Under the Burning Clouds Read online

  In fact, the building, with its long corridors and thick carpet, reminded her of the Guru’s residence in Kerala, owned by the elusive Terence Timmons, the man she now pursued, if obliquely, for his crimes.

  While it may not have been done by his hand directly, it was his people who had stolen the girl, Riette, from South Africa and brought her to India to be tortured by Maliha’s uncle. It was his people who had abducted and killed children in Johannesburg as part of their nefarious experiments with the Venusian fungus. It was one of his vessels that had infected animals in the countryside to the south, which had killed a family of Boer farmers.

  Timmons. A man with an industrial empire that exceeded the power of nations.

  She paused at the top of the stairs. It swooped down in elegant curves to the next floor and thence the ground. How could she bring such a man to justice? What possible justice could be brought to bear against him when he could, at the very least, bribe his way out of any imprisonment and simply disappear? Even assuming she could find him and have him arrested in the first instance.

  What was she doing? She was barely twenty years of age, not even reached her majority; she had no power against someone like him.

  There was a movement below her, not on the ground floor but the one between.

  “Is that Miss Anderson?”

  The man who had spoken stood on the floor below, looking up. He was in a neat suit and had a small moustache, though that was the limit of the hair on his head.

  “I am she.”

  “Excellent, do please continue down.”

  With her hand on the wide wooden rail Maliha descended the stairs. On the first flight she was facing away from him; the wall opposite was adorned with paintings of heroes of the British Empire, including a massive piece that featured Lord Wellington in full uniform.

  Above the stairwell was a tremendous chandelier. She glanced at it as she made the first turn and noted that it had been converted for electricity. She estimated there to be upwards of fifty bulbs—the house must possess its own generator.

  The second turn brought her into a position from which she could view the man who had accosted her. The gentleman, she corrected herself. He held himself with the relaxed confidence of a man who knew his place in society, and it was close to the top. An aristocrat of the first water, perhaps even noble.

  He smiled with such affability as she descended that she did not feel she was being hurried. She reached the floor and he gave her a bow. She curtsied automatically. There was a movement in the corridor behind him and she saw a servant, a butler, hovering within hearing distance but not so close as to intrude.

  “I do apologise for the informality,” he said. “I am Sir Bertram Kingsley and you are, of course, the astonishing Miss Anderson.”

  “Mr Crier has spoken of you, Sir Bertram.”

  He laughed. “Has he indeed? Not in the most complimentary terms, I’m sure.”

  Maliha merely smiled. Valentine had indeed given mixed reports of the man who had at one time been his direct senior and, later, the person in charge of his ‘freelance’ activities.

  “Are you hungry, Miss Anderson?” he asked, after a pause. Perhaps he had been waiting for a compliment. “I can have some breakfast put together in a trice. The kitchen is quite used to serving food at unexpected times.”

  Now that he came to mention it, she realised she was ravenous.

  She nodded. “That would be welcome,” she said.

  “Perhaps some coffee with a selection of bread and meats?”

  “If it would not be too much trouble.”

  “Not at all.”

  He gave no orders but the butler moved back along the corridor and disappeared.

  Sir Bertram offered her his arm. “It will take them a few minutes to prepare it. Shall we go down?”

  She took his arm and he led her down the stairs. A majestic picture of Edward VIII in full imperial regalia dominated the final flight. They would have to replace it quite soon as the King could not last much longer. He had had very few years on the throne compared with his mother, Victoria, who had lasted for over sixty years. Both the next king and the generation after him were ready to take over.

  Sir Bertram led her along the ground-floor passage, which was flanked by rooms on both sides. They passed one with closed doors from which leaked the murmur of voices. He brought her into a bright and spacious morning room that faced in the opposite direction to her bedroom. While it did have plenty of space, it was home to rather more tables and chairs than one might normally expect.

  “All these rooms are used for meetings, conferences, parties and suchlike,” he said as if reading her mind. “Turns the place into little more than an upper-class public house.” He guffawed at his own joke. Maliha smiled politely—he had said it as if the words were often on his lips.

  She took her hand from his elbow and negotiated the maze of furniture to the wide windows. The gardeners had built up the trees and bushes on this side to hide the outbuildings that stood about fifty yards away, but smoke and steam issued from a chimney that still topped the foliage.

  She felt his presence next to her.

  “You have your own generators,” she said.

  “Naturally. Can’t risk being cut off by the native blighters.”

  While smoke poured from only one chimney, there were four in a close grouping. Having one as a back-up in case of failure was good sense, of course, but four was vastly more than one might expect. Unless one were powering something much hungrier for electricity than a house.

  “You have a Faraday device under the moat,” she said in a moment of revelation.

  “Mr Crier has a loose tongue.”

  “Mr Crier told me nothing,” she retorted hotly. “I am perfectly capable of reasoning it out myself. And that device,” she continued, “must be the reason I am still alive.”

