Dark Road to Darjeeling (18 page)

Only several centuries of good breeding prevented us from gaping at her openly. “How natural it all sounds,” I managed in a slightly strangled voice.

“It was! Yes, you understand completely. It was completely natural. And Geoffrey came and he was so different from the boys on the farm. He was educated and so much older than I, so serious! I thought he was a dear. So I cast off the teachings of my parents and I married him and took his name and left New Utopia,” she finished. “It was shocking to my family, of course. They expected me to stay at the farm and live there as a member of the compound. But we had been taught to think freely, and to follow our hearts, and my heart led me to Geoffrey.”

“And what if it leads you away again?” Portia asked. I poked her hard in the ribs, but she did not even flinch.

Cassandra shrugged. “It might. I warned Geoffrey of that very thing when he married me. ‘Geoffrey,’ I told him, ‘I am a wild creature, a daughter of Eve, and I will stay with you in love so long as I am able.’ He seemed content with that, and I have not been led from him yet,” she finished, quite seriously.

Portia and I said nothing; there was simply no possible response to that extraordinary statement.

Cassandra, who had fallen into a reverie, collected herself briskly. “Shall we begin? I have thought of nothing else since I invited you to sit for me, and I have changed my mind. You are not the daughters of Zeus. I wish instead to photograph you as Philomena and Procne,” she announced, presenting us each with a filmy sort of white draped garment. She waved vaguely toward the screen. “You may change behind that if you are bashful.”

Portia and I exchanged glances and hastened behind the screen. Cassandra rolled her eyes at our collective modesty, and given her history of practising nudism, I was not surprised. In the end, I would have been far better changing in the middle of the room, for Portia took the opportunity to pinch my backside.

“I cannot believe you agreed to this,” she hissed.

I rubbed at the spot she had pinched. “I am already turning violet, I can feel it,” I returned waspishly. “Besides, she might know something more. She is certainly not shy about talking. Perhaps she will be ‘free to feel’ the need to tell us something pertinent to Freddie’s death.”

Mollified, Portia changed and after a few minutes’ struggle with the intricacies of Grecian dress, we emerged, costumed as Bronze Age princesses.

Cassandra tipped her head to the side. “Almost,” she pronounced. She proceeded to wrench our hair free from pins, sending it tumbling over our shoulders. “Much better. More natural and sensual.”

She presented us each with crowns to wear, lightly woven diadems of gilded leaves to indicate our rank, muttering to herself as she did so. “Now to find the birds,” she said, moving to rummage through a trunk.

“Who were Philomena and Procne?” I asked Portia,
sotto voce
.

But Cassandra heard me and peered up over the edge of the trunk. “Sisters, princesses of Athens. Procne’s husband raped his sister-in-law, Philomena, and then cut out her tongue so she could not speak of it. But Philomena was a gifted weaver and wove the story with her loom. Her beloved sister understood, and created a terrible revenge for her husband.”

“Do I want to know?” I murmured.

“She cooked their infant son and served it to her husband upon a golden plate.”

“Dear heavens,” Portia said, clutching my arm. I sighed, knowing another bruise would be forthcoming.

“The husband pursued them with an axe to take his revenge, but the sisters prayed to the gods who were merciful. They turned Procne into a nightingale, whose cry sounds like the name of her baby son, and Philomena became a swallow, a bird without a voice.”

She bent to rummage once more in the trunk, producing a pair of stuffed birds for us to hold.

“If she brings out a stewed child, I am leaving,” Portia warned me.

But Cassandra only hinted at the tragedy by finding a golden plate to rest near the loom, the merest suggestion of Procne’s crime.

“Now, I think Lady Julia, you shall be my voiceless Philomena, savagely wronged by your vicious brother-in-law. And Lady Bettiscombe, you will be Procne, the mother who sacrifices her own child to avenge her sister’s shame.”

She arranged us to suit herself, giving us no more concern than if we had been marionettes to bend to her whim. Occasionally she would step back, then frown and rearrange a bit of drapery or an arm to perfect the composition. Then she stepped behind the camera, concealing herself with a heavy drape as she captured the photograph. It was a lengthy process, and not deeply interesting, at least not for the model. But it was fascinating to watch her work. She wore the same expression of distracted rapture I had seen often enough upon Plum as he laboured to translate his vision to paper with only a pencil or bit of charcoal.

At length, she pronounced herself satisfied. “Of course, until I see the plate, I will not know what we have, but the pair of you are quite satisfactory models. I should like to use you again, particularly you, Lady Julia. I have in mind a study of Achilles and Penthesilea, the Amazon queen, at the moment of her death. Do you think your husband would pose? He is a striking-looking man, just the right sort for Achilles, quite muscular under all that tailoring, I suspect.”

