Shadow of the Moon (56 page)

Alex was not thinking of Winter. He seldom had time to think of her, or allowed himself to do so. There were too many other things to think about. Too much that needed to be done, and always too little time in which to do it …

So Kishan Prasad was to be one of the hosts at the duck shoot - Kishan Prasad who never did anything without a reason. What then was behind this shoot at Hazrat Bagh? Could there be an ulterior motive behind such an arrangement? or was its aim merely to lull the senior officers and officials into a deeper sense of security and belief in the good-will of the local talukdars than they already possessed? It would, of course, mean that for the best part of a day the station would be practically denuded of British officers, as the majority of them were attending the shoot. Had anything been planned to take place in their absence? The armoury - the magazine—?

No, that was absurd. Kishan Prasad had said the hot weather. He would not have troubled to say that if it had not been true, and the real hot weather did not officially start until the end of April or the first week of May. Or had he been playing a double game? That would be like him. And yet— No, he had meant it. He could afford to hand Alex that piece of information, carelessly secure in the knowledge that no one else would believe it.

Sepoys … They had asked for sepoys to help put up the birds. Why,
when there were so many villagers and coolies that they could call upon? Was there anything in that? ‘…
this may do well enough for the villages, but it will not serve for the sepoys. For them it must be something that strikes deeper and touches every man. They are already as tinder, but there is as yet no spark. No matter; we will find it
.' Had Kishan Prasad found the spark he had spoken of? What had made him sure enough of himself to give that warning? - for it
had
been a warning …

‘I must see Packer and Gardener-Smith and Moulson in the morning,' thought Alex, ‘though they will none of them believe a word of it. However, they may be prepared to believe that the other man's regiment is rotten, and that may help. Surely they must know that their sepoys are being got at? What the devil is behind this damned duck shoot? There is something. I've felt it in my bones long before I even knew that Kishan Prasad was mixed up in it. Maynard says the police are firm. I wonder. Oh God, why won't they send out more British officers - call off the civil from mucking about with the Army, and throw out some of these decrepit senior officers! … William was quite right when he said that at the age at which officers become colonels and majors not one in fifty is able to stand the wear and tear of Indian service. Look at the way the magazines and arsenals have been left unguarded. If there is a rising in Lunjore, who is going to hold the magazine if they are all involved in it? Thank God, we've only got a small one! But there's the arsenal at Suthragunj: guns, arms, powder enough to blow up half of India, and only one Queen's regiment against three of Native Infantry and one of Native Cavalry if it ever came to— Oh, what's the good of thinking of it! It's not my pigeon …' His thoughts left the wider issues and drifted into the familiar pattern of planning for the we lfare of his own district.

The clock on the chimney-piece struck two and Alex removed his abstracted gaze from the ceiling and turned his head to look at Winter. He said slowly: ‘I didn't mean to keep you up so late. I'm sorry … Riding this morning?'

‘Yes.'

‘Where?'

‘Anywhere. To Parry's mound?'

‘All right. Six o'clock, then.'

They smiled at each other, their faces dim and peaceful, and Alex finished his drink and stood up. Winter rose with a rustle of silk and walked beside him into the hall where a sleepy servant squatted nodding by the dining-room door.

Alex said curtly: ‘Send the Sahib's bearer to him,' and the man scrambled to his feet and scurried away into the darkness as Alex turned to Winter and held out his hand:

‘Good night. Or Good morning. And I suppose I should also say, “Thank you for a very pleasant evening.”'

‘Was it pleasant?'

Alex considered the question, still holding the hand she had put into his. He had a habit of considering a question before he answered it, rather than returning a conventionally empty reply. He said thoughtfully: ‘Instructive, at all events. And I suppose tolerably amusing.'

He seemed about to say something else, but he changed his mind and was silent for a moment or two, looking down at Winter and not quite smiling, the line of his mouth unexpectedly tender. Then he lifted the hand he held, and turning it palm upwards, kissed it lightly and deliberately, and folding her fingers upon the kiss, released it.

There had been nothing in the least passionate in the gesture: it might have been either a wordless apology or a comforting caress given to a child. Then he had turned and gone out into the night, and Winter had heard him speak to a servant in the porch, and had waited, standing in the silent hall, until the sound of his footsteps died away in the darkness.

29

Less than four hours later Alex had been waiting for her on the Residency road, and they had ridden out through the quiet cantonments and across the rifle-range to the open country beyond, Niaz and Yusaf riding behind them.

The rifle-range was hard and level and the horses were fresh, so they did not talk much. But beyond the range the ground became broken, and they slowed to a walk, threading their way between rough tussocks of grass,
kikar
trees and thorn bushes, feathery clumps of pampas and outcrops of rock, to draw rein on the crest of a lonely knoll that was crowned by a banyan tree and the weather-worn slab of an ancient grave whose inscription was still faintly legible:
Here lyes the body of Ezra Parry of the Honourable Company of Merchants of London trading to the East Indies, the son of Thos: Parry and Susanna, who departed this lyfe the eleventh of October 1666
.

