“Louise” is what William calls Ji Lin, and when he says her name, Ren senses a gnawing guilt. It’s something to do with what Dr. Rawlings said that tumultuous Monday, coming into the ward later as William was checking Ren out, and drawing him hastily aside. Ren overheard snatches of conversation: missing body parts … scandal … say nothing until the Board sorts it out. From which he gathers that there’s a secret, like a white and yeasty maggot, which threatens to undermine the neat and orderly life of the hospital.
Whatever it is definitely bothers William. He spends his free time gloomily sitting on the veranda, as though he’s waiting for something to happen. When Ren asks if he’s feeling all right, he says he needs a drink to fortify his stomach.
“Cheh! What stomach?” says Ah Long contemptuously. “Ice is bad for his digestion. And not so much,” he warns as Ren makes another whisky stengah. Johnnie Walker is running low again; there’s only an inch left in the bottle. “Miss Lydia is coming today.”
It’s five o’clock in the afternoon, and William is home early from work. Instead of putting on a cotton sarong, he’s remained in his stiff-collared shirt and trousers, and now Ren understands why. If Lydia is coming, of course his master can’t lounge around in native dress. For teatime, Ah Long prepares bite-sized balls of onde-onde, a treat made from glutinous rice flour and chopped palm sugar rolled in fluffy grated coconut.
Guiltily, Ren remembers the vial of tea-colored liquid that he promised Lydia he’d give to Ji Lin. He hasn’t had a chance to do so and is worried that she’ll question him about it. Fetching the bottle from his room, he slips it into his pocket. If Lydia asks, he’ll show it to her to prove he hasn’t been careless or lost it.
The doorbell rings. Ren gets up slowly. His wounds are healing astonishingly fast, but he’s still not used to the loss of his fourth finger. The stump aches and the grip of his left hand is less sure, though it hasn’t stopped him from doing most things. Losing the thumb would have been far worse, as Ah Long dourly pointed out.
Voices in the hallway. Lydia sounds subdued, yet there’s an underlying current of excitement that Ren picks up from her. He remembers the thin sticky filaments that clung to her in the hospital and peeks worriedly out. Is she still in danger? The slanting afternoon sunlight casts patterns of light and dark in the hall. Lydia takes off her sun hat and a trick of the shadows makes it look as though she has long dark hair. Ren stops, surprised. The open doorway, the woman standing in it. For a fearful instant, he’s reminded of the pontianak, that vengeful female spirit that comes calling at the doors and windows. Instinctively he starts forward, although it’s already too late. William has let her in. You’re not supposed to let them in. But these are foolish thoughts that his master would be offended to hear. Perplexed, Ren blinks. The dimness in his head recedes; his cat sense is fading and maybe that’s a relief as well.
Lydia hands Ren her hat and parasol and smiles benignly at him. William shows her into the sitting room with its bent rattan furniture moved back into place after the party. Normally he entertains male guests on the veranda, but with Lydia he’s stiffly courteous.
“What can I do for you, Lydia?”
Ren admires how his master gets straight to the point, no beating around the bush. Lydia parries with small talk about the weather and the terrible tragedy at the hospital.
“I heard that you made a statement to the inspector,” she says. “Did you really see someone on the second floor?”
“I can’t discuss that right now,” says William. “But the police have a suspect.”
“Won’t you tell me?”
“I’m sorry, it’s out of my hands.”
She seems dissatisfied at this. “What did you tell the police about me?”
“That you’d called and asked to meet me. And when I arrived, it looked like you had a prior meeting with that orderly, Y. K. Wong. Why did you want to see me that morning, anyway?” he says. “They wanted to know about that as well.”
“I’m afraid I told a little untruth.” Lydia shifts uneasily. “I said that you and I were in the habit of meeting because we were secretly engaged.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry. It was all I could think of at the time.”
William gets up and walks to the other end of the sofa. Ren, still standing quietly in the hallway, can tell that he’s agitated, even furious.
“Why on earth would you do that?”
“Because it looks bad for me. You know, meeting men before dawn in a deserted place. And a Chinaman, too.”
