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“Maybe this isn't home, nor ever was- maybe home is where I have to go tonight. Home is the place
where when you go there, you have to finally face the thing in the dark.”
― Stephen King, It

“You'll leave. And then one day you'll come back, and everything that you once loved about the place
will drive you a little bit crazy.”
― Alex George, A Good American

I dedicate this book to you, my dear readers. This book is for those of you
who believe in this book enough to want to read it.
When a fictional world opens, there is always a crack on the surface. Through
the crack, the writer deftly prods into the depths of that magical world, and
drawing forth a story, mingles it with sweat and blood, nurtures it with great
care and hope and thus, one day, presents it to the world.

To my origin – You beckon me, back into the folds of your blue-green hills
where my tiny feet once walked. Nothing ever is as it was, and nothing ever
shall be the same.
But, whenever monsoons arrive, I am that little girl again.
To my parents – my rocks of Gibraltar
To my three musketeers – I am nothing without you guys
To Missy our cat – for your benevolent company through all my writing
hours
To Sweden – You have bent me beyond shape at times, but you have also
been the wind beneath my wings. And I thank you for always bringing me
back.

Prologue
That was then
The name Glendale originally belonged to a massive stone house built by a
Scottish civil servant by the name of Adam Stewart. The house stood on top
of a hill that overlooked a small hamlet called Kurseong. He had discovered a
piece of land with the breath-taking view and clear mountain air, on one of
his excursions and had decided to build a house there. He lovingly named it
Glendale in the memory of his homeland because of the deep valleys that
reminded him so much of Scotland.
After Indian independence in 1947, Mr Stewart’s family, after many
dilemmas decided to move back to Scotland and Mr Stewart wanted to leave
the house in the hands of someone who would love and take care of it with as
much loving care as he had done. Fortunately, for him, he found the person
who he thought was eligible to take over the house. It was a promising
contractor by the name of Bir Yonzon.
Bir Yonzon was an ageing contractor who had found Glendale house during
one of his walks up in the hills. He had taken over the contract to maintain
the roads that linked Kurseong to Darjeeling, and he was looking for a place
with milder temperature than Darjeeling to settle in. When he saw Glendale
for the first time, he had fallen in love with the house at once and with the
magnificent woods that surrounded it.
Later, after he had bought the house from Mr Stewart, he was informed about
the many species of beautiful birds and butterflies that resided in the woods.
Mr Stewart also told him about the unique prevalence of medicinal plants that
grew just on that hill.
“It is a place of magic Bir, and even though the monsoons wreak havoc here,
it still is magical to the see the sky bending down to stroke the tip of these
hills with fingers of lightning. It’s indeed a misfortune that we must leave,
but in you I see what I first saw here in this hills, and I am certain that you
will benefit from living here as much as I have done.” Mr Stewart had said
with misty eyes.
Bir Yonzon and his family moved into the house and gradually the sweetness
of the air and its mild temperature during the winter months attracted more
people to build homes there. As more people walked up there, the beauty of
the place drew them there permanently. Soon a small village expanded
around the house and on the slopes of that hill. The village got its name after
the house, and over the years Glendale became a popular destination for town
and city people to take day excursions for picnics and also for buying organic
farm vegetables, fresh meat, egg and dairy that Bir’s wife usually organised.
She employed homemakers to work on the small farm she had started around
the house. The men in Glendale continued to work at government
establishments while the women worked on increasing the family’s income
by coming together and helping one another to grow and sell farm produce.
Over the years, Bir’s son took over, and Gyaltsen Yonzon inherited the house
along with his wife Kunti and his only daughter Kiran. While in those days a
son was seen as the one who would carry the father’s legacy forward,
Gyaltsen never regretted not having a son. His wife couldn’t have more
children, and they brought up Kiran as they would a son.
During the time Bir took over Glendale, a particular person had walked on
foot from the hidden mountains of Nepal and settled over another hill that
was later developed as the crematory ground. Along with the growth of the
village, her popularity grew as she used her shamanistic knowledge and talent
to cure small maladies and to predict the future. What Bir and his family
didn’t know was that she had come all the way because of a connection she
was going to have with his family in the years to come. As a Kham Magar
Shaman, it became her life’s purpose to find the one who would step in her
shoes after her. Her predecessors had done it before her, and it was her time
to find the one who was destined to carry her legacy. She came to Glendale
following a prediction and soon became a part of the expanding village.
People adhered her and provided her with food and shelter, and in return, she
helped them with their dilemmas and maladies. As time passed, Glendale had
not only grown into a good size village but had also turned into a thriving
landmark. When someone said that they were going to Glendale, everyone
knew where it was located. The shaman became widely popular and along
with the farm produce that Glendale was famous for, she became
instrumental in putting Glendale in the map of the hills.

