The Curious Tale of the Lady Caraboo (7 page)

‘She was sitting on the edge! I thought—!'

‘She was praying. And you scared her! Honestly, Fred. She was praying to Allah Tallah.'

‘Allah Tallah?'

‘Mama thinks that's her god.'

After listening to Cassandra's soothing words, Caraboo gave Fred a look that would have curdled milk, then knelt down on the flat part of the roof facing east.

‘Fred, get back,' Cassandra hissed. ‘And be quiet. No quick movements.'

‘Hah! She gave
me
the scare, not the other way round!' Though Fred was whispering too.

‘You shouldn't have touched her. She doesn't like men touching her.'

Fred sneered. ‘Tell you that, did she?'

‘Shut up, Fred.'

They watched the girl bow down before rising onto her knees again and pressing her raised hands together.

‘Allah Tallah!' she intoned seriously. ‘Allah Tallah!' She faced the morning sun, which had just risen over the birch wood towards the village. Then she bowed three times, each time taking a deep breath.

‘Is that it?' Fred whispered. ‘I've seen the Mussulmen in London make more of a show. We had a boy in school, son of a maharajah, who worshipped, of all things, a bright blue elephant.'

‘Fred, you are teasing.'

‘No, I swear, it's the truth. Edmund ragged him until he got so sore he hit Ed square in the face.'

‘I don't believe Edmund would do such a thing.'

‘Hah! You do not know him so well, then.'

‘Well, perhaps he deserved it.'

‘Aha, you
do
have your eye on him, don't you? After all, he has more cash than anyone I know – isn't that the way to a girl's heart? And he's not far from handsome. Girls fight over him almost as much as they fight over me.'

‘Well, that just shows you know nothing about girls! Money is nothing without tenderness! Edmund Gresham?' Cass pulled a face. ‘I would sooner put out my own eyes with a soup spoon!'

‘Aha again! You protest too much! You carry a torch for the fellow and no mistake. Even when you pretended affection for Thomas Slatherton . . . and then, after that . . . who was it? Yes, I remember! That George Farthing! George Farting, more like! I wonder what happened to him after you threw his heart away so coldly.'

‘I did not!'

‘Cass, I've never known a girl so fickle! Always! You favour one thing wholeheartedly, and then, sometimes the following day, another! Remember, when you were small, that doll – Amelia? She was loved and hated, turn and turnabout. Your heart has a different favourite every school holiday. I pity those you pin your affections on, really I do.'

‘And you, Fred, are Sir Constant!'

‘I am a man; the rules are different.' Fred smiled. ‘Admit it – you and Edmund.'

Cassandra had gone pale with fury. ‘Why are the rules different, Fred? Tell me that! I wouldn't have your Edmund if he was the last man alive. He is arrogant and so full of his own importance he might burst. He knows nothing of the world. I doubt he has ever done a day's honest toil in his life!' She turned to look at her brother. ‘In fact you two are alike in, oh, so many ways. You know only of London fancies and nothing of the soil, of real existence . . .' She got up and turned to look at Caraboo, but the Princess had gone.

‘The soil?' Fred shook his head. ‘What are you on about? Oh, I have needled you, which only proves my thesis: you like him, Cass, I can tell.
Lady Cassandra Gresham
– you'd be the wife of an earl.' He turned back to where Caraboo had been. ‘Hell, the pigeon's flown. You don't think . . .?' He pointed towards the parapet.

‘No, you idiot! She went down while we were bickering.' Cassandra made her way back to the ladder.

‘That wasn't bickering,' Fred said, following her. ‘That was an insightful observation on my part. You and Edmund Gresham. It will happen.'

‘Don't hold your breath,' Cassandra said. ‘You know, I so look forward to your return from school, and then when you do come, I wish you away almost at once.'

As Professor Heyford set up his apparatus in the library, Caraboo watched through a crack in the door. Frederick Worrall was helping – she could hear them talking about electricity.

Mrs Worrall was excited: she was quoting passages from one of her books on the anthropology of primitive peoples of the southern hemisphere. Caraboo had looked at that very book only this morning. It was a favourite of hers – the pictures were wonderful, in full colour, so that it was like looking into another world.

