Princess Play Read online

  PRINCESS PLAY

  Volume II in the Kain Songket Mysteries Series

  BARBARA ISMAIL

  For my parents

  Contents

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter XXXII

  Chapter XXXIII

  Chapter XXXIV

  MALAY GLOSSARY

  MALAY IDIOMS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  KAIN SONGKET MYSTERIES

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  Chapter I

  Maryam could hear the drums thudding from across her village while she did the dinner dishes and knew soon enough that the chanting would begin. The patient in this exorcism, a woman of a certain age named Jamillah, worked in the main market near Maryam’s stall, which is why there was a bond between them, of neighbours and businesswomen, though they were not close friends.

  Jamillah was suffering from a variety of complaints, none of them serious on their own, but debilitating when put together. She was tired, she was occasionally vague and pessimistic, her arms ached and sometimes her back hurt. She was no longer the energetic and commanding mak cik she had been; several times Maryam noticed her stall had stayed boarded up during the business day, behaviour unbecoming any Kelantanese market woman.

  Her grown children worriedly intervened, calling in a bomoh, a healer, to diagnose her illness, and – it was devoutly hoped – to cure it. He concluded, after due examination, that Jamillah was possessed by spirits who yearned to be understood and propitiated, and he wasted no time in arranging for a main puteri, Princess Play, an exorcism which would allow him to speak to the spirits involved, learn what they needed and then provide it, thereby freeing Jamillah from the lassitude enveloping her.

  The drumming signalled the start of the ceremony, and the brushed and flattened dirt in the front yard of her house was becoming crowded with neighbours and family who travelled to show their support and concern. Jamilllah slumped spinelessly in the lap of her older brother, who struggled to keep her upright, while other relations sat next to him, sponging her face and encouraging her to take notice of the ceremony around her.

  Her husband was nearby, staring dreamily at the ground while emphatically not taking part in the group hug going on nearby. However, from the gimlet looks he received from his two daughters, it did not seem likely he would continue in his isolation. In the general uproar, Jamillah was clearly the centre of attention and, just as clearly, he was not.

  By the time Maryam and her husband Mamat ambled across Kampong Penambang, the bomoh had gone into trance and was in the possession of a princess spirit. In this state, he engaged in spirited repartee with one of his troupe to the amusement of the assembled crowd.

  The ceremony combined healing and exorcism with general entertainment, and since the bomoh’s research into the case provided him with a wealth of information about kampong gossip, the spirits themselves were able to comment pointedly on local affairs.

  Maryam took a seat among the women, next to her cousin Rubiah, while Mamat wandered among the men smoking cigarettes and buying each other cups of coffee from an enterprising barista who had set up shop on the periphery of the performance.

  Suddenly, Jamillah sat up straight, brushing off the hands of her relatives, raising her head high, her eyes flashing and alive, her expression imperious. She ordered the bomoh to account for himself in a voice not her own, and he bowed and scraped before her, offering a brief explanation of the problem as he saw it. In the background, the music continued, the drums joined by a flute and a fiddle.

  Jamillah, laid low by aches, pains and exhaustion, barely able to keep her eyes open moments ago, now rose and danced in the traditional manner: fluid, graceful, full of energy and skill. Her daughters gasped, though they expected it as part of the main puteri. But seeing their mother move like a young dancer – confident, commanding – was astonishing, like seeing this most familiar of figures as a stranger.

  The bomoh danced as her opposite, encouraging her first in this direction and then that, drawing her out in conversation. She gave her name as Mayang Puteh, a female spirit, and explained why she had invaded the body of Jamillah: to help her, to cure her, to encourage her spirit and life force, which was slowly draining away as Jamillah suffered, oppressed by evil, unable to rid herself of invasive spirits. She, Mayang Puteh, summoned by the entranced bomoh himself, would bolster Jamillah’s flagging spirit, and drag her, if necessary, back to health. So she announced, as she glided effortlessly around the open space.

  The appreciative murmurs of the crowd did not seem to please her husband, now being prodded by his son to smile and nod. His sulkiness was noted by Jamillah’s family, all of whom had heard about his recent lack of interest in her and her fear that he had turned his attentions to a younger woman. If that were the case, an accusation he strenuously denied, and for which even Jamillah could find no real evidence, then certainly he had not seen his wife as active and commanding as she was right now, the centre of attention and deservedly so. His children hoped this might change his perspective: his son encouraged him mightily to notice Jamillah and to admire her. The father smiled thinly, and nodded distractedly, watching his wife dance as she never had before.

  The ceremony continued until nearly dawn – trance interspersed with comedy, dancing, singing and chanting, and Jamillah was the star. At the end, Mayang Puteh left Jamillah exhausted but exhilarated, cured of her symptoms, and buoyed by the Princess Play. Smiling, Jamillah staggered to her bed, from which she never rose again.

  Chapter II

  The Kota Bharu pasar besar, or main market, dominated the centre of town. It towered two stories high, with the cloth and produce sellers on the first floor as well as the building perimeter outside, while takeaway food and drinks were sold upstairs.