Chapter 1

When Maira Yonzon opened her eyes, the smell of disinfectant and medicine
hit her making her stomach roil. Her vision obscure, she looked around and
saw everything in a soft fuzzy light. The edges were all blurred, and yet she
could make out the silhouette of a figure by the window. The shape moved
closer towards her, and all that Maira saw was a tall, dark black shadow with
something like a pointed hat sitting on the head. It came closer still and bent
over her. The hazy light around her gradually began to be replaced by
something grey and cold. As the figure loomed over her, she was fully
engulfed by the shadow. It bent further down and whispered in her ear. The
ice-cold breath whistled through her ear threatening to freeze the blood in her
veins, and the pain that followed was unbearable. She struggled to open her
mouth to scream for help, but nothing happened. She felt trapped inside her
own body. The rancid breath entered her through the ears and nose spreading
inside her reverberating like a gong.
Go back. Go back. Go back. The voice buzzed inside her head in a
monotonous drill. Maira thought that she would die if this went on for a little
longer, but then suddenly someone was gripping her shoulders hard and
shaking her.
“Are you alright? Maira! Maira! Wake up!”
That was then her eyes shot open, and Maira saw that she was lying in a
hospital bed with the smell of disinfectant still hovering in the air as dense as
earlier. A lady held her shoulders and was looking at her with a furrowed
brow. It was Mrs Dixit, her neighbour.
“Are you alright Maira? You had me frightened when you went on a fit like
that.” She sat back on the stool by the bedside.
“Why am I in the hospital? What happened?” Maira squeaked like a mouse,
her voice thin and stretched.
“Don’t you remember? You met with an accident. It seems like a car hit you.
The hospital people called me, as I was the only one they could reach. They
said that they called all the numbers on your list, but none were available at
the time. When I got the call, I panicked and rushed here to find you in this
terrible mess. Oh, dear Maira, you must really learn to look after yourself
now. Whatever has happened, is the past now. You must find a way to cope
with it.” Mrs Dixit sniffed and wiped a tear.
Faint memories began to stir in Maira’s mind. A face. A man’s face but not
bright enough to recognise. Then a memory of her rose curled up in a ball
and crying. She didn’t understand a thing.
“B...but Mrs Dixit, I...I can’t remember.” Maira moved her arm and winced
at the pain that shot up through the marrow. A bulky bandage weighed her
arm down.
“Don’t move! You have a fractured arm and a fractured rib. You must stay
still.” Mrs Dixit reached out to fluff up the pillow.
Maira couldn’t remember a thing. It was as if that part of her memory was
wiped clean. Everything was a jumble inside her head. Flashes of pictures
flitted in front of her eyes, hints of a feeling of extreme despondency, of loss
pricked her senses here and there but it contributed to nothing concrete. The
doctor soon found his way to the cubicle, inspected her chart and then turned
towards Maira.
“How are you feeling now Miss Yonzon? Are there any family members here
that I can talk to?” He asked looking at the battered young girl.
“Y...you can talk to me d...doctor. I...I don’t have any family member h...here
with m...me.” She said through clenched teeth trying to hold the pain in her
ribcage down. Understanding her plight, the doctor asked the nurse to inject
some of the intravenous painkillers.
“You may rest now. I’ll come back in the evening, and we can talk then.”
The doctor left with the nurse in tow.
Once the painkiller was administered, the pain disappeared within a second
and Maira began drifting off into a comfortable blank space. Mrs Dixit went
home once Maira fell asleep.
Dry, hard cold wind blew across the city as people buried themselves under
woollen blankets and shawls. Winters in Delhi city was not as nearly as harsh
as the summer, but there was something about the cold winds that blew from
the north carrying a dry chill that clutched one at the very heart. The nippy air
seeped in through the main door, and the patients in the hospital were given
an extra layer of blanket. The doctor stood by Maira’s bedside again checking
her pulse and examining her chart.
“Do you feel like talking now?” His voice was gentle. Maira nodded an
affirmation and the doctor sat down on the stool pulling it closer to her.
“Do you remember what happened to you Miss Yonzon?” He asked
seriously.
“No, I can’t remember anything at all. Mrs Dixit said that I have been in an
accident. I was hit by a car.” Maira slurred a little.
“True, you have been in an accident, and you have had an open fracture of
the humerus, that is your left upper arm. You have a hairline fracture in two
of your ribs on your left side, a slight concussion and…” He paused, and then
added promptly.
“Miss Yonzon what do you remember of the time before the accident?”
Maira tried to think. “Umm, nothing, except that I probably was feeling sad
because every time I try to remember I get nothing but a memory of sadness,”
Maira replied feeling odd. “Why doctor? Is there more that you are not telling
me?” She felt anxious by the way the doctor had posed his question.
“Well Miss Yonzon, I have to tell you that you were not only brought to us
with a fracture and a concussion, you were also pregnant at the time. But
unfortunately, you lost the baby. A miscarriage due to the trauma of the
accident.” The doctor peered at Maira with a look of concern.
What the doctor said took time to sink in. “A baby?” She ran her hand over
her belly and looked back at the doctor. “A baby you say, doctor?”
“Yes Miss Yonzon, you were twelve weeks pregnant at the time of the
accident. Weren't you aware?”
Maira suddenly felt like she was doused in chilling cold water and all that she
had not remembered came fleeting back like the rush of cold water breaking
from a dam.
A name came to Maira’s lips, and she whispered. “Rithwik.” She then
remembered. She remembered every little thing. Even the things she wanted
to forget. Six years of togetherness, six years of a close tie had been snapped
in one cruel moment when Rithwik had left her alone in a place they had
made a home together. Six years spent in the loving care of the man she had
met one rainy afternoon. Memories that were suppressed by obscurity now
began to flare up like a newly kindled fire. Maira bit her lip hard and felt the
skin break.
“You must take care now Miss Yonzon. A good diet and plenty of rest will
help you recuperate sooner than expected. I’ll keep you here two more days
so that you won’t suffer any complication from the miscarriage. Take rest
now, and dinner will be served soon.” The doctor gave her a reassuring smile
before he left her.
Maira lay in the hospital for two more days in a daze, strange emotions
swirling inside her like a foreign body churning and squeezing her insides
until the bile rose and she would retch out the long thin dregs in an
aluminium bowl. There had been a baby growing there, and she did not
remember knowing about it at all. His baby. ‘What would have changed if
Rithwik had known?” She wondered. “Would things be different between
them than as they were now? Would they have come closer? And would he
have never left the way he did on a single phone call by his father and never
come back?’

She was released from the hospital on the third day. Although she wanted to
leave the city as soon as she wanted, she couldn't. She had to get well enough
for the journey first. She felt disgusted with herself when she suddenly
remembered the last day at home that had proved disastrous for both her, and
her mother. Seven years had passed, and in those seven years, she had
received only one text message from her mother, and that was when her
grandmother had been gravely ill. She had flown home immediately,
distraught and sad. She was losing the only good connection she had with
home - her grandmother who had stood by her like a rock. While her mother
had been entirely consumed by indignation and antipathy towards her, her
grandmother had consoled her the night before she had left home. She had
been her strength and her beacon and when Maira saw her at the hospital, a
tiny frail creature, sunken in bed, her heart was torn to shreds. The last thing
her grandmother had whispered in her ear was, “forgive your mother
sweetheart and come home.” She hadn’t lasted the night, and the funeral had
been a turbulent time when the cold war between her and her mother had
spread its chill amongst all those who were present there turning the whole
affair distressing and awkward. She had returned to Delhi the same day after
the funeral and had not looked back again. The only person who loved her
was gone, and she felt that there was nothing that tied her to the house,
although in all the dreams that she dreamt at night, she found herself back at
home, lounging on the cane chair in the garden gazebo, drinking tea and
chatting with her grandmother. When she’d wake up from dreams like that,
her entire day would be filled with gloom. Now after all those years behind
her, she had resolved to go back and this time for good. She had no time to
think of what might be waiting for her there. She just knew that she had to go
back. Also, the dark figures had started appearing intermittently since she had
woken up at the hospital.