Mrs Worrall stopped reading. ‘You see, Fred,' she said, ‘the way she uses her knife, you haven't witnessed it, but Cassandra and I watched her use it on a pigeon – she calls pigeon
rampu
– the other day, and she knows what she is doing! It's awfully like the
kriss
, the knife used by the Malay. Stamford Raffles talks about it in his
History of Java
, see? And that's another of her words –
Javasu
, you see? Quite fascinating! You must read it – here, look . . .'

‘Well, madam.' This voice, Caraboo reckoned, must be the professor. ‘When your Caraboo has submitted to examination under electrical stimuli, you will at last be sure of the young lady's provenance.'

‘What I expect he means, Mama, is that if you gave her a few volts she'd be talking in English in seconds.'

‘Frederick!'

‘You know what I think about the girl. And Papa agrees with me.'

‘Your father has not yet made up his mind. He agrees she is not a beggar.'

‘Hah!'

There was a buzzing sound from the library and the smell of singed horsehair.

Mrs Worrall gasped. ‘My word, Professor, are you sure your apparatus is quite safe?'

In the hall, Caraboo studied herself in the large oval looking glass. The Princess wore a white muslin turban and the dress she had adapted herself, with a square neckline and cut short to the knee. She was barefoot, and the marble tiles of the hall were cool under her feet. She must remember that feeling. She must be icy today; she must not think of running out into the park, as far away as possible. Not quite yet.

Caraboo took a deep breath, then walked slowly into the library, as if entering a throne room, head held high, steps even and measured. She was a princess, she told herself, and as soon as these people, especially that smug Frederick Worrall, realized the fact, the better. It had been fun, seeing the look on Mr Frederick's face this morning; wiping that smile off his arrogant face would be worth any discomfort the professor might have in store for her.

‘Good morning, Caraboo!' Mrs Worrall put down her book, opened her arms and embraced her.

Caraboo saluted, her right hand pressed flat against her left temple.

Mrs Worrall spoke slowly. ‘This is Professor Heyford.'

The professor put out his hand, but Caraboo merely saluted, touching her right hand to her right temple.

‘You see, Professor,' Mrs Worrall said. ‘The little salute, see? Right for gentlemen, left for ladies. I have noted that she will not, or chooses not to, have any contact with the male. She will embrace me, she will allow Cassandra to come close, but she will not shake hands with a man. Perhaps you have come across the like on your travels?'

‘I am afraid the farthest my travels have taken me is Edinburgh.'

‘Ah.' Mrs Worrall looked disappointed.

‘However, I am an expert in theoretical linguistics and the utterly new sciences of phrenology and electronic deduction,' the professor said. ‘I feel that we, at the heart of the British Empire, have no need to travel. The world has come to us. You see, Mrs Worrall, I believe that by the twenty-first century all other languages will decline into obsolescence. English will be paramount. It is a far superior language to any other. Indeed, my thesis is that other tongues are poor substitutes; merely half-baked gropings towards the proper and most ideal form of communication that is the English tongue.'

Mrs Worrall looked uneasy. ‘But what of French? I imagined French to be sublime . . .'

Professor Heyford shook his head and flapped a hand. ‘French is a mongrel tongue.' His tone was dismissive.

‘As is English, surely,' she said confidently.

‘Aha!' The professor jabbed a finger into the air. ‘It may have begun so, but I can assure you, madam, that its pedigree is spotless! Spotless.'

Fred made a face. ‘What exactly does that—?'

But Mrs Worrall cut him off. ‘How does all this' – she waved a hand towards the apparatus – ‘aid your study of linguistics and – what was it . . .?'

‘Phrenology – the deduction of character and disposition as manifested in the shape and formation of the head. All will be revealed!' The professor took a kind of shining brass skullcap out of a leather satchel.

Caraboo tried to keep her expression blankly calm.

Apparatus. Electricity. It meant nothing. The Princess Caraboo had no knowledge of these things. She had never, as a child, frequented Exeter Fair and seen the fairground booths which promised instant cure-alls by means of shocks and starts. Or the punters exiting those tents with their jelly legs and wild eyes.