“Lydia,” William presses his side as though it pains him, “you’d better tell me the truth.”
Ren doesn’t hear what she says because at that moment, Ah Long calls him into the kitchen. The tea tray is ready, steaming and fragrant, the sweetmeats delicately arranged on patterned porcelain plates.
“Can you manage?” says Ah Long.
“Yes,” says Ren proudly. Still, Ah Long helps him bring the tray in, setting it on the sideboard.
Ren sneaks a glance at William and Lydia. Their heads are bent together. He can’t see Lydia’s face, but William looks upset. Bad digestion, too much stress, Ah Long had said, and Ren remembers the time, right when that poor lady’s body was found half eaten by a tiger, when William could only eat omelets, not meat. But William never takes medicine, only Johnnie Walker.
Hesitantly, Ren takes out the vial of liquid that Lydia gave him. Stomach medicine, she’d said. Very mild. I take it myself. It’s almost exactly the same color as the tea, and Ren pours it into William’s cup. There. If Miss Lydia asks him if he’s put her medicine to good use, he can answer her properly. She likes William anyway, so she’ll be delighted if it cures him.
Carefully and proudly, Ren places the teacups on the table.
* * *
“Well?” William’s voice is calm but inside he’s seething. “What exactly happened on Monday morning, that you couldn’t tell the police?”
From the corner of his eye, he sees Ren pour the tea at the sideboard before placing it on the coffee table. This is the wrong procedure. Tea should be set on the low table for the host or hostess to pour, but that’s something local servants never seem to understand. William forces his mind away from irrelevant thoughts like this. Lydia. He has to manage her.
Brushing back her hair, she glances up at him. She’s looking very handsome today but it fills him with dread—that fine coloring, those brilliant eyes. So much like Iris.
Lydia says, “That Chinese orderly—he said his name was Wong—wanted to speak to me. About you.”
“About me?” This is so surprising that William sits down again.
“Concerning one of your patients, a salesman who died recently.”
The salesman! The one who caught William and Ambika together in the rubber plantation, so long ago now it seems. The one who died so fortuitously. William’s pulse races, even as he struggles to keep his expression neutral.
Lydia spoons sugar into her tea. “Mr. Wong seemed to think that he’d been mixed up with selling human remains.”
“Nonsense!” says William. This is exactly the kind of rumor that Rawlings told him to quash. If word gets out there will be a terrible scandal for the hospital.
“He also asked me if he’d ever tried to blackmail you.”
“What?” William’s stomach lurches, recalling the terror he felt, right after Ambika’s mangled torso had been identified, that the salesman would come forward and tell everyone about their affair. But there’s nothing to fear, is there? Despite Rawlings’s doubts at the time, there’s been no criminal investigation.
He lifts his teacup. It’s too hot to drink. “Why ask you about that?”
“People think we’re close. And we are, aren’t we?”
William shudders at this assumption. “We’re not close, Lydia. I can’t have you telling people that we’re engaged, when it’s not true.”
Her face turns red, her mouth trembles. “How could you say that—after everything I’ve done for you?”
A chill across the back of his neck, telling him to run, run away now. “I’ve never asked you to do anything for me.”
“All the things that could have caused you problems—I got rid of them.”
He shifts uneasily. Something is coming, approaching the doors of his mind. Something that he forgot or overlooked. He’s not used to being hunted like this. It’s wrong, all wrong. Outraged, he says, “I don’t have any problems!”
But she’s not listening. “Haven’t you ever felt that you can change things, control them, if you wish hard enough?”
William flinches.
“You do, don’t you? I knew you would. No one else understands.” She clasps his hand. Her fingers are cold. “Well, I have that power, too. You probably know about it, since I heard you were asking around about my fiancés.”
Fiancés. “There was more than one,” says William, realization dawning on him.
“Yes, I was engaged twice. Three times if you count intentions. They were all no good, though. I didn’t know how to choose, you see. I had to get rid of them.”
Is she saying that she’s like him, filled with that dark ominous power? William’s hand is numb. Pulling it away, he tries to say scornfully, “Are you saying you can wish people dead?”
“Can’t you?”