Chapter 2

First, it was at the hospital but she thought it was just an illusion induced by
strong painkillers that had been administered but then as she had lain at the
hospital two more days, recovering, she had seen them again. Just before
falling asleep they appeared in a single file of three hooded figures,
emaciated beyond any human possibility. They loomed above her, faceless
characters, in withered grey cloaks and as long as they surrounded her,
strange whispers filled her head. She recognised them at once.
She had been seeing them since she was six years old when they had first
appeared after an incident she’d had in the graveyard on the other side of the
hill. One afternoon she had wandered off from the house to McLeod villa and
was gathering wildflowers when she had caught the smell of sweet
sandalwood scent. Curious to know where the scent was coming from, she'd
followed it and it had led her further away from McLeod villa. It was too late
when she realised that she had entered the forbidden charnel ground. She'd
found herself standing above an open grave dug so deep and dark that it was
impossible to see the bottom. The scent had gotten stronger and sharper, and
Maira remembered not being able to breathe. She remembered wanting to run
back to the villa, but her legs felt too heavy, and her eyes grew dim, and a
strange weariness took over her. She wanted to curl up and sleep. She had
cried for help, but she'd lost her voice. Suddenly two strong hands had pushed
her into the yawning chasm below, and she fell and kept falling for the
longest time she remembered. She slipped and slid and fell but never hit the
ground. There was only a vague remembrance of cloud-like fluffy hands
under her, and as she fell, the network of hands clasped together under her,
she began to bounce on a fluffy white trampoline. Strange cotton candy
figures and shapes floated above her, changing shapes, one evolving into
another. Maira sensed neither alarm nor fear.
Bright colours surrounded her and, dim shadows danced around her. The
smell of the incense was soft and intoxicating, and as she rose and fell on the
fluffy trampoline, she slowly drifted into sleep. And just as she was about to
disappear into the oblivious world of slumber, two long tendril-like thin
hands plunged down from above and scooped her in a cold and chilly
embrace. That was when she had seen the hooded figure for the first time,
and as a eight-year-old child would be, she had been alarmed and frightened.
There were three of them and one of them, the tallest had cradled her like a
baby, and they had floated over the ground carrying her back to where she
had been playing earlier. The next thing Maira remembered was her
grandmother waking her up. They said that they had found her fast asleep in
one of the rooms at McLeod villa. Since that day on, as dusk approached,
Maira began to have strange visions. Suddenly the window would fly open,
and candyfloss figures would push and pull to get inside, and Maira would
scream and run to her grandmother who would pacify her. She would calm
her down by saying that the windows were shut. When she’d sit to eat, all
those figures would rush to her side and make faces at her. Suddenly one of
their noses would hang like a pendulum, or an eye would pop out and fall.
Sometimes they would open their mouth, and it would stretch into a deep
crevasse from where beetles, ants and spiders would crawl out throwing
Maira into a fit of frenzy. She would run around screaming, and no one
would be able to stop her and those figures would all cackle and roar
convulsing in amusement.
The doctors hadn’t been able to diagnose what was wrong with her. Her
grandmother Kunti had ascribed Maira’s strange behaviour to the touch by
the devil, and she’d decided to take her to a particular person whom she had
known for most part of her life - A female Kham Magar shaman who had
journeyed far from the intricacies of the western highlands of Nepal. She had
travelled on foot years ago and had come to a stop at the hill above Glendale
where she'd built a rickety hut above the charnel ground that seemed to
weather all kinds of storm despite its decrepit condition. No one in the entire
village of Glendale knew when she had precisely arrived in the area. Not
even the eldest member in the area; the ninety-eight-year-old Antari boju. She
said that the Kham Magar bajai always had lived there on top of that hill. She
was well known as Kham Magar bajai which meant grandmother from a
place called Kham Magar. She was well known not only in the area but also
in the town below. Her popularity brought people from all over the
Himalayan foothills for consultation and cure. People said that she could
change the weather and look into both future and beyond. There was a
widespread belief that she was also a shapeshifter who could turn into a fox
or an eagle or even a dog or a cat to fulfil her shamanistic tasks.
Kunti had heard about her when she had first come to Glendale as a new
bride. She had approached the shaman when she had been suffering from
irregular bouts of menstruation and had not been able to conceive a child and
three months of drinking a bitter-sour concoction of strange smelling herbs;
she had been able to carry a child. After that, she had visited Kham Magar
bajai once a month deeply drawn by her minimalistic existence, her rituals
and her knowledge of every single herb that grew on the slopes. She hunted
in the woods armed with only a wooden spear, and she never came back
empty handed. Mostly it would be a bandel, the wild boar that she would
strap on her back and bring it to the hut. When people asked how she had
managed to carry an entire boar on her back, she would say that the spirits of
the forest assisted her. Once, a group of young boys had entered the forest to
fell a tree to sell it to the mill and Kham Magar bajai had flown into a rage
and had cast a spell on them. They had not been able to pass urine or stool for
weeks, and their skin turned a shade of yellow, their fingers and toes
cramping every second. They had crawled up to her to ask for forgiveness,
and she had slapped each one of them right across the face and warned them.
The spell had been broken with the slap. Since then no one had dared to enter
the forest. Not even to pick chestnuts or avocado. She could cut up the wild
boar she’d hunted and offer it to the spirit world chanting a litany of prayers
at dusk. Her shamanic drumming would reverberate in the air over Glendale
at sunset during a new moon. People and children would quieten, drop what
they would be doing and listen to the sound of her thin high voice in a
rhythmic cadence along with the intermittent sound of the drum. Young
children would fall into a lull and get drowsy while the adults would sit
quietly and listen to the music of magic floating above their roofs bringing
goodwill and protection.
As Maira’s visions began to perturb her quiet disposition and throw her into
paroxysms of fear, Kunti had taken her to see Kham Magar bajai who, upon
seeing her had touched her wrist to feel her pulse and had murmured
something inaudible. Then she had turned towards Kunti had asked her a
strange question. “Has this child gone missing anytime?” she had queried to
which Maira had noticed her grandmother’s eyes widen, as she straightened
up. Unwilling to acquaint Maira of the incident but at the same time eager to
answer the shaman’s question, Kunti nodded slowly her mouth breaking into
a disheartened smile. There had passed something between the two, and the
shaman had merely gone back to peering at Maira. She saw two bright flames
dance in each of the shaman’s eyes and had been mesmerised by it. Kham
Magar bajai smiled at Maira flashing a golden canine tooth that twinkled like
a diamond and her tiny eyes disappeared into the folds of her wrinkled face.
“Come now my little child, tell me what you just saw in my eyes.” She had
gently asked. Maira replied that she had seen flames and the shaman had
cackled “splendid! Splendid!”
She had then performed essential rituals and had dusted her from head to toe
with a stick that had a bunch pheasant feathers tied on one end. She had
consulted an oracle and then asked Kunti to speak to her in private. Maira’s
mother Kiran had never been one to believe in shamans and magical rituals,
so she had stayed back, but Kunti always had strong faith in Kham Magar
Bajai and had strong conviction in all manifestations of the supernatural.
Maira had heard what the shaman had told her grandmother in private as she
had waited for her grandmother outside the scant bamboo hut.

“Tell me Kunti, did this child go missing once?” She’d inquired.

“Yes bajai, she went missing when she was four. She was playing in the
courtyard one moment, and the next, she was gone. Kiran was supposed to be
looking after her, but she got busy with a phone call, and Maira just
disappeared from under her nose. She almost went mad looking for Maira.
We were all worried and filed missing person’s complaint at the police
station in town, but no one could find her. That was the darkest period of our
lives. But then she was returned to us just as she was taken exactly three
months later.” Kunti had rambled on. “Kiran had given up any hope to find
her, but I had a strange calm and certainty that we would find her and we did!
Right at the same spot from where she had disappeared.”
“Hmm, the Lemlemey” She’d uttered.
“The who?” Kunti had asked eagerly.
“The Lemlemey are forest shamans Kunti. They lurk in the woods in search
of human children. They usually abduct human children to pass on their
wisdom. They are no human creatures but belong to the world of the
shadows. They usually take boys, but sometimes they take girls when they
see something special in them. They are also called Banjhakri or the shamans
of the forest. The males are not dangerous but females are bloodthirsty
creatures, and if they find a child unattended they eat him up. That is why the
male Lemlemey takes the child to secret places where the females cannot find
them. Usually, they leave the child where they had picked them up after the
training has been completed and that usually spans quite a few years, but in
your grand daughter’s case, I wonder why they only took her for three
months.” The shaman had pondered.
“What about the visions bajai?” Kunti had asked eagerly to which the
shaman replied, “there is the world of light which is the regular world with
regular people, and then there is the world of shadows, that which we cannot
see but that which we can sometimes feel. Normal people walk in the world
of the light and never encounter anything inexplicable or bizarre. They live
simple lives and have simple straightforward experiences. But then there are
some people born in our world who walk between the world of light and the
world of the shadows. They are the ones who scarcely live normal lives. They
live in this world, but all their senses are attuned to the world of the shadow
or that of the netherworld. They are the ones who are highly sought after by
beings from the world of shadows so that they could gain access into the
world of light. Everyone is drawn to light, and so are the creatures from the
world of darkness. They seek to have a connection to our world because the
world of shadows has been raised by none but those who have passed away
from the world of light. You must not work towards curing your
granddaughter from her visions because this is not a malady or possession by
an evil spirit and I don't think it is the work of the Lemlemey either. I guess
that the Lemlemey took your grandchild when he sensed something different
about the child but when he tried to train her, he must have found out that she
possesses a gift of sight into the netherworld. That is why he must have left
her where he found her in just a matter of three months.
“Look Kunti; your granddaughter seems to have been born with the gift to
see into the netherworld and help those who are wandering lost and confused
there. One day it will come to good use. The Lemlemey imparts shamanistic
wisdom to a child who in turn becomes a powerful shaman in this world. But
that which your granddaughter possesses is greater wisdom than any
Lemlemey could impart. You must not try to tamper with her gifts. The purer
she remains, the stronger her gift shall grow. Do you understand what I mean
Kunti?”
“But why Maira? Why has she been born like this? No one in our family has
ever had anything like this.” Kunti’s voice quivered.
“Do not be afraid Kunti. Someone in your family might have been born with
this gift. I mean, way back in your lineage and perhaps the gift has merely
skipped generations. These things cannot be explained. It has got something
to do with the lives we have lived previously in this world. It has got
something to do with our karma in the past life. Just be happy that your
grandchild is no ordinary girl. Bring her to me when she turns eighteen, and I
will speak to her. For now, let the visions come to her, let her learn to deal
with them on her own.”
Kunti had listened intently and when she came out of the Shaman’s hut that
day she had an expression of sadness and confusion.
 Chapter 3

