The Midnight Palace - Carlos Ruiz Zafon [8]
For obvious reasons, I cannot raise the child myself without exposing him to the same fate that befell his parents. That is why I must beg you to take care of him, give him a name and educate him according to the principles of your institution, so that he grows up to be as honest and honourable as his parents were. And it is vitally important that the child should never learn the truth about his past.
I don’t have time to give you any more details, but I will remind you once more of the friendship and trust you shared with my husband in order to justify my request.
When you finish reading this letter, I beg you to destroy it, together with anything that might lead to the discovery of the child. I am sorry I cannot undertake this request in person, but the seriousness of the situation prevents me from doing so.
In the hope that you will make the right decision, please accept my eternal gratitude.
Aryami Bose
A knock on the door interrupted his reading. Carter removed his spectacles, carefully folded the letter and placed it in the drawer of his desk, which he then locked.
‘Come in,’ he said.
Vendela, the head nurse of St Patrick’s, put her head round the door; as usual her expression was stern and efficient. She didn’t seem to be the bearer of good news.
‘There’s a gentleman downstairs who wishes to speak to you,’ she said briefly.
Carter frowned.
‘What about?’
‘He wouldn’t give any details.’ Her tone seemed to imply that any such details were bound to be vaguely suspicious.
Vendela hesitated, then stepped into the office and closed the door behind her.
‘I think it’s about the baby,’ the nurse said anxiously. ‘I didn’t tell him anything.’
‘Have you spoken to anyone else?’ Carter enquired.
Vendela shook her head. He gave her a nod and put the key of the desk in his trouser pocket.
‘I can tell him you’re not in,’ suggested Vendela.
For a moment Carter considered the option, but decided that if Vendela’s suspicions were correct – and they usually were – it would only reinforce the impression that St Patrick’s Orphanage had something to hide. That made up his mind.
‘No. I’ll receive him, Vendela. Ask him to come in and make sure none of the staff talk to him. Absolute secrecy on this matter. All right?’
‘Understood.’
Carter heard Vendela’s footsteps as she walked down the corridor. He wiped his glasses again. Outside the rain was hammering against the windowpanes once more.
THE MAN WORE A long cloak, and his head was wrapped in a turban, which was pinned with a dark brooch shaped like a snake. He had the affected manners of a prosperous North Calcutta merchant and his features seemed vaguely Hindu, although his skin was an unhealthy colour, as if it had never been touched by sunlight. The racial melting pot of Calcutta had filled its streets with a fusion of Bengalis, Armenians, Jews, Anglo-Saxons, Chinese, Muslims and numerous other groups who had come to the land of Kali in search of fortune or refuge. The man’s face could have belonged to any of those races, or to none.
Carter could sense the stranger’s eyes burning into his back, inspecting him carefully as he poured tea into two cups on the tray Vendela had provided.
‘Do sit down,’ said Carter to the man. ‘Sugar?’
‘I’ll take it the way you take it.’
The stranger’s voice betrayed no accent or emotion of any sort. Carter swallowed hard, then fixed a friendly smile on his lips and turned round to pass his visitor the cup. A gloved hand, with long fingers sharp as claws, closed round the scalding china without a moment’s hesitation. Carter sat down in his armchair and stirred sugar into his tea.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Carter. I suppose you must be very busy, so I’ll be brief.’
Carter gave a polite nod.