Over the preceding weeks the channel between Hong Kong and Kowloon had become busier than ever before. Many British-owned ships had left Macau and moved there; most of Macau’s British residents had left too and were now living on the anchored ships. As a result, a floating settlement had come into being in the shadows of Hong Kong’s peaks and ridges; although its core was formed by the fleet of foreign ships, many boat-people had also gathered there, offering every kind of service, from laundry to provisioning; dozens of small boats were constantly on the prowl, hawking fruits, vegetables, meat, live chickens and much else.
In that motley assemblage of vessels the Anahita had stood out from the first by reason of her elegant lines and rakish masts. Paulette and Fitcher had passed the ship many times on their way to the eastern end of the island, where they often went to forage for plants. Often the Anahita’s lascar lookouts would wave to them as they went by.
Today it so happened that the Anahita’s stern was turned in Paulette’s direction. This was why the ladder caught her eye: it made for an odd sight – a ladder hanging from a window in an anchored ship, with nothing below it but water. She wondered about it for a bit, then shrugged it off and busied herself with the plants.
The weather was hot and clammy and after an hour she had to take another break. Turning towards the Anahita, she saw that an uproar had broken out on the elegant three-master: the dangling ladder had been discovered and pulled in. The crew were swarming over the main deck, hoisting signals and shouting across the water, holding bungals to their mouths.
Around mid-morning, when it came time for Paulette to go down to meet the Redruth’s gig, she noticed that a yawl had been lowered from the Anahita and was now making its way towards Hong Kong. There were a dozen turbaned men inside, most of them lascars. They were pulling hard on the oars.
The trail that led down to the beach cut sharply back and forth across the hillside. Following it down, Paulette lost sight of the yawl for several minutes. When she glimpsed it again, it had already touched land: its passengers had leapt off and were running across the beach. They had evidently spotted something and were racing to get to it: what it was she could not tell for it was hidden by an overhang.
A minute or so later screams came echoing up the slope. The voices were distraught, shouting in frantic, high-pitched Hindusthani: Yahan! Here! Here! We’ve found him …
She quickened her pace and soon afterwards the men came into view. They were kneeling around a bare-bodied corpse that had washed up on the beach; some were weeping and some were striking their foreheads with the heels of their palms.
One of the men, bearded and turbaned, looked up and caught sight of her. His face did not look familiar but she could tell, from his widening eyes, that he had recognized her. He rose to his feet and came towards her.
‘Miss Lambert?’ he said softly.
She recognized the voice at once. Apni? she said in Bengali. Is it you? From the Ibis?
Yes, it’s me.
She saw that his face was streaked with tears. What’s happened here? she said. Who is that?
Do you remember Ah Fatt, from the Ibis?
She nodded. Yes. Of course.
It’s his father. Seth Bahram Modi.
*
According to the legends of the Fami, it was entirely by chance that Neel came into possession of Robin Chinnery’s letters.
The story goes that towards the end of his visit to the Colver farm Neel asked if he might spend a few nights in the place where Paulette had once stayed, down by the sea. This was a tin-roofed cabin, tucked inside a coconut grove: there was a charpoy inside, a rickety table and a chair or two; other than that the place was empty. Of Paulette’s occupancy there was no trace at all, and yet, in the same way that a man can sometimes feel the gaze of another person resting upon his back, Neel felt that something of hers was staring him in the face. He got down on his knees and crawled over the tiled floor; he examined the walls; he went outside and rooted around in the sandy surroundings, hoping to find some shrub or flower that she might have planted. But other than coconuts and sea-grapes, not much would grow there and he found nothing.
Through all this, Neel grew ever more certain that something of Paulette’s was hidden in plain view: what could it be and where was it? The thought nagged at his mind so persistently that he could not sleep properly. At some point in the night he pushed the pillow off the charpoy: that was when he noticed a bump in the mattress – something was hidden underneath. He lit a lamp and pulled back the mattress. Underneath lay a packet of some sort, wrapped in tarpaulin. He undid the knotted leather cord that was tied around it and gently removed the covering.