The Midnight Palace (Niebla 2)

Ian suppressed his desire to answer back and lowered his eyes.

‘Grandmother, none of us is a child any more. That’s why I’m not taking that train,’ said Sheere. ‘And you know it.’

Aryami glared at her granddaughter but said nothing.

After a long pause she finally spoke again. ‘I’ll be waiting for both of you tomorrow at dawn, in Howrah Station.’

Sheere sighed and Ben noticed her face going red again. He touched her arm and motioned for her to drop the argument. Aryami turned away and her footsteps disappeared inside the house.

‘I can’t leave things like this,’ Sheere murmured.

Ben let go of his sister’s arm and she followed Aryami into the candlelit living room, where the old lady had sat down once more. Aryami didn’t turn her head when she came in, ignoring her granddaughter’s presence. Sheere drew closer and put her arms around her.

‘Whatever happens, Grandmother,’ she said, ‘I’ll always love you.’

Silently Aryami nodded, and her eyes filled with tears as her granddaughter walked back to the courtyard. Ben and Ian, who were waiting outside, greeted Sheere with the most optimistic expressions they could manage.

‘Where will we go?’ asked Sheere, trying to hold back her tears, her hands trembling.

‘To the best place in Calcutta,’ replied Ben. ‘The Midnight Palace.’

THE LAST LIGHT OF day was beginning to fade as Isobel caught sight of the ghostly angular structure of Jheeter’s Gate Station emerging from the mist by the river. Holding her breath she stopped to gaze at the eerie sight before her: a thick framework of hundreds of steel beams, arches and domes, a vast labyrinth of metal and glass shattered by the fire. Spanning the river to the station’s entrance on the opposite bank was an old ruined bridge.

Isobel approached the bridge and began to negotiate the rails that traversed it, a siding that led into the heart of the monumental carcass the station had become. The sleepers were rotten and black, with wild vegetation creeping over them. The rusty structure of the bridge groaned beneath her feet and Isobel noticed signs forbidding trespassers and warning of an impending demolition order. No train had crossed that bridge since the fire, and judging from its condition nobody had bothered to repair it, or even walk over it, she thought.

As the east bank of the Hooghly receded behind her and Jheeter’s Gate loomed in front of her, silhouetted against the scarlet canopy of sunset, Isobel began to toy with the idea that perhaps her decision to come to this place had not been so sensible after all. From the dark tunnels hidden in the bowels of the station came a breath of wind impregnated with ash and soot, accompanied by an acrid stench. She focused on the distant lights of the barges that ploughed the Hooghly River and tried to conjure up the company of their anonymous crews as she covered the final stretch of the bridge separating her from the station. When she reached the end she stood and looked up at the huge steel pediment before her. There, obscured by the damage from the fire but still visible, were the carved letters announcing the station’s name, like the entrance to a grandiose mausoleum: JHEETER’S GATE.

Isobel took a deep breath and readied herself to do the thing she had least wanted to do in her sixteen years of life: enter that place.

SETH AND MICHAEL WORE the saintly smiles of model students as they faced the merciless scrutiny of Mr de Rozio, head librarian of the Indian Museum.

‘That’s the most ridiculous request I’ve heard in my life,’ de Rozio concluded. ‘At least since the last time you were here, Seth.’

‘Let me explain, Mr de Rozio,’ Seth improvised. ‘We know that normally you’re only open in the morning, and what my friend and I are asking you might seem a little extravagant—’

‘Coming from you, nothing is extravagant,’ de Rozio interrupted.

Seth suppressed a smile. Mr de Rozio’s caustic sarcasm was always a sign that he was interested. There was not a person on earth who knew his first name, except perhaps his mother and his wife, if in fact there was a woman in India brave enough to marry such a specimen. Beneath his Cerberus-like appearance, de Rozio had a renowned Achilles heel: his curiosity and love of gossip, albeit with an academic slant, made even the loud-mouthed women in the bazaar look like rank amateurs.

Seth and Michael eyed one another and decided to offer him some bait.

‘Mr de Rozio,’ Seth began in a melodramatic tone, ‘I shouldn’t tell you this, but I feel obliged and must rely on your well-known discretion … There are a number of crimes connected with this matter, and we very much fear there’ll be more unless we put a stop to it.’

For a few seconds the librarian’s penetrating eyes seemed to grow.

‘Are you sure Thomas Carter is aware of this?’ he enquired.

‘He’s the one who sent us here,’ replied Seth.

De Rozio observed them once more, searching their faces for clues that might betray some skulduggery.

‘And your friend …’ de Rozio retorted, pointing at Michael. ‘Why is he so quiet?’

‘He was born a mute, sir. A very sad story,’ Seth explained.

Michael gave a tiny nod as if he wished to confirm this statement. De Rozio cleared his throat tentatively.