Winter's Bite: A Clean Historical Mystery (The Isabella Rockwell Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  Winter’s Bite

  Book I of the Isabella Rockwell Trilogy

  HANNAH PARRY

  Copyright © 2014 Hannah Parry

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9573321-1-9

  Also available in trade paperback

  (ISBN-13: 978-0-9573321-2-6)

  Editing: Sue Tyley

  Cover design: Jane Dixon-Smith

  Layout: Lighthouse24

  Strategy: Mark Parry

  Table of Contents

  Trouble

  Journey

  Rooky

  Clan

  Promotion

  An Unexpected Friend

  Choices

  Be Careful!

  Breaking Away

  Betrayal

  Freedom

  Treason

  An Ending and a Beginning

  Book II Preview: Fever Quest

  Northern India

  July 1834

  It must have been the cry of vultures that brought Isabella back to consciousness. Or was it the bite of hot grit against her cheek, caked and dusty where her mouth had fallen open? She watched as the bird closest to her smashed a scorpion against a rock to get at the meat inside.

  She raised herself onto an elbow and looked at the tree nearby. Its shade, which spread so generously, had now, in the fierce overhead sun, receded to nearly nothing. She crawled over to its trunk nevertheless, dragging her bag and rifle with her, and sat in the tiny remaining patch of shaded brown dirt. Holding her canteen, she shook it. There was about two days’ water left in it, if she was careful. Putting the metal to her lips she took a sip, but she hadn’t anticipated the strength of her thirst - how good the cool water felt as it made its way to her stomach - and she was unable to stop. She knew she was reducing her chances of survival, but she couldn’t help herself, and she emptied the canteen in seconds. It dropped from her hand. She was unlikely to be using it again.

  With her thirst momentarily sated, Isabella looked up at the foothills surrounding her. This uninhabitable land had a strange beauty all of its own. Steep purple mountains rose all around her where nothing save the hardiest of scrubby bushes, grew. If she tilted her head right back, she could see mountain goats, white specks hopping from one precipice to another. Occasionally their hooves would loosen a stone and it would fall, dislodging others, in a soundless shimmer into the valley where she sat. Nothing else moved in the heat of the Indian noon, so hot each breath had to be taken with care. Nothing except the vultures that, who were hopping towards her for a closer look.

  Her fingers reached over the gravel for her gun. Light and tough, her father had said; the perfect gun for his girl. Tears sprang to Isabella’s eyes, but she brushed them away and, raising the gun, settled it comfortably into her shoulder. The blast scattered the vultures like rice thrown on the wind. She immediately reloaded and lifted it again, but she didn’t need to. She rarely missed, and this time had been no exception. She grimaced; vulture for breakfast, then.

  Isabella waited until her tree was protected from the sun by the shadow of a hill before building her fire. Then she plucked and cooked the legs of the vulture, pretending to herself all the while they were chicken, but she was hungry and had less difficulty eating than she had expected. By the time she’d finished, the shadows had lengthened, and some of the power had gone from the sun. The fire began to smoke and she leaned back into the tree with her bag on her lap and thought of the campfires at home.

  The night had always come with a curious swiftness, as if a giant finger and thumb had snuffed out the sun. She loved that time of night, when all the lanterns were lit, but it was not yet fully dark. Around the camp, small fires would spring up, as the men of her father’s cavalry regiment sat outside their barracks. As a very small child Isabella would sit, mouse-like, so the soldiers wouldn’t notice her, wreathed in the peaty smell of smoke from their pipes, listening to the rising lilt of Hindi and Pashto, until the languages became intelligible and she made them her own. They would speak of shocking things, certainly not meant for small ears, and then they would see her and laugh.

  She smiled to herself.

  They had never made her feel an outsider, and their children were her playmates. Soon the time came when, if you’d have asked her which was her nationality, she’d have found it hard to reply. Her parents were British, but it was Abhaya, her father’s housekeeper, who’d raised her; Abhaya to whom she’d sung her first words in Hindi; Abhaya who’d taken the place of the mother she’d never known.

  So where were they all now - those men who’d served loyally with her father for so many years that, with Abhaya, they were her family in everything but name?

  Isabella felt the tears start again as she thought of her father.

  It had been night the last time she’d seen him. She’d found him on the porch in his rocking chair, staring out at the horizon, a bottle of brass polish in one hand, and a rag, unmoving, in the other. His face hadn’t the sad expression that meant he was thinking of her mother. No. It was something else. There was hardness to his thought; his jaw line set beneath his moustache.

  “Father?”

  His eyes swiveled towards her, but she could see it was a moment before he brought her into focus.

  “You were a very long way away.”

  “Sorry, pet. I was.”

  “Is it the monsoon?”

  He smiled.

  “No, for once it is not the monsoon. Though I do dread it sometimes.”

  Isabella kept silent. Her mother had died during the monsoon, just a few days after Isabella, so though her birthday was always celebrated, it was also a time of sadness.

  Her father held out his arms to her.

  “Come. Sit with me.” Isabella arranged herself carefully next to him, enjoying the smell of hair tonic and the stables, which would for ever remind her of him.