Maira had heard everything, but most of all that Kham Magar Bajai had said
had escaped her eight-year-old brain. She had merely followed her
grandmother home and continued seeing the visions at dusk. As months had
passed by, Maira had gotten used to seeing them and she no longer feared
them. Instead, she began giving them names like big years, one eye,
Pinocchio and would often talk to them. They would fly into her room and
float above her making strange hollow sounds like voices echoing across the
valleys. Soon more visions began to come, and one evening three gaunt
hooded creatures climbed through the window with their long thin legs. They
stood around her; three of them, long thin shadows, hooded and dark. At first,
Maira was frightened of them and kept away from them, but they stretched
their long skinny arms and formed a circle above her, their heads bent, and
they whispered to her. “Be not afraid little one. We are here for you.” Then
one of them had stretched his long skinny fingers and laid it on Maira’s
temple, and suddenly Maira saw a thin curtain in front of her. She saw
shadows wavering behind it. Then the curtain was lifted from both sides like
the ones at the theatre, and to her surprise, she saw a throng of men, women
both young and old and children approach her. They ambled towards her
dragging their feet as if they were fettered. Their arms outstretched, their eyes
two bright beams and their mouths drooping low. “Help us” their whispers
reverberating in the air like the sound bouncing off a loudspeaker.
Maira was so overwhelmed by all that she'd seen, that she fell into a stupor.
Her mother had found her and had rushed her to the hospital where the
doctors had said that her little girl had fainted out of exhaustion.
It is in time’s nature to move forward without looking back and even though
Maira could not let go of the experience of all the visions she had for years,
time certainly had a way of putting a thin veil over it. When she turned
thirteen, she entered womanhood marked by her first menstruation when
Maira had been at home on holiday. She had been sitting by the window and
reading The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins, a course book when
something flitted by, outside the immediate range of her vision. Inspecting it
properly, she saw a woman standing by the lamppost by the fences that
separated the potato fields from the woods. It was midday, and although it
hadn’t been a bright day, the sun still cast a glow from behind the clouds. The
woman beckoned her, and with curiosity taking a hold on her, she dropped
her book and left the house walking towards the potato fields. As she
approached the potato fields, the woman had walked further on and stood on
the old stone step that had functioned as the demarcation of Maira’s family
property. Beyond the stone step, the land belonged to the government. Wild,
unkempt bushes grew and the path narrowed into a narrow dirt road flanked
by nettle bushes. She waved at Maira and walked on. Maira followed her and
found her standing outside McLeod villa.
“Who are you? And what do you want?” Maira inquired.
The woman walked towards the backside of the house and sat on the old
stone steps that led down to the stream. She then turned towards Maira and
smiled.
“Didn’t you recognise me baini? She said addressing her as younger sister.
“I’m sorry didi, but I don’t recognise you,” Maira said growing ever more
curious.
“It’s me, Chursi, the butcher’s daughter.” She smiled.
The mention of the name spread a chill down Maira’s spine.
“Chursi didi? B...b...but only yesterday we heard that you passed away.”
Maira’s heart began to beat like a drum.
“Yes, something like that. But I’m not entirely gone. The childbirth was
extremely painful, and the midwife said that the baby was breached. I tried
my best to push the baby out, but the pain was unbearable. I heard a tiny wail
just before I fell into a dark sleep. And when I woke up, I saw myself lying in
bed, cotton stuffed up my nose and my family weeping. I heard my baby wail
in my husband’s arms, and when I rushed to pick her up, m...my hands
slipped through. I tried my best to reach out to my mother and father, but they
neither saw me nor heard me. I have been trying to awaken from this dreadful
state, but I don’t have much time left. They are going to cremate me
tomorrow.” She broke into a howl.
Maira was too disturbed to console the young woman. She didn’t understand
how Chursi had found her.
“Please help me baini, please! Only you can help me out of this dreadful
situation.” She implored, her hands clasped, her thin, pale face smeared with
tears.
“But didi, who told you that I could help you? How am I going to do that?”
Maira said feeling too perplexed at the idea of waking someone who
everyone said was dead.
Chursi looked straight at her and what she said next blew Maira’s mind.
“They came to me. The three shadows. They told me to go to you. They said
that you would save me.”
Maira knew at once whom Chursi was talking about, but she had no clue as
to how she was going to save her from such a bizarre situation. Later that
afternoon she left Chursi by McLeod villa and sprinted home to her
grandmother to look for answers. Startled by what Maira shared with her,
Kunti took Maira to see Kham Magar Bajai at once. She listened carefully
smoking tobacco rolls and pondered.
“Hmmm, so it has started already. I thought it would come much later, but
yes sometimes it does. Have you bled yet, nani?” She cocked her head and
inquired to which Maira shyly gave an affirmative nod. “When?” She
inquired further and Maira explained that she had gotten her periods that
morning. The Shaman nodded and thought for a while blowing billows of
bitter smoke from her mouth. Then all of a sudden, she stood up and grabbed
her bamboo basket and asked them to follow her. Maira and Kunti had
walked behind the Shaman wondering what she was looking for in the
woods. She combed the wild plants looking for a native herb and as she
combed the bushes, she recited a prayer in a low mumble, her hands busy
scouring the bushes. After a considerable climb, they realised that they had
come quite far into the woods, but Kham Magar Bajai prodded on as if she
knew very well where she was headed.

