William has never voiced this to anyone, but at that moment, drowning in Lydia’s frenetic blue gaze, he almost does. “Everyone’s wished someone dead at some point, Lydia. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I did it for you,” she says. “That salesman. And those women who were so bad for you. Why do you associate with them?”
Horror grows tendrils of blackness, twisting through his stomach.
“First was that Tamil woman Ambika, the one you used to meet in the rubber estate. I told you I’d seen you going for walks in the morning, though you never saw me. She was quite unsuitable, of course, and people were starting to talk, even our servants at home. So I removed her.
“Then that salesman turned up again. I knew him when he was a patient here. From time to time, he’d come by and visit that little nurse. We’d chat a bit—he was quite a flirt for a local.” She smiles. “He was asking about you, hinting that Ambika was your mistress. I had to stop him, too.”
Frozen, William listens as her rosebud mouth keeps moving, words spilling from it. A cold narrow thread of reason tells him it’s impossible. Nobody can arrange for a death by tiger, or make a man break his neck. Lydia is just deeply disturbed, he tells himself, trying not to panic at how much she knows about his private life.
“Lydia,” he says firmly. “That’s enough. You’re imagining things.”
“No, I’m not.” She stares at him over the rim of her teacup. “I did everything for you.”
“I don’t owe you anything!” And now William is furious, his stomach burning with acid. Foolish, stupid, troublesome woman! If she goes around talking like this, it will only turn out badly for him. He takes a deep breath and swallows a mouthful of tea. It’s bitter.
Two spots of red appear on her cheeks. “There’s a plant, a tall shrub with flowers. It’s growing right outside your house. People think it’s beautiful, but they don’t know how poisonous oleander is. If you make a strong tea from the powdered leaves, it causes dizziness, nausea, vomiting. Then fainting, heart failure, and death.” She recites the symptoms as though she’s learned them by heart. “My father managed a tea plantation in Ceylon before, where it’s common for young girls to commit suicide by eating the seeds. I kept some with me when I went back to England. It was very useful.” She takes another sip of tea. “When I came out here, it was easy to prescribe to people. I help at the hospital after all; the locals believe what I say. I gave Ambika a tonic for female complaints—she must have wandered out and died in the plantation. Though I didn’t expect that a tiger would eat half of her.”
“It didn’t eat her,” says William, his voice cracking with strain.
She ignores him. “The same thing for the salesman, though I told him it was stomach medicine. He vomited and fell into a ditch.”
“And Nandani? Did you give it to her, too?”
“She was sitting right there, in your kitchen.” Lydia turns her feverish gaze to him. “It was for the best. She’d already caused a scene, showing up like that at dinner.”
William’s hands are shaking. Bile rises in his throat. “I’m calling the police.”
Is it disappointment, or triumph, in her eyes? “You won’t do that.”
“Lydia, I can’t perjure myself for you.”
“Then for Iris,” she says, her eyes glittering. “I know what you did.”
William’s throat closes, bony fingers pinching it, squeezing the air out of him. “What are you talking about?”
“You drowned her, that day on the river.”
That day on the river, the light slanting green and gold. Iris turning angry, the black mood coming down on her. Accusing him again in her unending jealousy, jabbing her finger in his chest in the way that absolutely maddened him in all their quarrels so that he shoved her, hard. Or did she trip and fall by herself? Even he can’t remember, or doesn’t want to.
“It was an accident!”
“She would never stand up in a boat. Not ever, no matter what you said.” Lydia’s not pretty at all now, not one bit. She looks like a witch, her eyes wild and cunning. “Iris had a bad sense of balance. We all knew that at school. Something to do with her ears.”
“Lydia—”
“And even after she fell in, you didn’t pull her out.”
