I think I’d better oversee you. Can you read?”
Ren nods.
William raises an eyebrow. “Is that so? Tomorrow is Sunday. If you want to spend your half-day off going over basics, I shall be free in the afternoon.”
* * *
After the boy has gone, William walks out and leans on the wooden veranda railing. Branches shiver as a troop of monkeys passes, their whoops piercing the still morning. A flash of black and white as an indignant hornbill takes flight. William slings his binoculars around his neck and walks down the steps, over the clipped lawn that’s the gardener’s pride, and farther into the undergrowth. He recalls MacFarlane’s letter, the trembling handwriting promising he’d find the boy interesting, and wonders what else there is to discover about Ren.
Although William could have found a house closer to the European quarter in Changkat, he doesn’t mind the bungalow’s isolated location. There’s an old elephant trail not too far from the house though he’s never seen any elephants. It rained the night before and the red clay is soft underfoot.
William halts abruptly. There in the mud is a tiger pugmark. He’s never seen one so close to the house before. It’s so fresh that a blade of grass, trodden into the print, is still green. Tigers are rare near town, though there are still many in the deep jungle. A skillful tracker could probably estimate the animal’s age and physical health, but from the size and squareness, William guesses it was a male.
A surveyor for the Federated Malay States Railways once told him how a tiger had carried off one of his best coolies. The workers slept twelve men to a camp house, their bedding laid out on the floor. This particular man, strong and well-built for a native, was sleeping in the middle of the row. The door was left open to let in the breeze. In the morning, he was missing. Tiger prints were discovered and tracking them for a quarter of a mile led to the recovery of his head, left arm, and legs. The torso and entrails had been devoured. In the night, the tiger had silently entered, picked its way over the sleepers, and selected the best specimen.
* * *
William keeps no dogs to warn him of any approach and now regrets it. He has an old Purdey shotgun in the house, but it isn’t loaded. He ought to warn Ah Long and the boy not to wander from the house in the evening. Turning back, he sees Ah Long on the veranda.
“Tuan!” he shouts. “Hospital!”
William is the medical officer on call this weekend. He hurries up the steps. “What is it?”
Ah Long’s Malay is bad and his English even poorer. He should have the boy take messages in future, but for now, Ah Long is the bearer of news even he can express clearly. “Someone is dead.”
Out of the corner of his eye, William sees Ren staring, white-faced, at him. He looks terrified.
* * *
Harun is off duty so William drives himself. The incident has taken place at the same plantation that he walked through on Friday morning; the message was brief and only mentioned that a body had been discovered. Most local deaths are caused by malaria or tuberculosis, though snakebites and accidents are also common.
The manager of this estate is Henry Thomson, Lydia’s father. As William pulls in, he sees a small knot of people. Thomson’s thin figure hovers near the tall bulk of a Sikh police officer and his Malay constable. The officer introduces himself as Captain Jagjit Singh, an inspector in the Federated Malay States Police. His English is excellent, and William guesses that he, like many police officers in Malaya, was recruited from the Indian Army to supplement the dearth of trained officers.
“The body was found past noon,” he says. “Looks like an animal attack, but we can’t rule out foul play. We couldn’t get hold of Dr. Rawlings, and I’d like to establish a cause of death before we move it.”
They’re walking now, heading deeper into the rubber estate. Distracted by the sameness of the trees, William wonders whether he’s ever passed through this portion of the estate.
“Who found it?” he asks.
“One of the rubber tappers.”
Thomson has been silent, his thin, worried face looking down at the dry leaves on which they tread, but now he says, “I’m not sure if it’s one of my workers. We’ll need to do a roll call.”
“What makes you think it might be foul play?” asks