’ Jawahal went on. ‘Don’t get me wrong. She’s a good girl, but she was under so much pressure that she became desperate. Which isn’t so surprising – this country is just as intolerant of human weakness as yours is.’

‘And you think the baby might be here, Mr Jahawal?’ asked Carter, trying to bring him back to the subject.

‘Jawahal,’ the visitor corrected him. ‘Let me explain. Once I became aware of the circumstances I felt responsible, in a way. After all, the girl worked for me. I combed the city with a couple of trusted foremen and discovered that she had sold the child to a loathsome criminal who sells babies to professional beggars – a phenomenon that nowadays is as common as it is deplorable. We found the man, but, for reasons that are now irrelevant, he managed to escape. This happened last night, near your orphanage. I have reason to believe that, fearing what might happen to him, he may have abandoned the baby nearby.’

‘I see,’ said Carter. ‘And have you informed the local authorities of this matter, Mr Jawahal? The trafficking of children is punished severely, as you must know.’

The stranger folded his hands together and gave a little sigh.