  Maryam had inherited her cloth stall from her mother, who got prime territory when the building first opened, and she was in the middle of the market, on the widest lane winding through the stalls. She sold the pride of Kelantan, kain songket, fine silk woven with geometric designs in beaten gold thread.

  Kampong Penambang was the hub of the songket trade and was littered with songket looms throughout. The main road from Kota Bharu to the beach, which also served as the village’s main (and only paved) street, was dominated by imposing songket emporia, monuments to the songket trade, and Kampong Penambang’s place in the centre of it.

  Maryam was energetic and sturdy (as she liked to think of it). She had lovely eyes, large and liquid brown with long lashes, and a round and cheerful face with a small nose and full lips. Her hair was rarely seen at work, when it was bound in a cotton turban, almost always some shade of blue, her favourite colour. She wore, as did just about all of the women working at the market, a practical sarong covering her from waist to ankle and a long cotton shirt over it.

  In the waist of her sarong, where it was tied, she kept a stash of home-rolled cigarettes, to which she of
ten had recourse during the day. Mamat smoked Rothman’s cigarettes, store-bought in a cardboard pack suitable for offering around in the coffee house, but Maryam didn’t feel right spending so much on her own: she was comfortable with a more slapdash look to her tobacco.

  In addition to songket, Maryam also sold cotton batik sarong, made by her brother Malek in his factory just down the road from where Maryam lived. She adored Malek with the enthusiasm of a little sister, which she maintained even in adulthood, and Malek, for his part, seemed to believe she was still eleven years old and was accordingly protective.

  It amused Mamat to watch his otherwise completely take-charge wife defer to her older brother, and he in turn expressed concern as to whether Maryam should be coming home from the market alone after dark. Privately, he pitied any thief who tried to wrest her fabrics from her, but he amiably agreed to ferry his wife home every day, as he had always done.

  Like Mamat himself, Malek cultivated a luxuriant moustache, which he stroked thoughtfully when he needed time to think. Maryam, of course, thought he was marvellously good-looking and didn’t shrink from reminding her sister-in-law how very lucky she was. Malek’s wife was a good-natured woman who usually, though not always, reacted with a smile to these pronouncements.

  The morning after the exorcism, Maryam and Mamat piled folded lengths of songket carefully on the back of Mamat’s motorcycle. As Maryam leaned over the side, adjusting the rope holding them in place, a commotion began across the village. She looked up in mild surprise: the kampong was usually quiet at this time of day, with people concentrating on getting to work or preparing breakfast rather than socializing. But this was not socializing either: the talk was strident and getting louder. Shooting Mamat a questioning look, she walked towards the activity, hearing snippets of conversation.

  ‘Just like that …’

  ‘Last night, she was so happy …’

  ‘Not a mark on her …’

  Maryam picked up her pace, her heart now beating faster. Jamillah’s oldest daughter, Zainab, pressed her hands over her temples and looked around wildly. ‘It can’t be,’ she repeated.

  ‘What is it?’ Maryam asked to no one in particular, though she believed she now knew what she would hear.

  ‘She’s dead,’ their nextdoor neighbour answered, looking confused, as though she couldn’t understand what she herself was saying. ‘I mean … Aziz tried to wake her and she just … didn’t …’ She ended lamely: ‘She must have died during the night.’

  Maryam turned to Zainab. ‘Nab, what happened?’

  Zainab looked at her wide-eyed, her hair disordered and becoming more so with each movement of her hands, which she did not remove from her temples. ‘I don’t know, I don’t know. She was fine going to sleep last night. Nothing happened. Then this morning …’ She bit her lip, unable to go on.

  ‘Has someone gone for the police?’ she asked gently, and Zainab nodded. ‘My husband. I don’t know why,’ she added vaguely. ‘Why the police? No one could have hurt her: we were all there!’

  Maryam soothed her. ‘Well, it’s better to have them take a look. After all, it’s unexpected, we should check …’

  Zainab’s younger sister, Zaiton, came down the steps of the house, and put her arms around her older sister, resting her forehead on her shoulder. She said nothing: the two women held each other in silence. Maryam patted them on the back and looked around for their father. After a moment, she asked softly, ‘Where is your ayah?’

  Zaiton picked up her head to look at Maryam. ‘In there,’ she indicated the house with her chin. ‘He’s sitting with her.’ Maryam nodded, and walked toward the house, leaving them to each other.

  Her neighbours milled about at the bottom of the stairs, clearly unwilling to go up into the house, but feeling they ought to do something. Maryam nodded to one, indicating she would go inside, when a firm hand clamped onto her shoulder. It was her cousin Rubiah: her best friend and colleague.

  ‘What happened?’ Rubiah asked, guiding Maryam away from the house.

  ‘She died.’

  ‘Just like that?’ Rubiah looked surprised.

  ‘I guess,’ Maryam answered doubtfully. ‘I just heard. She didn’t wake up this morning.’

  ‘But last night …’ Rubiah trailed off. She looked a lot like Maryam, though her eyes were hidden now by her glasses. ‘People don’t die just like that.’