  “Let me see your fingernails.”

  Isabella held out her hands with an inward grimace.

  “Did you have a bath?” he said, inspecting the semicircles of black beneath her nails. “Or was it the river?”

  Isabella couldn’t help but raise her eyebrows. How did he know?

  The screen door onto the porch slammed.

  “Abhaya.” Her father switched to fluent Hindi. “This child! I know she’s only a sergeant’s daughter, but she might marry well – a captain or an East India merchant and so keep me comfortably in my old age. How is that ever to happen, if she is so filthy all the time?” John Rockwell was laughing now, as the expression on Isabella’s face changed to outrage.

  Abhaya salaamed, her wrinkled face serious, though her eyes were smiling.

  “Sahib. I have often thought if I could place Isabella-bai in a stable next to her horse, then she would do very well. She could have oats, a hosing off and a rubdown every night. In this way she would be cleaner than she is now, and maybe enjoy it more.”

  John Rockwell chortled and Isabella scowled, replying under her breath,

  “I should be so lucky.”

  “Anyway, Sahib, I am here to let the child know her real bath is drawn, and that she should come whenever she is ready.”

  “Which means now?” Laughed John Rockwell.

  Abhaya salaamed again.

  “As you wish, Sahib.”

  She padded away.

  Isabella tightened her fingers around her father’s hand, but he undid them. A tiny chill touched her carefully on the shoulder. She looked back at her father’s face, but he was looking down.


  “I ride out tonight, Isabella.”

  His words were soft, but she felt her stomach disappear.

  “But … but you’re not ready. What about the men?”

  It usually took the camp at least a month to prepare itself for battle. Supplies had to be collected, uniforms and weapons polished, and tack mended. Given the distances in India, the cavalry could be gone for months on end. Then Isabella would watch from the top of a Betel tree as her father raised his sword and the glittering column of the 9th Queen’s Royal Lancers moved off. Sabres would rattle and excited horses would drum their hooves to unheard music, as the orange sun bathed them in its light. Isabella’s heart would overflow with pride. She would stay in the tree long after everyone else watching had gone, until all she could see was a cloud of yellow dust on the flat horizon which, when she looked straight at it, appeared not to be there.

  Her father cleared his throat.

  “The men aren’t coming. It’s just Josha Bilram and myself.”

  Isabella felt her mouth fall open.

  “Why just the two of you? Where are you going?”

  “It’s not something we are allowed to talk about. I myself only heard last night and Josha Bilram has been working hard all day so we might be ready. I am so sorry, dearest, truly I am. I had hoped to be here for your birthday, but now …”

  She swallowed.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that.”

  “No, I know, but still …” His voice trailed off.

  “Might you be away for less time, if it’s just the two of you?”

  “I don’t know, but two travel more quickly than one hundred, so we have that in our favour.”

  Isabella looked thoughtful.

  “Why are just two of you going? Are you spying?” Her face lit up. This was exciting. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why the Colonel is sending you. Otherwise he’d send Captain Evesham or Lieutenant Farrar. But they don’t fit in quite as well as you, do they? They’re too fair, and they speak Hindi with an English accent. Lieutenant Farrar can’t even squat,” she finished with disgust.

  Her father tucked an eyeglass into one eye and held her at arm’s length, looking at her intently. She could see her reflection in its shining surface, the large smudge on her thin face, and her nut-brown hair in disarray.

  Her father pulled on a curl.

  “You have your mother’s brains, thank heavens.” He smiled. “But I cannot speak to you of this, so please don’t ask me.”

  She nudged him for confirmation.

  “I am right, though?”

  John Rockwell held her close, looking out over her head to where clouds gathered on the far horizon.

  “The truth is, even I’m not sure where I’m going. You know of our problems along the Afghan border. The Russians would much rather they were in control of India than the British, so there are always uprisings to sort out and rebellions to put down.”

  Isabella frowned.

  “Why does anyone have to be in control of India? Why can’t India be in control of itself?”

  John Rockwell laughed and took off the eyeglass, rubbing it with the rag in his hand.

  “I often think the same thing. It’s such a beautiful country – I rather feel we ruin it.”

  “So why are we here?” Isabella persisted.

  Her father rubbed his brow.

  “India is rich. That’s all there is to it. Don’t let anyone tell you any different, about how the British civilised the Indians. That’s rubbish. It’s all about money and it always has been. India has spices, silks, jewels and gold, which England wants, so we trade, but it’s never a fair trade. We take far more than we give.” He was silent for a minute. “But then,” he continued in a softer tone, “for me personally, our occupation is a blessing. I would never have met your mother, never have had you, and never had the chance to live in this country, which I love more than my own. I’d be digging ditches in Ireland, and that’s if I were lucky.”

  “That sounds awful.”

  “Well, we are not well-born. I have no inheritance to leave to you and I must work for my living. India, at least, offers able men a chance to make something of themselves.”

  Isabella digested this.

  “I will get a job also, Papa, when I am grown.”

  Her father laughed.

  “Will you not marry?”

  Isabella wrinkled her nose.

  “What? So I can watch the children, whilst my husband goes out and has all the adventures? No, thank you. I shall be chief groom to His Majesty the Maharajah of Rajasthan.”