Then they came upon an open space surrounded by trees on all sides. Maira’s
feet sank on the moss-covered ground. Crepuscular rays slanted through the
trees and lit up the field. There the shaman found what she was looking for.
She plucked a stem with a bunch of, dark green leaves jagged on the sides
and white trumpet flowers. “Look here,” she said holding the leaves up
against the sun’s rays. “Datura is a powerful plant. It has medicinal
properties, and it is also consumed for its hallucinogenic properties. But I am
going to show you its most powerful use yet. Come with me.” She walked
back to her hut and Kunti, and Maira followed her on their toes hardly able to
catch up with her. Kham Magar Bajai looked like she was in her late
seventies but she was as spry as a cat.
Once back at the hut, she rummaged through an old wooden box and fished
out small paper bundles. She lit the fire and began boiling water. She then
crushed the leaves and the flower and added it to the water and let it cook.
She then sprinkled the contents of three paper bundles into the water and
stirred it still mumbling strange incantations. She filled a bamboo mug with
the concoction to the brim and asked Maira to drink it slowly. Maira brought
the mug close to her mouth and was surprised that despite all that boiling, the
mixture was cool enough to be sipped without getting her tongue burnt. She
drank the dark green tasteless liquid slowly while the shaman and Kunti
drank herbal tea. Once she had drunk up the entire mug, Maira felt heavy and
dull. Her eyes grew dim, and her limbs pricked with needles and pins. She
tried to speak, but her tongue had gotten thick and had filled her mouth.
She reached out to the shaman, but the old woman only patted her head and
said, “feeling sleepy? Lie down here.” Maira did as she was told. The last
thing she saw before drifting off into a strange dream was how the shaman
and her grandmother bent over her watching carefully. She found herself
standing in the midst of dense fog. Suddenly her vision zoned in and burnt a
hole right through the mist and she saw Chursi sitting with her head hanging
down at the same spot where she had left her. Just as she began walking
towards Chursi, she heard whispers all around, and out of from the fog three
figures stepped out. The same tall skinny figures that had pulled her out of a
strange place when she had fallen into the open grave and had carried her
back to McLeod villa. They came with long arms dangling by their sides, and
fingers, tapering like roots stuck out of the dark cloaks they wore. They
walked up to Maira and surrounded her. Then each of them spread their arms
like the eagle’s wings and formed a circle with her in the middle. The ground
below reverberated with a low thrumming sound, and the vibration shook the
ground. Maira tried to hold still, but the buzz in her veins became unbearable,
and she fell to the ground from the euphoria. The ring of arms began to gel
into one as their fingers disappeared into each other, their heads hung low,
and Maira saw that their feet no longer stood on the ground. They seemed to
be disintegrating into thin black smoke. Soon the three figures crumbled into
a thick swirling mesh of black smoke and a gust of wind blew the mesh
towards Maira. She cowered as the ball of smoke flew towards her but then
an unknown force held her head up. Her mouth flew open and the mesh
unwound as thin threads of smoke entered her through her mouth, eyes, nose
and ears. Something new inhabited her from there on. She felt a vibrant
energy race through her veins, and as she stood up, she felt much taller; more
sturdy and significant like the mountains that surrounded her. She walked
towards the villa where she found Chursi who looked at her and her mouth
fell open. Maira took her hand and led towards her home. Chursi followed
quietly, but her eyes never left Maira.
A blue plastic tarpaulin shaded the front porch of a small wooden cottage.
Mourners had gathered for the night to watch over the body as was
customary. No one saw them approach the house. A group of boys sat on the
table outside playing cards drinking tea. The house was full of people sitting
and murmuring or talking in hushed whispers. None of them noticed Maira
enter with Chursi in tow. Chursi's body lay packed under layers of khatas -
the auspicious white silk scarves brought by people who had come to pay
their last respect. Chursi’s body lay still and pale. A tiny baby wailed in the
other room. A green tinge had settled over her sunken face as Maira looked
down at her and touched her forehead. It was as if she knew what she had to
do next. She tilted Chursi’s head towards her and began to take long deep
breaths. A green shadow rose over Chursi’s head where she had touched and
slithered up into Maira’s veins turning them pale green. Maira closed her
eyes and focused on the breath. Her warm breath fanned Chursi’s face, and
very slowly colour of her cheeks began to return. Maira felt the chill deep in
her bones, and a dull nagging pain consumed her. Suddenly Chursi opened
her eyes and right at that moment, just like a hypnotist snapping his fingers
and waking his subject from a somnolent state, Maira opened her eyes to find
her grandmother and the Shaman looking down with worried expressions on
their faces. She sat up coughing and gagging, and the shaman handed her a
glass of hot drink. “Drink this, my child. You will feel better.” Maira still felt
the nagging pain in her joints, and she froze as the clouds of vapour rose from
her mouth. But as the drink settled in her belly, she gradually returned to
normal.

That day Maira had not only become a woman, she had also stepped into the
world of the shadows and brought Chursi back. That was something that a
thirteen-year-old had a hard time to process. When she got back home, she
fell ill with sudden fever and chills. Kunti regretted having taken her to Kham
Magar Bajai but she quietly thanked that Kiran was away on one of her trips.
Maira lay in a delirium for days sweating profusely. She hallucinated about
people standing outside her window, begging to be let in. She dreamt of the
moment when Chursi woke up, and the people around made loud
exclamations of shock, surprise and relief. She dreamt of the three figures
retreating into the fog leaving whispers in their wake. “You and us. Us and
you. We are the same.” When Maira woke up on the sixth day, cured of the
fever but still shaky and pale, her grandmother had hugged her and told her
how much she loved her. Maira found her strength back but her return to the
boarding school had been delayed. Kiran had come back to see that her
daughter was bedridden with high fever and she had immediately called a
doctor. Pneumonia was the diagnosis that the doctor gave and Maira was
asked not to leave her bed for the next few weeks. Kiran called the school
and asked for medical leave and saw to it that she took complete rest. She
suspected that her mother and Maira had been up to one of their bizarre
adventures but trusting her mother’s love for Maira; she didn’t intervene.

Kunti and Maira shared most of the time together. Kunti watched over her as
Maira slept during the day. She read her old books and new ones that she’s
asked Kiran to buy on her trips to the city.
When Maira stirred awake after a long afternoon nap on the fifth day of the
incident, Kunti had been waiting to talk to her. “Nani,” she said addressing
her granddaughter with great affection. “I have been to see Kham Magar
Bajai while you’ve been resting. And she said that it will get easier as you
slowly get used to this. Soon you will no longer need the concoction.” She
paused and looked at Maira with concern. “Are you alright? Do you want me
to continue?” Maira simply nodded encouraging her grandmother to continue
and Kunti carried on. “It was tough this time because it was your first time
and you are still very young. Bajai said, that as you grow older, your gifts
will become stronger and that you will be more in control as the power
grows, and you will be able to handle this better than you did this time. What
you possess is something you should be proud of and not worry about being a
misfit. You have a rare gift that very few people are born with, in this world.
You have been chosen to bear this gift, and you must make good and proper
use of it nani. This journey is yours and yours alone. People will not
understand you easily, and you may have to walk alone, but there will come a
time when you will meet those who shall deeply appreciate you and love you
for who you are, completely, just like I do. Don’t fear it. Just embrace it and
see where it takes you.” There were tears in Kunti’s eyes, which she wiped
away before they fell. At that moment Maira realised how lucky she was to
have Kunti in her life. Her mother may never understand her or her ability to
walk between this world and the other, but she had her grandmother, and she
didn’t need anyone. And there was the shaman, who would have answers to
all her questions. Kunti said that Kham Magar Bajai hadn’t grown a day
older than the day she had first seen her. She had always looked that old and
never older even as so many years had gone by and Kunti herself had aged
considerably.