  Maryam shrugged: it felt as though she was doing a lot of that right now. ‘Zainab says they went to get the police.’ Rubiah rolled her eyes; Maryam knew what she meant, but the police would just have to do.

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ she insisted. ‘I’m not getting involved here. I said never again!’

  Rubiah nodded, and let out a long breath. ‘Good, I just wanted to be sure.’

  The police arrived in three cars, lights flashing, going slowly over the rutted dirt kampong roads. Kota Bharu’s Chief of Police Osman thought, certainly not for the first time, that they would make a far more dashing entrance on a paved road, where they could come in fast and squeal the tires to a dramatic halt before the crime scene. But village roads required very careful driving if you didn’t want to break an axle, and the painstaking avoidance of many holes required a crawl up to the scene, which was quite unsatisfying.

  Police chief Osman stepped down from the car, and looked around the crowd. He caught Maryam’s eye, and it appeared to her he sighed with relief, although he had no reason to, since she wouldn’t be drawn into this case. Nevertheless, he passed her as he approached the house and motioned her to join him. She wouldn’t help, of course, but was very curious about what had happened and, ignoring Rubiah’s frown, followed him up the stairs.

  It was still dark in the house; not all the shutters had been opened. No one was in the living room, though two tikar, sleeping mats, still lay on the floor. In the bedroom, Aziz sat on the bed next to Jamillah, silent and bent, her hand in his. Osman cleared his throat as he entered the room.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Pak Cik,’ he said quietly, walking to the other side of the bed. He bent over the body, looking at the neck and the wrists. Maryam craned her neck, to see it all. She could find no mark on the body at all, and nothing amiss on the bed.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked Aziz.

  He shook his head pitifully. ‘She just didn’t wake up. She looked so good last night, so full of energy.’

  ‘At the main puteri?’ Osman asked, just to be sure.

  Aziz nodded. ‘Yes, she’s been sick for a while. Very tired, not herself. But you should have seen her last night! Dancing! You saw it, right?’ He turned to Maryam.

  She agreed. ‘She danced beautifully. And so much energy! You could see she was cured.’

  ‘Could she have overdone it?’ Osman asked, his eyes still on Jamillah. ‘Maybe coming out of her illness …?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Maryam said shortly.

  ‘No!’Aziz’s response surprised them. ‘She didn’t overdo it. I think someone killed her. She wasn’t ready to die.’

  If Jamillah had died during the night, surrounded by people, it seemed likely the first suspect would be the person sleeping next to her, who could do it (or something) without having to climb over anyone to get to her. And Aziz would be that suspect – so it seemed odd that he would be the one insisting on murder. Or was this a clever ploy to be first to mention what other people might be thinking in order to deflect suspicion from himself?

  Osman reflected that he might have been in this job too long, already thinking like this in the presence of a bereaved widower, with his wife so recently gone.

  ‘Look,’ Aziz continued, pointing to her collarbone. ‘There are marks.’

  Osman and Maryam both leaned in, following his pointing finger. There were faint blue marks on her neck, which, if you looked at them a certain way, might have been from a hand. From another perspective, they didn’t seem to be there at all. Maryam cocked her head in different directions while squinting, trying to bring the marks into
some kind of pattern. But instead, they glided in and out of sight.

  ‘Pak Cik, did you wake at all during the night?’

  Aziz launched into an impassioned speech. ‘I didn’t wake up. We hardly had time to sleep by the time everything was over. She was tired, I could see that, but excited too. I was happy for her. I wanted her to be healthy, so I was relieved. I never expected … well, who would ever expect? You never think, do you? My children are all here, it was crowded. Why would I think …?’ He stopped suddenly, as though a battery had gone dead, and looked at Osman, waiting for a reply.

  Osman, however, had not yet mastered the Kelantan dialect, though he had lived in Kota Bharu nearly two years now. He was from Perak, on the west coast, and Kelantan’s colourful dialect completely eluded him. It remained a real stumbling block in his investigative process, since it precluded him from conducting many interviews without the help of an interpreter. Aziz’s tumble of words went right by him.

  Maryam calmly gave him a synopsis of what had been said; the look on Aziz’s face as he heard the translation spoke volumes on his opinion of Malay police officers who couldn’t understand what other Malays were saying to them.

  ‘Maybe ask a doctor to look at … her,’ Maryam urged. ‘Otherwise you’ll never know whether there are marks or not. I certainly couldn’t tell you.’

  Osman nodded, touching Jamillah’s wrist as though searching for a pulse. ‘We’ll need to know,’ he agreed.

  ‘Not we,’ Maryam quickly corrected him. ‘I’m not here. I can’t do this again.’

  Osman looked morose, but thought better of arguing. Now was not the time.

  Chapter III

  The doctor at Kota Bharu General Hospital duly opined that Jamillah probably died from asphyxiation. ‘I don’t think strangled,’ he explained, ‘because the prints are so faint. Strangling would have to exert far more strength. But she was kept from breathing.’

  ‘A pillow, maybe?’ Osman ventured. ‘She was sleeping, so a pillow would be handy.’

  The doctor agreed. ‘It certainly could be. We could do tests to see, but the family would have to postpone the funeral.’