“I could ask,” I told her, conscious of Portia smothering a laugh behind me.

Cassandra was thoughtful. “He is not a hairy fellow, is he? Achilles should be bronzed and smooth and oiled. Achilles fought with a breastplate, of course, but I thought to capture him at the moment he has finally vanquished the Amazon queen, his breastplate cast aside as he catches her in his arms. Has your husband much hair upon his chest?”

At this Portia broke into a loud fit of coughing, and I pounded her firmly on the back. “Better, dearest? He is not entirely smooth,” I acknowledged to Cassandra.

“A pity,” Cassandra said. “Perhaps he would be amenable to shaving?”

I blinked at her, refusing to consider altering in any possible way one of my husband’s most attractive features. “But you have already used me for Philomena,” I pointed out. “How could you use me again in the same series for Penthesilea?”

“You would have a helmet,” she explained. “You see, you would not be the focus at all, my dear. The moment is entirely that of Achilles. Do have a talk with your husband and let me know his thoughts.”

“Yes, Julia,” said Portia soberly, “let us know Brisbane’s thoughts.”

I shot her an evil look. I could well imagine Brisbane’s thoughts, but I never used such language.

After our sitting was concluded, Cassandra Pennyfeather invited us to tea, a prolonged affair with some excellent native delicacies that I fancied had been prepared by Lalita’s fair hands. We saw no other members of the family, and when I asked after them, Cassandra waved an airy hand and murmured something about the family enjoying their own pursuits. I was deeply disappointed not to see Miss Thorne or even the sulky Primrose—young ladies of that age can be veritable gold mines of information—but upon our departure from the house, I noticed a butterfly net waving over the top of a rather succulent buddleia.

“Go back without me,” I told Portia. “I have a mind to chat with Master Robin,” I added, nodding toward the shrubbery. She started off, but I recalled her almost at once.

“Have you a weapon? There is a tiger about, you know.”

She produced a rather disreputable-looking pistol, somewhat larger than mine, but not half so pretty.

“Where did you find that?” I demanded.

“Harry Cavendish. Apparently if I see a tiger I am to do away with myself at once.”

I thought of Dr. Llewellyn’s wife and shuddered. “Perhaps it would be preferable to the alternative.”

Portia rolled her eyes and took her leave of me then. I made my way toward the shrub, calling Robin’s name.

There was a violent shaking of the bush, and Robin emerged, his expression reproachful as he swung a blue lizard by the tail. “You mustn’t make noise,” he advised me. “He might have got away.”

“Oh, I am sorry. He is a handsome fellow,” I said, careful to admire his new treasure. Robin was wildly untidy, his curls tumbled and one of his elfin ears streaked with dirt. He wore a filthy sort of scarlet American handkerchief knotted about his neck and his trousers had been patched and mended several times.

He saw me looking at his neckcloth and smiled. “It is called a bandanna. Mama sent to America for it. All of the cowboys wear them.”

“And you like cowboys?” I guessed.

“Well, they do have the most dashing lives, riding thousands of miles to drive their cattle to market and roping and branding things. Still, I should never give up my studies.” He brandished the lizard near my face. “Would you like to hold him? I might let you if you are very careful.”

My first instinct was to step back and shriek, but it occurred to me that I might gain more of his confidence if I exhibited some of my own.

I put out a hand and he dropped the lizard onto my bare fingers. “Mind you don’t startle him,” he said sternly. “I’ve only just got him and he is quite the largest I have ever found. An admirable specimen for my collection.”

“Indeed,” I said faintly, feeling each little clawed foot as it settled onto my hand more comfortably. “What is his Latin name?”

“I do not think he has one,” Robin told me. “There has not been a single proper herpetological study done in the whole of the Eastern Himalayas, did you know that? Shocking,” he murmured.

“Indeed. And what do you mean to do with him?”

“Study him of course,” Robin said with a quizzical look in his dark eyes. “I shall observe his methods and habits and record them.”

“And when you have made a proper study of him?”

He pursed his lips. “I have not decided yet. If he is healthy, I may keep him for some time. If he dies, I shall have him stuffed for a permanent addition to my collection.”

“Is your collection very large?”

“No,” he said with some disgust. “I used to have a very nice collection, but Mama made me throw it out. It was on account of a badger I had that wasn’t well stuffed. It was the first time I attempted taxidermy, and I may have forgot one or two things. He stank.”