Chapter 4

After her release from the hospital, Maira was picked up by Mrs Dixit and
escorted back to her apartment. There, she waited to recover entirely so that
she could get out of the city once and for all. Maira also had to prepare
herself for her journey back. It took her months to get her strength back
again, and by the time she was ready, winter and spring had passed, and
Delhi had changed from a cold and windy city into a scorching expanse of
concrete jungle. Everyone waited for the rains, and every conversation started
with lamentations of how intense the heat was. Not just the people, even the
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"I have been an imbecile," he said simply. "Ma foi, I lose my head
nowadays. Let us return and continue our journey quietly. With
reasonable luck the train will not have gone."
They were only just in time, the train moving off as Knighton, the last
of the three, swung himself and his suitcase on board.
The conductor remonstrated with them feelingly, and assisted them
to carry their luggage back to their compartments. Van Aldin said
nothing, but he was clearly disgusted at Poirot's extraordinary
conduct. Alone with Knighton for a moment or two, he remarked:
"This is a wildgoose chase. The man has lost his grip on things. He
has got brains up to a point, but any man who loses his head and
scuttles round like a frightened rabbit is no earthly darned good."
Poirot came to them in a moment or two, full of abject apologies and
clearly so crestfallen that harsh words would have been superfluous.
Van Aldin received his apologies gravely, but managed to restrain
himself from making acid comments.
They had dinner on the train, and afterwards, somewhat to the
surprise of the other two, Poirot suggested that they should all three
set up in Van Aldin's compartment.
The millionaire looked at him curiously.
"Is there anything that you are keeping back from us, Monsieur
Poirot?"
"I?" Poirot opened his eyes in innocent surprise. "But what an idea."
Van Aldin did not answer, but he was not satisfied. The conductor
was told that he need not make up the beds. Any surprise he might
have felt was obliterated by the largeness of the tip which Van Aldin
handed to him. The three men sat in silence. Poirot fidgeted and
seemed restless. Presently he turned to the secretary.
"Major Knighton, is the door of your compartment bolted? The door
into the corridor, I mean."
"Yes; I bolted it myself just now."
"Are you sure?" said Poirot.
"I will go and make sure, if you like," said Knighton smiling.
"No, no, do not derange yourself. I will see for myself."
He passed through the connecting door and returned in a second or
two, nodding his head.
"Yes, yes, it is as you said. You must pardon an old man's fussy
ways."
He closed the connecting door and resumed his place in the right-
hand corner.
The hours passed. The three men dozed fitfully, waking with
uncomfortable starts. Probably never before had three people
booked berths on the most luxurious train available, then declined to
avail themselves of the accommodations they had paid for. Every
now and then Poirot glanced at his watch, and then nodded his head
and composed himself to slumber once more. On one occasion he
rose from his seat and opened the connecting door, peered sharply
into the adjoining compartment, and then returned to his seat,
shaking his head.
"What is the matter?" whispered Knighton. "You are expecting
something to happen, aren't you?"
"I have the nerves," confessed Poirot. "I am like the cat upon the hot
tiles. Every little noise it makes me jump."
Knighton yawned.
"Of all the darned uncomfortable journeys," he murmured. "I suppose
you know what you are playing at, Monsieur Poirot."
He composed himself to sleep as best he could. Both he and Van
Aldin had succumbed to slumber, when Poirot, glancing for the
fourteenth time at his watch, leant across and tapped the millionaire
on the shoulder.
"Eh? What is it?"
"In five or ten minutes, Monsieur, we shall arrive at Lyons."
"My God!" Van Aldin's face looked white and haggard in the dim
light. "Then it must have been about this time that poor Ruth was
killed."
He sat staring straight in front of him. His lips twitched a little, his
mind reverting back to the terrible tragedy that had saddened his life.
There was the usual long screaming sigh of the brake, and the train
slackened speed and drew into Lyons. Van Aldin let down the
window and leant out.
"If it wasn't Derek—if your new theory is correct, it is here that the
man left the train?" he asked over his shoulder.
Rather to his surprise Poirot shook his head.
"No," he said thoughtfully, "no man left the train, but I think—yes, I
think, a woman may have done so."
Knighton gave a gasp.
"A woman?" demanded Van Aldin sharply.
"Yes, a woman," said Poirot, nodding his head. "You may not
remember, Monsieur Van Aldin, but Miss Grey in her evidence
mentioned that a youth in a cap and overcoat descended on to the
platform ostensibly to stretch his legs. Me, I think that that youth was
most probably a woman."
"But who was she?"
Van Aldin's face expressed incredulity, but Poirot replied seriously
and categorically.
"Her name—or the name under which she was known, for many
years—is Kitty Kidd, but you, Monsieur Van Aldin, knew her by
another name—that of Ada Mason."
Knighton sprang to his feet.
"What?" he cried.
Poirot swung round to him.
"Ah!—before I forget it." He whipped something from a pocket and
held it out.
"Permit me to offer you a cigarette—out of your own cigarette case.
It was careless of you to drop it when you boarded the train on the
ceinture at Paris."
Knighton stood staring at him as though stupefied. Then he made a
movement, but Poirot flung up his hand in a warning gesture.
"No, don't move," he said in a silky voice; "the door into the next
compartment is open, and you are being covered from there this
minute. I unbolted the door into the corridor when we left Paris, and
our friends the police were told to take their places there. As I expect
you know, the French police want you rather urgently, Major
Knighton—or shall we say—Monsieur le Marquis?"