  She thought of Valentine and his callous words as he dropped her. He had referred to her as a “bitch” but, even while he was doing so, he had known that they were above the Consulate and that she would be falling into water in a Faraday field.

  Still, she thought, it was a considerable risk. She was going to have words with him when she saw him again.

  If he was still alive.

  iv

  Maliha perched on the edge of a hard sofa, with a platter of meats, biscuits and soft white bread, and coffee. Sir Bertram also had a coffee. She had tried to give up meat, but her years in England had ruined her Hindu upbringing.

  When she had first arrived at boarding school she had refused to eat the meat they served at almost every meal. She had been punished mercilessly and forced to sit facing it for hours. In the end, after what had seemed like months but was only a single week, she had given in. She was only eleven and the combined force of punishment from a dozen teachers and catering staff was irresistible.

  She had been sick but had become used to meat and eventually learnt to enjoy it. And now she could not do without it. She ate delicately but steadily to fill the void.

  Rather than have her companion simply stare at her as she ate, she paused to ask a question.

  “What can you tell me about Terence Timmons?”

  “You as well, Miss Anderson? Bill was quite obsessed with the man.”

  “With good reason, sir,” she said. “It is obvious the fellow is not acting with the best interests of the British Empire at heart.”

  “Who does, Miss Anderson? Oh, we may sing ‘God Save the King’ and all that malarkey, but who truly acts for the greater good? Everyone is out for themselves in the end. Any benefit that leaks out is the result of accident, not intent.”

  She looked at him with surprise. “I must say”, she said, “I did not expect such an extreme view from a British peer.”

  “Altruism is a deceit, Miss Anderson. It is nothing but a lie to make one feel happy with oneself. But giving to the poor ultimately benefits no one.”

  She took a sip from her coffee and enjoyed the way it i
nvigorated her. “You are saying that no one acts except in self-interest?”

  “That is my experience.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” she said. “Although it does make the world a rather dismal place if that is the case.”

  They continued in silence for a while. She noted that he had side-tracked her question and said nothing whatsoever about Timmons. There was something else, too, but that could come after the Battenberg cake that awaited her.

  * * *

  She brushed imaginary crumbs from her skirt—she had caught them all in her plate—and sat back.

  “Thank you, Sir Bertram. That was just what I needed. It has been a trying couple of days.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to take a turn about the gardens?”

  “That would be delightful,” she said. “But I’m sure you have more pressing issues to deal with than escorting a surprise guest about the place. I will not be offended if you wish to get back to them.”

  She got to her feet and he stood up with her as etiquette dictated.

  “Most thoughtful,” he said and affected a sad face. “You are quite right, of course—my duties are calling me. You can wander any part of the grounds but do not cross the moat.”

  “Am I a prisoner?”

  “Good heavens no, dear lady. It is for your own safety.”

  From what? she thought as he took his leave and headed back into the depths of the house. She turned back to the outer wall, the centre of which was a French window. She turned the handle and it opened. She stepped out into the warm and humid air.

  The storm had long since passed and the sun had evaporated the moisture from the ground into the air, where it hung in the increasing heat of the day.

  There were convenient paths, wide enough for two people walking side-by-side, winding in and out of the flower beds and trees. It looked haphazard but she was able to divine the pattern.

  Each path was suitable for two diplomats or businessmen to walk about and discuss matters in complete privacy. Each path was hidden from the others except at the junctions. It was a garden designed for negotiation.

  She followed a winding trail away from the house. The various twists and turns made attaining her goal tricky, but within a few minutes she was at the edge of the moat.

  Her suspicions, if they had not been confirmed by Sir Bertram himself, were revealed plainly here. Cables in wooden conduits—painted green to blend in—ran along the shoreline and emerged at intervals to plunge down into the earth.

  It must have been a massive piece of construction, not only building the sizable Faraday grid itself but laying it out underground and proofing it against the water that would undoubtedly try to leak into it.

  And what a folly of a concept. It could hardly be of much more benefit than the simple fact of the moat. What difference could it possibly make in the event of an attack? It might provide some disorientation but no more than that.

  But it had saved her life.

  And therein lay a matter of extreme interest: she had twice given Sir Bertram the opportunity to question her about where she had fallen from, but he had taken neither opening. He was a skilled diplomat; if he had wanted to know, he would have used those chances to their best effect.

  But he had not asked. And that could only mean he was part of it. Part of what? A conspiracy? Would one of the nobility lead a revolution against the government of his own country?

  He might if he did not believe that Society was a real thing, if he believed that personal gain was the only thing that drove a person. A revolution backed by the might of a major industrialist, perhaps?

  She looked out across the water. Perhaps Valentine had been right to throw her from the Voidship. It was clear that, in his estimation, her chance of survival aboard the ship was nil. So tossing her from the ship was an improvement, no matter how dangerous.

  It seemed he did not suspect Sir Bertram would be in league with Timmons. She was indeed a prisoner here. She had been thrown out of the frying pan and into the fire.

  v

  “When is your day off, Nessa?”