He’d thought he’d teach Iris a lesson, let her flounder for a bit before pulling her out. But she’d gone under very quickly, the heavy woolen skirts dragging her down. So fast that William thought she was playing a joke on him, holding her breath to pretend she was in trouble. Who knew that a person could drown so quickly, so silently, without any of the wild thrashings that he’d imagined? By the time he went after her, she was nothing but dead weight.
“Lydia!” He has to stop her, spewing out these hateful words.
“Iris wrote me letters. Lots of them. About you and how she thought you were cheating on her. I have a letter written right before she died, saying she was afraid you’d kill her.”
Don’t panic, William thinks, biting down. After all, that’s what he did about Iris. She was leaning over and then she fell in. No, we hadn’t quarreled. Still, there were whispers and rumors that followed him. The same insidious tale of betrayal and cowardice, enough to cut him at the Club, enough to drive him to another place, another country. He fights to control himself.
“She was hysterical, manipulative.”
Lydia leans back. “You’re right.” There’s a faint smile on her face. “But you might be charged, given the circumstantial evidence, if you went back home.” Another sip of tea. “I’ve made it fair, haven’t I? I’ve told you all about myself. Though unlike you, I can easily deny everything.”
“What about the deaths of all those people? The salesman, Ambika, Nandani?”
“Why, you killed them. They were all in your way. I’ll say you got rid of the women because you wanted to marry me, but I turned you down. The police are already suspicious about Nandani being in your house right before she died, and if they dig up the talk about Iris from back home, it won’t look good for you.”
Silence. He hears the pounding rush of blood in his head. If he springs up right now, he can catch her by her long white throat. Dig his thumbs in until she stops breathing. Why, why is this happening again? Her resemblance to Iris, the same sticky, hysterical demands. It’s as though Iris has returned from the river and she’ll never be satisfied until she drags him under.
“What do you want, Lydia?”
She’s going to play her trump card, whatever it is. Stomach leaden, William knows that he’s been completely outfoxed by her.
“I love you,” she says.
He gets up. Circles behind her, his mind racing through different possibilities. Shove her forward, crack her head open on the coffee table. She’s infected him with her madness.
“So you want to get engaged?” A gun accident then. Showing Lydia the Purdey. But he’s already shot Ren accidentally. Too suspicious.
“Yes. I’d like that.” She smiles, as though he’s just proposed on bended knee. “I’ve already told the police, but it would be nice to make it official. We could have a party.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“A toast then?” she says. William numbly picks up his cup and clinks it against hers. Play along; buy some time, he thinks, draining the tepid, bitter tea. No amount of milk and sugar can disguise the vomit rising in his throat as he forces it down.
A swish of skirts, that light scent of geraniums that he hates now. He shows her to the door. Good manners, even if it’s killing him. Lydia pauses, her eyes bright. “After we’re married, I can’t be compelled to testify against you. Nor you against me. It makes it fair, doesn’t it?”
William wants to scream, smack her head into the wall, but he says through gritted teeth, “Why do you care for me at all?”
“Iris introduced us back in England, though you don’t remember. It was a party at the Piersons’; you liked me, you really did. Afterwards, you kissed me in the hallway. I couldn’t stop thinking of you for days.”
Memory. The ticking of the grandfather clock, that quick, feverish fumble in the darkness. He’d been so happy with Iris that day, her pert face never more alluring, that he’d cornered her, so he’d thought, in the hallway. And afterwards, there’d been days of brooding sulkiness. Iris complaining that he’d drunk too much that weekend, the accusations that he’d brushed off, attributing them to her neuroses, his aching head. He says with sharp, sudden understanding, “That was a mistake. I never knew it was you.”
But Lydia doesn’t care. She’s gone beyond him. A dreamy look fills her eyes. “And then when Iris kept writing about how unhappy you were with her, I knew that something would happen to make her disappear. Because you and I are fated to be together: we even have the same name. The other night, at your party, when you wrote your Chinese name—I told you that I have a Chinese name as well. I was born in Hong Kong, you know.”
What is she babbling about? Doesn’t she have any sense of danger from him?