35. Explanations
"Explanations?"
Poirot smiled. He was sitting opposite the millionaire at a luncheon
table in the latter's private suite at the Negresco. Facing him was a
relieved but very puzzled man. Poirot leant back in his chair, lit one
of his tiny cigarettes, and stared reflectively at the ceiling.
"Yes, I will give you explanations. It began with the one point that
puzzled me. You know what that point was? The disfigured face. It is
not an uncommon thing to find when investigating a crime and it
rouses an immediate question, the question of identity. That naturally
was the first thing that occurred to me. Was the dead woman really
Mrs. Kettering? But that line led me nowhere, for Miss Grey's
evidence was positive and very reliable, so I put that idea aside. The
dead woman was Ruth Kettering."
"When did you first begin to suspect the maid?"
"Not for some time, but one peculiar little point drew my attention to
her. The cigarette case found in the railway carriage and which she
told us was one which Mrs. Kettering had given to her husband. Now
that was, on the face of it, most improbable, seeing the terms that
they were on. It awakened a doubt in my mind as to the general
veracity of Ada Mason's statements. There was the rather suspicious
fact to be taken into consideration, that she had only been with her
mistress for two months. Certainly it did not seem as if she could
have had anything to do with the crime since she had been left
behind in Paris and Mrs. Kettering had been seen alive by several
people afterwards, but—"
Poirot leant forward. He raised an emphatic forefinger and wagged it
with intense emphasis at Van Aldin.
"But I am a good detective. I suspect. There is nobody and nothing
that I do not suspect. I believe nothing that I am told. I say to myself:
how do we know that Ada Mason was left behind in Paris? And at
first the answer to that question seemed completely satisfactory.
There was the evidence of your secretary, Major Knighton, a
complete outsider whose testimony might be supposed to be entirely
impartial, and there was the dead woman's own words to the
conductor on the train. But I put the latter point aside for the moment,
because a very curious idea—an idea perhaps fantastic and
impossible—was growing up in my mind. If by any outside chance it
happened to be true, that particular piece of testimony was
worthless.
"I concentrated on the chief stumbling-block to my theory, Major
Knighton's statement that he saw Ada Mason at the Ritz after the
Blue Train had left Paris. That seemed conclusive enough, but yet,
on examining the facts carefully, I noted two things. First, that by a
curious coincidence he, too, had been exactly two months in your
service. Secondly, his initial letter was the same—'K.' Supposing—
just supposing—that it was his cigarette case which had been found
in the carriage. Then, if Ada Mason and he were working together,
and she recognized it when we showed it to her, would she not act
precisely as she had done? At first, taken aback, she quickly evolved
a plausible theory that would agree with Mr. Kettering's guilt. Bien
entendu, that was not the original idea. The Comte de la Roche was
to be the scapegoat, though Ada Mason would not make her
recognition of him too certain, in case he should be able to prove an
alibi. Now, if you will cast your mind back to that time, you will
remember a significant thing that happened. I suggested to Ada
Mason that the man she had seen was not the Comte de la Roche,
but Derek Kettering. She seemed uncertain at the time, but after I
had got back to my hotel you rang me up and told me that she had
come to you and said that, on thinking it over, she was now quite
convinced that the man in question was Mr. Kettering. I had been
expecting something of the kind. There could be but one explanation
of this sudden certainty on her part. After my leaving your hotel, she
had had time to consult with somebody, and had received
instructions which she acted upon. Who had given her these
instructions? Major Knighton. And there was another very small
point, which might mean nothing or might mean a great deal. In
casual conversation Knighton had talked of a jewel robbery in
Yorkshire in a house where he was staying. Perhaps a mere
coincidence—perhaps another small link in the chain."
"But there is one thing I do not understand, Monsieur Poirot. I guess
I must be dense or I would have seen it before now. Who was the
man in the train at Paris? Derek Kettering or the Comte de la
Roche?"
"That is the simplicity of the whole thing. There was no man. Ah—
mille tonnerres!—do you not see the cleverness of it all? Whose
word have we for it that there ever was a man there? Only Ada
Mason's. And we believe in Ada Mason because of Knighton's
evidence that she was left behind in Paris."
"But Ruth herself told the conductor that she had left her maid
behind there," demurred Van Aldin.
"Ah! I am coming to that. We have Mrs. Kettering's own evidence
there, but, on the other hand, we have not really got her evidence,
because, Monsieur Van Aldin, a dead woman cannot give evidence.
It is not her evidence, but the evidence of the conductor of the train
—a very different affair altogether."
"So you think the man was lying?"
"No, no, not at all. He spoke what he thought to be the truth. But the
woman who told him that she had left her maid in Paris was not Mrs.
Kettering."
Van Aldin stared at him.
"Monsieur Van Aldin, Ruth Kettering was dead before the train
arrived at the Gare de Lyon. It was Ada Mason, dressed in her
mistress's very distinctive clothing, who purchased a dinner basket
and who made that very necessary statement to the conductor."
"Impossible!"
"No, no, Monsieur Van Aldin; not impossible. Les femmes, they look
so much alike nowadays that one identifies them more by their
clothing than by their faces. Ada Mason was the same height as your
daughter. Dressed in that very sumptuous fur coat and the little red
lacquer hat jammed down over her eyes, with just a bunch of auburn
curls showing over each ear, it was no wonder that the conductor
was deceived. He had not previously spoken to Mrs. Kettering, you
remember. True, he had seen the maid just for a moment when she
handed him the tickets, but his impression had been merely that of a
gaunt, black-clad female. If he had been an unusually intelligent
man, he might have gone so far as to say that mistress and maid
were not unlike, but it is extremely unlikely that he would even think
that. And remember, Ada Mason, or Kitty Kidd, was an actress, able
to change her appearance and tone of voice at a moment's notice.
No, no; there was no danger of his recognizing the maid in the
mistress's clothing, but there was the danger that when he came to
discover the body he might realize it was not the woman he had
talked to the night before. And now we see the reason for the
disfigured face. The chief danger that Ada Mason ran was that
Katherine Grey might visit her compartment after the train left Paris,
and she provided against that difficulty by ordering a dinner basket
and by locking herself in her compartment."
"But who killed Ruth—and when?"
"First, bear it in mind that the crime was planned and undertaken by
the two of them—Knighton and Ada Mason, working together.
Knighton was in Paris that day on your business. He boarded the
train somewhere on its way round the ceinture. Mrs. Kettering would
be surprised, but she would be quite unsuspicious. Perhaps he
draws her attention to something out the window, and as she turns to
look he slips the cord round her neck—and the whole thing is over in
a second or two. The door of the compartment is locked, and he and
Ada Mason set to work. They strip off the dead woman's outer
clothes. Mason and Knighton roll the body up in a rug and put it on
the seat in the adjoining compartment amongst the bags and suit-
cases. Knighton drops off the train, taking the jewel-case containing
the rubies with him. Since the crime is not supposed to have been
committed until nearly twelve hours later he is perfectly safe, and his
evidence and the supposed Mrs. Kettering's words to the conductor
will provide a perfect alibi for his accomplice.
"At the Gare de Lyon Ada Mason gets a dinner basket, and shutting
herself into the toilet compartment she quickly changes into her
mistress's clothes, adjusts two false bunches of auburn curls, and
generally makes up to resemble her as closely as possible. When
the conductor comes to make up the bed, she tells him the prepared
story about having left her maid behind in Paris; and whilst he is
making up the berth, she stands looking out of the window, so that
her back is towards the corridor and people passing along there.
That was a wise precaution, because, as we know, Miss Grey was
one of those passing, and she, among others, was willing to swear
that Mrs. Kettering was still alive at that hour."
"Go on," said Van Aldin.
"Before getting to Lyons, Ada Mason arranged her mistress's body in
the bunk, folded up the dead woman's clothes neatly on the end of it,
and herself changed into a man's clothes and prepared to leave the
train. When Derek Kettering entered his wife's compartment, and, as
he thought, saw her asleep in her berth, the scene had been set, and
Ada Mason was hidden in the next compartment waiting for the
moment to leave the train unobserved. As soon as the conductor
had swung himself down on to the platform at Lyons, she follows,
slouching along as though just taking a breath of air. At a moment
when she is unobserved, she hurriedly crosses to the other platform,
and takes the first train back to Paris and the Ritz Hotel. Her name
has been registered there as taking a room the night before by one
of Knighton's female accomplices. She has nothing to do but wait
there placidly for your arrival. The jewels are not, and never have
been, in her possession. No suspicion attaches to him, and, as your
secretary, he brings them to Nice without the least fear of discovery.
Their delivery there to Monsieur Papopolous is already arranged for
and they are entrusted to Mason at the last moment to hand over to
the Greek. Altogether a very neatly planned coup, as one would
expect from a master of the game such as the Marquis."
"And you honestly mean that Richard Knighton is a well-known
criminal, who has been at this business for years?"
Poirot nodded.
"One of the chief assets of the gentleman called the Marquis was his
plausible, ingratiating manner. You fell a victim to his charm,
Monsieur Van Aldin, when you engaged him as a secretary on such
a slight acquaintanceship."
"I could have sworn that he never angled for the post," cried the
millionaire.
"It was very astutely done—so astutely done that it deceived a man
whose knowledge of other men is as great as yours is."
"I looked up his antecedents too. The fellow's record was excellent."
"Yes, yes; that was part of the game. As Richard Knighton his life
was quite free from reproach. He was well born, well connected, did
honourable service in the War, and seemed altogether above
suspicion; but when I came to glean information about the
mysterious Marquis, I found many points of similarity. Knighton
spoke French like a Frenchman, he had been in America, France,
and England at much the same time as the Marquis was operating.
The Marquis was last heard of as engineering various jewel
robberies in Switzerland, and it was in Switzerland that you had
come across Major Knighton; and it was at precisely that time that
the first rumours were going round of your being in treaty for the
famous rubies."
"But why murder?" murmured Van Aldin brokenly. "Surely a clever
thief could have stolen the jewels without running his head into a
noose."
Poirot shook his head. "This is not the first murder that lies to the
Marquis's charge. He is a killer by instinct; he believes, too, in
leaving no evidence behind him. Dead men and women tell no tales.
"The Marquis had an intense passion for famous and historical
jewels. He laid his plans far beforehand by installing himself as your
secretary and getting his accomplice to obtain the situation of maid
with your daughter, for whom he guessed the jewels were destined.
And, though this was his matured and carefully thought-out plan, he
did not scruple to attempt a shortcut by hiring a couple of Apaches to
waylay you in Paris on the night you bought the jewels. That plan
failed, which hardly surprised him, I think. This plan was, so he
thought, completely safe. No possible suspicion could attach to
Richard Knighton. But like all great men—and the Marquis was a
great man—he had his weaknesses. He fell genuinely in love with
Miss Grey, and suspecting her liking for Derek Kettering, he could
not resist the temptation to saddle him with the crime when the
opportunity presented itself. And now, Monsieur Van Aldin, I am
going to tell you something very curious. Miss Grey is not a fanciful
woman by any means, yet she firmly believes that she felt your
daughter's presence beside her one day in the Casino Gardens at
Monte Carlo, just after she had been having a long talk with
Knighton. She was convinced, she says, that the dead woman was
urgently trying to tell her something, and it suddenly came to her that
what the dead woman was trying to say was that Knighton was her
murderer! The idea seemed so fantastic at the time that Miss Grey
spoke of it to no one. But she was so convinced of its truth that she
acted on it—wild as it seemed. She did not discourage Knighton's
advances, and she pretended to him that she was convinced of
Derek Kettering's guilt."
"Extraordinary," said Van Aldin.
"Yes, it is very strange. One cannot explain these things. Oh, by the
way, there is one little point that baffled me considerably. Your
secretary has a decided limp—the result of a wound that he received
in the War. Now the Marquis most decidedly did not limp. That was a
stumbling-block. But Miss Lenox Tamplin happened to mention one
day that Knighton's limp had been a surprise to the surgeons who
had been in charge of the case in her mother's hospital. That
suggested camouflage. When I was in London I went to the surgeon
in question, and I got several technical details from him which
confirmed me in that belief. I mentioned the name of that surgeon in
Knighton's hearing the day before yesterday. The natural thing would
have been for Knighton to mention that he had been attended by him
during the War, but he said nothing—and that little point, if nothing
else, gave me the last final assurance that my theory of the crime
was correct. Miss Grey, too, provided me with a cutting, showing that
there had been a robbery at Lady Tamplin's hospital during the time
that Knighton had been there. She realized that I was on the same
track as herself when I wrote to her from the Ritz in Paris.
"I had some trouble in my inquiries there, but I got what I wanted—
evidence that Ada Mason arrived on the morning after the crime and
not on the evening of the day before."
There was a long silence, then the millionaire stretched out a hand to
Poirot across the table.
"I guess you know what this means to me, Monsieur Poirot," he said
huskily. "I am sending you round a cheque in the morning, but no
cheque in the world will express what I feel about what you have
done for me. You are the goods, Monsieur Poirot. Every time, you
are the goods."
Poirot rose to his feet; his chest swelled.
"I am only Hercule Poirot," he said modestly, "yet, as you say, in my
own way I am a big man, even as you also are a big man. I am glad
and happy to have been of service to you. Now I go to repair the
damages caused by travel. Alas! my excellent Georges is not with
me."
In the lounge of the hotel he encountered a friend—the venerable
Monsieur Papopolous, his daughter Zia beside him.
"I thought you had left Nice, Monsieur Poirot," murmured the Greek
as he took the detective's affectionately proffered hand.
"Business compelled me to return, my dear Monsieur Papopolous."
"Business?"
"Yes, business. And talking of business, I hope your health is better,
my dear friend?"
"Much better. In fact, we are returning to Paris to-morrow."
"I am enchanted to hear such good news. You have not completely
ruined the Greek ex-Minister, I hope."
"I?"
"I understand you sold him a very wonderful ruby which—strictly
entre nous—is being worn by Mademoiselle Mirelle, the dancer?"
"Yes," murmured Monsieur Papopolous; "yes, that is so."
"A ruby not unlike the famous 'Heart of Fire'."
"It has points of resemblance, certainly," said the Greek casually.
"You have a wonderful hand with jewels, Monsieur Papopolous. I
congratulate you. Mademoiselle Zia, I am desolate that you are
returning to Paris so speedily. I had hoped to see some more of you
now that my business is accomplished."
"Would one be indiscreet if one asked what that business was?"
asked Monsieur Papopolous.
"Not at all, not at all. I have just succeeded in laying the Marquis by
the heels."
A far-away look came over Monsieur Papopolous' noble
countenance.
"The Marquis?" he murmured; "now why does that seem familiar to
me? No—I cannot recall it."
"You would not, I am sure," said Poirot. "I refer to a very notable
criminal and jewel robber. He has just been arrested for the murder
of the English lady, Madame Kettering."
"Indeed? How interesting these things are!"
A polite exchange of farewells followed, and when Poirot was out of
earshot, Monsieur Papopolous turned to his daughter.
"Zia," he said, with feeling, "that man is the devil!"
"I like him."
"I like him myself," admitted Monsieur Papopolous. "But he is the
devil, all the same."