Apparatus
could mean anything. She would simply have to charm the professor the same way she had charmed everyone else.

Caraboo turned her smile up to dazzle.

‘What exceptionally white teeth your Caraboo has,' the professor said, changing the subject. ‘And so neat and even!'

He was studying her closely.
Good
, she thought.

‘Teeth like that are signifiers of both honesty and openness. I must admit, she is a most interesting young woman.' He was turning the brass cap in his hands, and now Caraboo could see the wires that came out of it. ‘It will be fascinating to see how she responds to the natural forces, and how they affect her speech.'

‘And this will tell us where she is from?' Fred sounded unconvinced.

The professor was getting flustered. ‘Let us begin, and all will be clear!'

Mrs Worrall squeezed Caraboo's hand reassuringly.

‘Can you bring the girl over to the chair by the window, madam, and make her comfortable? Mr Worrall' – he looked at Fred – ‘if you will make sure her wrists are firmly bound.' He passed Fred a couple of leather straps.

‘Are you sure all this is quite necessary?' Fred could see that Caraboo was anxious, but the professor simply nodded.

Mrs Worrall made shushing sounds at her, as if she were a baby.

Fred leaned close and buckled up the straps. He smelled of sandalwood and citrus, clean and sharp, and not beer and tobacco, which was a comfort. Caraboo tried to imagine unicorns and leopards, but her breaths were quick and shallow.

‘I think she is afraid,' Mrs Worrall said, looking worried herself. ‘I am sure of it.'

‘It will all be over in the blink of an eye!'

‘And you are sure it is quite safe?'

‘Utterly, madam.' The professor turned a handle on the wooden box, which he said was the generator. The buzzing sound Caraboo had heard earlier started up again. The professor unwound her turban, and she flinched and would have jumped up if she hadn't had been tied down. He smelled of mothballs and coal, and old soup. Her hair fell down and he tried to gather it up, making her break into a cold sweat. He touched her head, and – she couldn't help it – she screamed.

‘Mrs Worrall! I would appreciate it if you could get your Miss Caraboo to be quiet!'

‘I am trying!' Mrs Worrall smoothed the hair away from Caraboo's forehead. ‘Fred, where is your sister? She has a way with Caraboo.'

‘I cannot say, Mama. The last I heard, she was most keen to see the electrical demonstration.'

The professor put the metal cap on Caraboo's head and attached the wires. ‘Mrs Worrall, please stand back.' He pulled a lever.

Caraboo shut her eyes as the hum intensified into an oppressive thrum. She steeled herself, gripping the arms of the chair so hard her knuckles showed white.

Whatever faced her now could not be worse than the things that had already befallen her. She repeated the words over and over in her head. All the bad things that had happened – the men in the woods, her dead Solomon, the look on Robert Lloyd's face when she had seen him kissing another. She screwed her eyes shut. Those things had all happened to somebody else.

Caraboo prayed hard to her god.

‘The poor child!'

‘The power is surging!' the professor said.

Suddenly Caraboo felt the air being knocked clear out of her. She was reminded of a time in another life, when she was seven: a boy in the village had caught her under her ribs in a fight. She gasped for air. She could no more exclaim a word in English than she could in any other language. She had no breath at all.

There was a sizzling sound, and a loud
pop!
and again the smell of burning – though this time of human hair.

‘Oh my!' Mrs Worrall said.

She began unbuckling Caraboo's straps and tore off the skullcap, then took a Turkish embroidered throw from the divan and flung it over Caraboo's head.

‘Water! Quickly! Fred!'

Then Caraboo was aware of spreading damp – Fred, she supposed, had emptied the vase of flowers over her, and when the throw was removed she realized she was soaked through and had a lap full of flowers.

‘There's something wrong with the conductors . . .' The professor was fussing over his apparatus.

‘Are you all right, miss?' Fred said.

But Caraboo saw that he was looking at her chest under the wet dress, and she hated him for it.

Mrs Worrall hugged her, arms around her neck. ‘Oh, you poor, dear girl.'

Caraboo was overcome with relief. She remembered her language and shouted at the professor, ‘
Justo no bo beek! No bo beek!
' She was shaking with cold and shock.