  He ruffled her hair.

  “Fair enough, but then you must learn your lessons well, for it is not a job for an uneducated person. On my return from this trip, I would be very glad to have a decent report from Miss Hobbs, especially in view of the last one.”

  Isabella hung her head and muttered, “Yes, Father.”

  John Rockwell patted her shoulder.

  “Come, cheer up. It’s not for ever. Soon your childhood will be gone. Then you’ll be free to make all the decisions you want, and all your mistakes will be your own.”

  How right he’d been.

  The following day had been the last time she’d seen him, laughing over his shoulder at something Josha Bilram had said, the camp behind him forgotten and his mind already on the task ahead. How she had wished she could go with him. To camp under the starry sky and shoot snakes from her saddle for target practice, leaving the schoolroom far behind. What wouldn’t she have given?

  Instead, she had returned to the porch and the comfort of Abhaya, who’d enfolded her in a vanilla-scented embrace.

  “Ai, Baba, I know, I know,” she had said as Isabella’s tears soaked her sari, “but he will return soon. Don’t be sad.”

  So Isabella had composed herself. Surely she was uneasy because it was the first time he’d ridden out alone. Nothing was going to happen to him and, though it might take time, he and Josha Bilram would come home.

  Occasionally, she would wake in the night and swing her legs out of bed to make her way to her father’s room for comfort, as she had when she was little. Then she remembered he was gone. After a few nights of this, she stopped waking at all.

  Three weeks later, however, she’d woken with a start, as if someone had called her name. It was the hour before dawn, and the night was close and black, monsoon clouds blocking out the stars. Isabella went to her window. As if from nowhere a wind blew through from the north, making her jump with its suddenness. It blew through the trees and blew through the stables, waking the horses. It blew through the porches, making shutters bang, and then, just as quickly as it had arisen, it left, and all became still once again.

  A sudden crash came from the living room. Her father’s portrait had fallen from its hangings, the frame broken, lying on the floor. Tucking it carefully under one arm she padded from room to room, securing the shutters. Then she closed the front door, and placed a statue of their family god against it. A tricky wind like that needed watching; it meant sorrow for someone.

  Three days later, she’d been with her horse and seeing the dark shadow of Abhaya’s head over the stable door, she felt a deep dread. Abhaya never came to the stables.

  “What is it, Mama-ji?” she asked, hardly wanting to look at Abhaya’s face.

  Abhaya took Isabella’s hands in her own work-worn ones, and sat her on a hay bale. Isabella felt her blood turn to ice.

  “Your papa, dearest.”

  Isabella shivered despite the heat of the day.

  “He was supposed to make a rendezvous … but he didn’t arrive. Nor did Josha Bilram.” Abhaya took a deep breath and held her close. “They found your father’s saddlebag. The leather had been torn, as if there’d been a huge struggle. Its contents were scattered. His horse was found dead nearby.”

  “His horse is dead?” These, oddly, were the first words from Isabella’s mouth. Not able to wrap her mind around the death of her father, all she could think of was hi
s horse. The one he’d hand-reared from a foal, and ridden to victory at the regiment gymkhanas, year after year. Now her father would whistle at the paddock gate and Flash wouldn’t come. “It must have been a very great fight for him to fall from his horse.”

  Abhaya nodded her head slowly, never taking her eyes from Isabella’s.

  “Yes, it must.”

  “Is there no sign of his body?”

  “No.” She rubbed Isabella’s hands. “Your hands are cold.”

  Isabella blinked.

  “I feel cold.”

  “Come, let us go inside.”

  As Isabella left the stables, she had wondered at how it was possible to enter a place as one person and, in such a short space of time, leave it as someone else.

  That night she had lain staring at the ceiling of her room. The mosquito net made everything look hazy and indistinct. She was dry-eyed and fearful. If she went to sleep she would have to wake again to a reality she didn’t think she could bear. Or was she asleep already? Isabella couldn’t tell. She knew Abhaya had plundered her store of healing herbs for something to help with her shock, but the medicine hadn’t worked. All she could see was her father’s body, blasted by the heat, flies at his nose and mouth, like the corpse she’d come across unexpectedly one day, half hidden in the blond grasses by the road into town.

  She closed her eyes tightly so the image was banished. Then she threw off the sheets. She hurried through the house, lit by the soft lamps Abhaya had left burning in case John Rockwell’s spirit needed to find its way home. Pulling saddlebags from a cupboard, she hastily stuffed some crackers and a canteen of water into them, before unlocking the gun cabinet. She lifted her gun down and held it for a moment feeling the weight of cold wood and metal, smoothing her fingers over the catch. It felt awkward and unfamiliar, though she’d handled it a hundred times before. Reaching up, she ran her fingers along the top shelf. Six cartridges rolled around out of their box. They would do. Now she was ready.

  The moon shone on the ground as she tiptoed from the porch, a breeze lifting the dark shadows of the trees surrounding the camp. In the corral, the horses stood snoozing, head to tail. Bumblebee whickered when he saw her, eyes bright and ears forward. She rubbed his neck.