36. By the Sea

The mimosa was nearly over. The scent of it in the air was faintly
unpleasant. There were pink geraniums twining along the balustrade
of Lady Tamplin's villa, and masses of carnations below sent up a
sweet, heavy perfume. The Mediterranean was at its bluest. Poirot
sat on the terrace with Lenox Tamplin. He had just finished telling her
the same story he had told to Van Aldin two days before. Lenox had
listened to him with absorbed attention, her brows knitted and her
eyes sombre.
When he had finished she said simply:
"And Derek?"
"He was released yesterday."
"And he has gone—where?"
"He left Nice last night."
"For St. Mary Mead?"
"Yes, for St. Mary Mead."
There was a pause.
"I was wrong about Katherine," said Lenox. "I thought she did not
care."
"She is very reserved. She trusts no one."
"She might have trusted me," said Lenox, with a shade of bitterness.
"Yes," said Poirot gravely, "she might have trusted you. But
Mademoiselle Katherine has spent a great deal of her life listening,
and those who have listened do not find it easy to talk; they keep
their sorrows and joys to themselves and tell no one."
"I was a fool," said Lenox; "I thought she really cared for Knighton. I
ought to have known better. I suppose I thought so because—well, I
hoped so."
Poirot took her hand and gave it a little friendly squeeze. "Courage,
Mademoiselle," he said gently.
Lenox looked very straight out across the sea, and her face, in its
ugly rigidity, had for the moment a tragic beauty.
"Oh, well," she said at last, "it would not have done. I am too young
for Derek; he is like a kid that has never grown up. He wants the
Madonna touch."
There was a long silence, then Lenox turned to him quickly and
impulsively. "But I did help, Monsieur Poirot—at any rate I did help."
"Yes, Mademoiselle. It was you who gave me the first inkling of the
truth when you said that the person who committed the crime need
not have been on the train at all. Before that, I could not see how the
thing had been done."
Lenox drew a deep breath.
"I am glad," she said; "at any rate—that is something."
From far behind them there came a long-drawn-out scream of an
engine's whistle.
"That is that damned Blue Train," said Lenox. "Trains are relentless
things, aren't they, Monsieur Poirot? People are murdered and die,
but they go on just the same. I am talking nonsense, but you know
what I mean."
"Yes, yes, I know. Life is like a train, Mademoiselle. It goes on. And it
is a good thing that that is so."
"Why?"
"Because the train gets to its journey's end at last, and there is a
proverb about that in your language, Mademoiselle."
"'Journeys end in lovers meeting.'" Lenox laughed. "That is not going
to be true for me."
"Yes—yes, it is true. You are young, younger than you yourself know.
Trust the train, Mademoiselle, for it is le bon Dieu who drives it."
The whistle of the engine came again.
"Trust the train, Mademoiselle," murmured Poirot again. "And trust
Hercule Poirot. He knows."
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERY
OF THE BLUE TRAIN ***

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