“And your mother objected?” The lizard shifted and I felt a little queasy as I watched its great beady eyes dart around.

“She doesn’t usually notice bad smells,” he informed me, “on account of her chemicals and things. But the badger was quite a different matter. She cleared out the whole of my room and I had to start again. She doesn’t know I’ve taken up taxidermy again, so mind you do not tell her,” he finished with a nod of spinsterish severity.

“I would not dream of it. She has just been photographing me and her chemicals do smell a bit,” I confided. “Has she photographed you?”

He rolled his eyes. “I was Eros last year, with one of Primrose’s bows and a quiver of arrows and only a bit of loincloth. Mama photographs everyone sooner or later. Last week we had nothing but bananas for luncheon and tea and dinner because she was busy photographing Lalita. I quite like Lalita,” he added with a smile. “Have you tasted her cooking? She is a brilliant cook.”

“I have. Your mother has just had me to tea and there were some rather glorious biscuits with gilded sugar.”

He rolled his eyes again, this time patting his stomach. “Those are the best. I always carry a few in my pocket.” He reached into his pocket and extracted a few gilded crumbs. “Well, this lot have got rather smashed, but they still taste good.” He fished out a crumb and offered it to the lizard on my palm. The lizard took it as daintily as a maiden, licking the air appreciatively after he had eaten it. “I mustn’t give him too many. He might get fat and sluggish and then he won’t be able to catch his own food.”

“Yes, that would be a problem,” I agreed. “Robin, I had a mind to walk up to the monastery on the ridge, but I had hoped to avoid going the long way round. Do you know a shortcut?”

He gave me a look of exaggerated patience. “I know every shortcut. Shall I show you?”

Without waiting for my reply, he turned back and disappeared into the shrubbery.

“Robin, wait, your lizard,” I called, hurrying after.

I caught up with him just as he was making his way through a gap in the stone wall of the garden. I passed the lizard to him and he closed it carefully in a specimen jar he wore round his neck by way of a leather thong. He carried a variety of such jars along with the rest of his scientific equipment—a few empty wickerwork cages, string, clasp knife, magnifying glass, forceps—ready at a moment’s notice should he come across specimens in his wanderings. He secured the jar, then put out his hand,
guiding me with quite lovely manners through the gap and telling me to mind my footing over the broken stonework.

We forged through some overgrown bushes and at last emerged onto a rough path where we could at least walk more easily. I plucked a few leaves from my hair and wiped at my dirty face.

“Do you ever call upon the White Rajah yourself?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I am not supposed to because Father doesn’t like me to venture so far up on my own, but no one really notices, and I am careful of tigers and snakes. Besides, I quite like him.” This last was said with a touch of defensiveness, and I liked him the more for it.

“I like him too,” I told him, and this won me a smile of approbation.

“He tells the most extraordinary stories. Did you know he led an expedition in the highlands of China looking for panda bears?”

“Panda bears? I thought they were mythological, like griffons or phoenixes.”

Robin let out a hoot of laughter. “A panda bear is the most glorious mammal.” He gave me an apologetic look. “Do not feel badly, Lady Julia. You see, practically everyone outside China thinks they are a myth. There was a French fellow who claimed to have the skin of one, but no Western scientist has ever studied a live panda, particularly in its natural habitat.”

“So the White Rajah was not successful in his quest for panda bears?”

“No, but he did find some rather excellent fisher cats. He promised to bring me one if ever he goes back to China. He gave me a monkey once, but the fellow died when it was bitten by a cobra.”

“How awful!”

He gave me another of his severe looks. “You must not get attached to the specimens. They are not pets, you know. They are study subjects.”

With that he darted off the path, calling behind him, “Stay the course—I shall return!”

Within a moment he was back, a rather grubby string stretching high over his head. Tethered to the other end was a fat, droning beetle with the most extraordinary wings I had ever seen and a menacing pair of protrusions at the front of his body.

“It is a variety of stag beetle,” Robin said. He deftly tied off the loose end of the string around a button. “Quite common in this area, but this one has rather nice colouring.”

The sunlight gleamed upon the beetle’s coppery green wings, and I had to admit he was a very fine specimen. We continued on, with the beetle flying overhead, occasionally dipping quite low to have a look at us.

“I think you will make a very fine natural historian,” I told him.

He flushed with pleasure. “I hope to create an entirely new branch of science.”

“What sort of branch?”

“I want to combine the study of animals in folklore with the scientific observations of those same animals.”

I stopped in my tracks. “Explain.”