  “I get Sunday mornings so I can go to church, mum,” said the maid as she cleared away the breakfast things the following day. “And Thursday mornings.”

  “Tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes, mum.”

  Maliha stared out of the window at the overcast day. She did not want to wait a week before escaping. It needed to happen sooner.

  “And the church, is that far?”

  Sunday morning at a Christian church was another British custom Maliha had been forced to endure. She could sing ‘Jerusalem’ with the best of them and probably knew better than most what it really meant. Blake had always appealed to her.

  “No, mum,” came the reply. “Just a short ways down the road. Half hour of walking.”

  “No chapel on the grounds?”

  “No, mum.”

  Maliha considered her options. If she suggested that she might attend the service, she would either be denied outright or be given an escort. If she remained here, the staff would be reduced and she would have more freedom.

  That settled it.

  In the meantime she should make herself familiar with the layout of the house and gardens, and see whether she could discern a pattern in the movements of the guards. There was bound to be one.

  She dressed for walking and, now that they had dried out, she used the sturdy shoes she had been wearing when she arrived.

  “Might rain, mum,” said Nessa.

  “Perhaps you could find me an umbrella?” Maliha said. “Just in case.”

  Her coat and hat had also dried, so she wore those as well. They did not suit the dress, which was of a far older style, but she was not overly concerned with appearances. The overall effect, once Nessa had returned with the brolly, was not the woman of sophistication she had originally intended.

  She began her reconnaissance by wandering the entire upper floor from one end to the other. There was little enough to see, just bedrooms. She noted the position of all the entrances to the servants’ passages. At the far end of each wing there was another staircase, far less elaborate than the principal one in the centre of the building but still intended for guests and residents.

  The next floor down was much the same, except here all the rooms had been pressed into service as offices and rooms for meeting. She received curious looks from the few staff she encountered, but she moved briskly as if she knew what she was about. As a result, no one questioned her or barred her way. The servants’ entrances mimicked the upper floors except in places where the rooms were of different sizes.

  She had already seen most of the ground floor rooms, but she still made sure of the location and purpose, where it could be seen, of each area. Doors led out of the building not only through the main entrance and at the far ends of the wings, but also through several rooms which had their own exits, both into the atrium and out towards the moat.

  The east wing differed most from the rest—it was almost completely occupied by the ballroom. As she pushed open the door and stepped into this empty space, her heels clicked on the herringbone-patterned wooden floor. Electric lights in the form of small chandeliers were arranged in a pattern of diagonals across the ceiling. The walls were panelled with dark wood. To the right of where she had entered were stacked tables and chairs.

  The sound of something dropping to the floor echoed around the room. She saw a movement by the wall; an Indian in overalls was gathering his tools.

  “Many apologies, sahiba,” he said. “I will leave.”

  “Don’t go,” she said in Hindi and pressed her palms together at her waist, giving a slight bow. He stopped and perhaps realised that her skin was not as white as he had thought at first. He returned her greeting but indicated his lower caste by moving his hands to his face and casting down his eyes.

  “Can I help you, sahiba?”

  “I am Maliha Anderson.”

  She had hoped he would recognise
the name, but apparently not—his expression remained respectful but unmoved.

  Maliha straightened her posture and said in Hindi. “I am the avatar of Durga Maa.”

  He fell to the floor and prostrated himself. She sighed inwardly. This was why she had no desire to use the title: they would treat her like a goddess and nothing good would come of it. Of all the nine incarnations of Shiva, that fool of a priest had had to choose this one. Still, she might need this man’s cooperation and Durga Maa was most likely to compel it.

  The mere name was enough; she did not have to enter riding a tiger. In fact, if she told him that’s how she had arrived he would probably have believed it.

  “You fell from the sky,” he said into the floor. On a tiger.

  “Yes.”

  “Do not bring vengeance on me, Durga Maa. I will no longer steal from my masters.”

  Maliha almost laughed. If she had known it was this easy to get confessions out of people, by simply pretending to be a goddess, she would have done it long ago.

  “What is your name?”

  “Nedumaran.”

  “Very well, Nedumaran, I accept your promise,” she said. “It is possible I may need you. How can I get them to send you to me?”

  “If an electric light does not work, they call for Nedumaran, Goddess.”

  “Don’t call me that,” she said. “And get up. I am in disguise. You must call me Miss Anderson and not,” she could not think of the word for a moment, “not cower or prostrate yourself when I’m around.”

  Reluctantly he climbed to his feet, but he would not look at her. That was less of a problem.

  “And don’t tell anyone you met me.”

  “Yes, Goddess.”

  “Miss Anderson.”

  She left him and went out into the garden. She was not entirely sure of the punishment for representing oneself as a goddess. Still, he did appear to be very gullible, she thought and headed for the moat.

  She passed under the trees and realised that she had done the man an injustice by considering him gullible. People needed hope and perhaps that was what she gave them. It was a different way of looking at it.