The sun rose as they reached it, and they sat looking out across the country beyond, while every blade and spear of grass flashed and glittered with dew-drops and the morning mists lifted in veil after veil so that the land seemed to unroll itself, stretching back and back into limitless distance.

Doves cooed among the branches of the banyan tree and a flight of wild duck whistled overhead, making for the jheel that lay ten miles and more to the northward. Winter turned to watch them as they dwindled into specks against the pale blue of the morning, and saw that there were other lines in the sky, long and wavering or forming neat dark arrow-heads; duck and teal and geese flying in from a night spent on the river or among the ploughed lands.

Alex turned his horse, and following the direction of her gaze said: ‘They will be leaving soon. This shoot will mark the end of the season.'

‘Where do they go?'

Alex jerked his chin to the north-west. ‘Central Asia - Outer Mongolia - Siberia. To breed. They will come back this way when the next cold weather sets in.'

‘That is Hazrat Bagh out there, isn't it? What lies on the other side of it?'

‘Nothing nearer than Suthragunj. But there are no roads.'

‘They are making a road,' said Winter, and pointed with her riding-crop to a thin brown line that wandered away across the plain.

‘Yes. That's a temporary track so that the ladies of the garrison can all drive out in comfort to watch the duck shoot. No expense is being spared to impress upon your husband and the garrison how friendly and co-operative our local landowners are, and I should dearly like to know—'

He did not finished the sentence, and Winter said curiously: ‘What do you wonder?'

Alex did not answer. Winter had discovered that he seldom answered a question unless he wished to do so; he merely ignored it. He turned now, screwing up his eyes against the dazzle of the newly risen sun, and said, ‘Listen to those partridges calling. I must bring a gun out here one evening.'

Winter was silent for a moment or two, listening to the clangour of the partridges and thinking of other things, and presently she said: ‘You had one yesterday, didn't you? A pistol, I mean. Do you always carry one?'

‘No. Only recently.'

‘Have you got one now?' inquired Winter.

Alex nodded, his eyes on a covey of partridges that whirred up from among the low thorn-scrub and skimmed away across the tops of the sun-gilt grass where Niaz sat his fidgeting horse at the foot of the knoll.

Winter said abruptly: ‘Will you give it to me?'

Alex turned sharply. ‘What?'

‘Will you give me a pistol?'

‘What for?'

‘I should feel - safer,' said Winter lightly, affecting an interest in a pair of weaver-birds who were fluttering anxiously about their dangling nest in a thorn tree below.

Alex surveyed her with narrowed eyes and said drily: ‘Thinking of shooting anyone?'

‘No,' said Winter soberly. ‘Not even myself.'

The Eagle snorted and backed as though he had felt a sudden jerk on the bridle, and there was a momentary silence while Alex brought him under control. When he had done so he inquired shortly if she had ever used firearms before.

Winter shook her head. ‘No. But I do not suppose it is very difficult, is it?'

‘Try.' Alex dismounted, and pulling the Eagle's reins over his head, whistled to Niaz and turned to help Winter from the saddle. The sunlight glinted on the barrel of the small Tranter revolver as he explained its mechanism.

‘Is it loaded?' inquired Winter.

‘My dear girl,' said Alex impatiently, ‘do you really imagine that I should carry one that wasn't? Here - take it. No, don't aim as low as that. Fire it in the air.'

The report sent Furiante dancing and snorting indignantly, and startled a peacock and his five demure brown wives who had been roosting unseen on the far side of a clump of pampas grass, sending them squawking away.

‘Well done,' said Alex approvingly. ‘You didn't jump; but you must allow for the recoil.'

‘Show me how.'

She handed it back to him and Alex said sharply: ‘Don't ever hand anyone a loaded weapon in that way again!'

There was a bright blue jay's feather caught among the thorns of a
kikar
tree less than a dozen yards away, and he jerked up his hand and fired. The feather vanished and Niaz, behind them, gave a grunt of approval.

Winter said: ‘Is that really the way to do it? Not taking aim?'

‘No,' admitted Alex with a grin. ‘That was just showing off. I apologize. I'll do it for you slowly this time. Stand behind my shoulder and look along the barrel.'

He levelled the revolver and fired. ‘Think you can do better now?'

‘Yes, I think so.'

Winter took the weapon less gingerly, selected a mark and pulled the trigger. Her slim wrist jerked to the kick of the discharge and the bullet went high of the mark. Alex made her fire the remaining rounds and then remarked: ‘Not bad. You can keep it.'

‘Thank you,' said Winter gravely. She held it out to him and said: ‘Will you reload it for me, please.'

Alex shook his head. ‘No. Not until I've taught you how to use it. For the present it is safer unloaded. And probably just as effective as a deterrent.'