He hesitated, as if gauging my true interest, and upon seeing my sincerity, launched himself into an explanation.

“Every native culture in the world tells stories about its animals, fantastical stories that cannot possibly be true. But why do they tell them? Is there a grain of truth to the stories? They can’t have made them up out of whole cloth, so why did they choose those stories? Is it because there is something to them after all? If I can prove the tales are true, it would open an entirely new field of study.”

I stared goggle-eyed at him. “Robin, that’s brilliant. No, I am quite serious. That is unspeakably brilliant.”

He flushed the deep pink of purest pleasure. “You think so? I mean to start with peacocks as they are so close at hand.”

We resumed our walk. “What about peacocks?”

“The mountain people of the Himalayas say the tears of the peacock, like the phoenix, have healing powers.”

“And how would you study this?”

He shrugged. “Simple scientific method. I would set up an experiment, provide a control, and the tears of the peacock would be the only variable. If the patient treated with peacock tears improves more quickly, then I can form a hypothesis that peacock tears are healing.”

“But you cannot test the hypothesis on humans,” I said suddenly.

His expression turned quickly to one of disgust. “Of course not. You cannot experiment on people. It’s quite unethical. I shall test it on myself.”

I started. “But you are a person,” I pointed out. “What if the experiment goes awry? What if there is something toxic in the tears of the peacock?”

He pondered this. “I had not thought of that,” he conceded. “But I expect they will be composed of completely innocuous elements. It is worth trying,” he finished brightly.

He forged ahead and I followed more slowly, wondering what my responsibility was in the situation. He was a child, for all his vaunted knowledge and precocity. Should he be permitted to experiment upon himself without supervision or permission?

But knowing the little I did of Robin Pennyfeather, it was not difficult to imagine he already had conducted an experiment or two, I reflected, and he seemed to have suffered no ill effects.

I hastened to follow him, and at length the path delivered us
directly to the garden gate of the ruined monastery. No one seemed to be about, but this did not disturb Robin. He strode to the bell in the centre of the garden and struck it twice.

Within minutes there came a low murmur of muttered chatter as a small stooped figure emerged. It was the servant, Chang, and she motioned irritably for us to follow her. She left us in the same small room I had seen before, but this time the tea table was set for three, and in a very short time, the White Rajah joined us, rubbing his hands together in a child’s gesture of delight.

“Lady Julia! And my dear Robin! How kind you are to visit. What have you there, my boy? A stag beetle?”

“A particularly vivid one,” Robin acknowledged, passing the string over to his mentor. The White Rajah inspected the insect, nodding approvingly.

“Well done. Quite a handsome fellow.” Gently, he put the tail of the string onto the floor. “We will give him a little rest now, and when you are ready to leave it will be easy enough to retrieve him,” the old gentleman promised.

He busied with the tea, this time scooping out a handful of blue-green pebbles which he showed to me. “Blue tea,” he said. “Oolong pebbles that have been only half-fermented before drying. Beautiful, are they not? Like precious stones not yet cut.” He dropped them into the warmed pot and covered them over with hot water. After a few moments, he poured out the steeped tea with a flourish. I sipped, feeling the tension of the past few days unfurl within me. It was a lovely ritual, graceful and delicate, and it embraced all I had come to like best about the East.

“Robin tells me you once hunted for panda bears,” I started.

The White Rajah looked pleased and slightly embarrassed at Robin’s having told tales of his exploits. “Yes, I led an expedition on the other side of the Himalayas in the low mountains
of Szechuan. We were not successful, alas, but what a beautiful country! The misty mountains, the ruined palaces of long-dead kings! It fostered in me a love for the most remote and untouched places of the earth,” he confided. “That was why I was so taken with this wreck of a place,” he added with a wry smile.

“I think it suits you,” I told him.

Suddenly, a sharp, sweet cry pierced the air and Robin nearly dropped his teacup.

“Careful, dear boy,” said his host with a pained look. “That is Ming.”

“I am sorry,” Robin told him, jumping up. “But I think I just heard a Himalayan quail!”

“
Ophrysia superciliosa?
Then go and flush it, boy, quickly!” urged the White Rajah.

Robin hurried out to give chase, and the White Rajah and I exchanged smiles. “I am glad he has you to encourage him. I think the boy is lonely.”

“Ah, do not mistake solitude for loneliness,” he advised. “A man may be lonely in a crowd, or he can be quite content in the society of the natural world.”

“An excellent point.”

He leaned a little nearer and I caught the sharp scent of bay rum with a note of something more interesting running beneath. Sandalwood? “How do you fare with your investigation?”