Page 185 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden

‘I’m a friend of the Khans,’ Libby explained. ‘I’ve come to say goodbye. I’m leaving India. I just wanted to know that they were all right.’

‘I’m sorry but there is no one here of that name,’ said the man a little frostily.

‘But this flat belongs to them,’ said Libby.

‘That is not the case,’ said the man, growing agitated. ‘We have been renting it for a month. We have no knowledge of this DrKhan or his brother.’

‘Herbrother,’ said Libby. ‘DrKhan is a woman.’

‘We do not know them,’ he insisted. ‘I’m sorry but we cannot help.’ With that he closed the door on her.

Libby stood there reeling from the encounter. What did this mean? Had Ghulam’s landlord thrown him out? From the noise coming from the flat, it sounded as if several families were now sharing it. Perhaps they were migrants from East Bengal and the landlord was packing them in, making as much money out of them as he could. She turned away feeling disheartened and nagged by worry for her friends.

Libby made her way to the Eden Hospital. The place was even busier than when she had last visited. She waited ages before a harassed-looking Fatima emerged into the hallway from one of the wards. She caught sight of Libby and rushed forward.

‘Libby!’ she exclaimed. ‘They didn’t tell me it was you. I didn’t think you’d still be in India. How are you?’ She clutched Libby’s hands and Libby felt a tug of gratitude that Fatima looked pleased to see her.

‘I’m fine,’ Libby answered. ‘But what about you? I went to the flat and found strangers in your home. What’s happened?’

Fatima looked about nervously. ‘Let’s go on to the terrace for a minute while I explain.’

Outside, under the porticoed veranda, Fatima swiftly told her.

‘I’ve been living at the hospital since I last saw you. After that poor man was murdered, the landlord put up the rent of all the Muslims in the building – Ghulam said it was extortion and refused to pay so he was told to go.’

‘Where to?’ Libby asked, her stomach clenching.

‘He was living with Sanjeev,’ said Fatima.

‘Was?’ Libby questioned.

‘Until we heard from Rafi about my father’s heart attack,’ said Fatima, sorrow clouding her face.

‘From Rafi?’

Fatima nodded, her eyes glimmering with emotion. ‘He sent a telegram to me at the hospital. I wrote to my father but Ghulam got it into his head to try and get to Lahore and see him before ...’ She broke off, pressing a hand to her lips.

‘Ghulam’s gone to Lahore?’ Libby asked, aghast. ‘Is he safe? Is your father okay?’

Fatima shook her head and gulped. ‘My father is dead.’

Libby squeezed her friend’s arm. ‘I’m so sorry. Was Ghulam too late?’

Fatima let out a sob. Libby’s heart lurched.

‘What is it?’ she asked in fright. ‘Has something happened to Ghulam?’

Fatima struggled to control her voice. ‘I don’t know,’ she croaked. ‘He promised he would let me know when he arrived in Lahore but for three weeks I’ve heard nothing from him.’

‘Have you heard from Rafi or your family?’

‘Just a telegram telling me about my father just after Ghulam left,’ said Fatima. ‘I’ve sent messages to my father’s house asking and I’ve tried to ring but never got through. Everything is so chaotic. I don’t even know if Rafi is still there.’

‘So even if Ghulam had arrived, he would have been too late to see his father?’ said Libby.

Fatima nodded in distress. ‘I begged him not to go but he wouldn’t listen. He said he had to make his peace with his father and his family before it was too late.’

Libby’s stomach churned; she hardly dared ask. ‘Did he go by train?’