He saw the hot colour rise in a wave from her throat to the roots of her hair, and had a sudden startled suspicion as to why she had wanted a pistol. Winter thrust the weapon into the pocket of her riding-habit and turned away to where Yusaf held the indignant Furiante, and Alex, following her, helped her to the saddle and stood holding her stirrup-leather and looking up at her under frowning brows. Winter did not return his look. The bright colour was fading from her face and her expression gave nothing away, and after a moment he dropped his hand without speaking.

They cantered back in single file between the high tufts of grass, the rocks and the flat-topped thorn trees, and when they reached the rifle-range broke into a gallop and did not draw rein until they came to the outskirts of the cantonments. Alex had stopped before the gate of the Residency, for his own bungalow lay barely a hundred yards beyond it, and said briefly: ‘Bring that pistol with you tomorrow and I'll teach you how to use it. It may come in useful.' He watched her turn in under the shadow of the gateway, and rode back to his own bungalow with an expression on his face that was anything but pleasant.

Winter had proved an apt pupil. She had an excellent eye and no tendency to gasp or flinch at loud noises, and within a week she could be trusted to hit a reasonable mark at ten paces and a larger one at twenty.

Alex had asked no further questions as to why she had wanted a pistol, and he did not know that three days after he had given it to her she had used it, unloaded but with, as he had predicted, a satisfactorily deterrent effect, against his superior officer.

Conway rarely visited his wife's room, but he had done so on the night
following the Tuesday party and had found it locked against him. He had created a scene, which availed him nothing. The next night, finding it still locked, he had decided to teach his wife a lesson, and on the following evening he had walked in upon her as she was dressing for dinner. He had been tolerably sober and therefore more dangerous, and had bellowed to Johara, who was sulkily assisting with his wife's toilet, to get out and stay out.

‘Now, my dear wife,' said Conway unpleasantly, his pale eyes red-rimmed with rage and brandy, ‘you will find that there are other times of day when I can demand your obedience. You can take that dress off again. You won't need it.'

Winter had remained unruffled. She had opened a drawer of her dressing-table and turned towards him with the Tranter revolver in her hand. She had been perfectly polite and quite definite. He had not married her for love, but for money, and he had got what he wanted and must be content with that. She would fulfil her duties as his wife in every way except this, but if he ever attempted to force his attentions upon her again she would shoot him.

‘Not to kill you, Conway. I shall stop short of murder. But just to hurt you painfully enough to ensure that such a thing does not occur again. I hope you realize that I mean it?'

If she had screamed or raged Conway might not have believed it. Because she did neither, but faced him with white-lipped calm, he had blustered and shouted and called her unprintable names, but had backed out of her room and had not attempted to enter it again. Later he had made an effort to find the revolver and remove it, but he had been unable to do so, and neither Yasmin or Johara had given him any help in the matter. After that, as he had little enough desire for her, he had left his wife severely alone. The revolver had served its purpose, but Winter continued to take instruction in how to fire it. Partly because it amused her, but largely because it gave her an excuse to see Alex.

Alex had taught her with a grim, unsmiling efficiency, making her load and fire, reload and fire again until her wrist ached. ‘You never know when it may come in useful,' was all he would say.

One day he had brought a rifle with him on the morning ride, and had told her to fire it. It was, he said, one of the new issue; the Enfield rifle that was to replace the old-fashioned infantry musket - the famous ‘Brown Bess' that had long outlived its usefulness.

He had made her lie down to fire it, holding the heavy weapon as though she had been on the range, and had lain beside her on the dew-wet ground explaining the method and mechanism and exhorting her not to hold it as though it were made of glass. The recoil had bruised her cheek and shoulder badly, and the bullet had gone far wide of the towering ant-hill, over two hundred yards distant, at which she had been aiming. Alex had refused to let her fire it again. He had fired it himself, and Niaz, seeing the distant explosion of dust, sucked in his breath and said ‘
Wah
!' in an awed voice.

Both Niaz and Yusaf had regarded the rifle with considerable interest. ‘Is it true that this thing will fire a ball many times the distance of the old ones?' inquired Niaz. ‘How is it done?'

‘It has grooved bores,' said Alex.

‘They will be difficult to load; especially when they are fouled,' commented Niaz, squinting down the barrel.

Alex shook his head. ‘Not so, for the cartridge papers are greased.' He took one out of the pocket of his riding-coat, and biting off the end, rammed it down the barrel to demonstrate, and fired again.

‘May I try?' inquired Niaz.

Alex handed over the gun and another cartridge and Niaz bit off the end and spat it out upon the ground. ‘
Pah
!' he said with a grimace. ‘With what is that greased?' He lay down, cuddling the butt against his cheek, sighted carefully and fired. A fluff of dust showed that the bullet had chipped the ant-hill, and Niaz laughed.

‘
Hai
! This is indeed a good weapon. Now all that we require is a war so that we may try it on an enemy!'

‘May a man buy such a gun for his own use?' inquired Yusaf, his eyes sparkling. ‘Beyond the Border such a thing would be worth many times its weight in silver.' Yusaf was by birth a Pathan, and blood-feuds added much to the excitements and hazards of life in his own territory.