The Deceivers (9 page)

After breakfast he sat down at the escritoire in the drawing room with Mary beside him. Teaching her Hindustani was rather like schooling a spirited young horse. She had the will to learn and a quick, determined mind; she picked up the rules of the language and a large vocabulary far quicker than he had all those years ago; but she did not have his ear, the coordination between ear and tongue which could repeat a phrase, once heard, just as it had been said. She was determined to make the words go her way. It warmed him inside to watch her fighting the language as if it were an enemy, to be subdued by sheer will-power.

He said, ‘Now do you remember about post-positions?’

‘Yes. There are no prepositions in Hindustani. They are post-positions. They follow the word they govern. “For the cat” -- you say, “the cat, for”.
Billi
, cat;
ke-waste
, for;
billi ke-waste
, for the cat. The most common post-positions are
ha, se, ke-waste, ke-uper
, and so on and so on. Darling, I want to learn how to market, how to ask prices, and tell them it’s too much.’

Did he hear a horse? He cocked his head. It was the water- wheel. He said, ‘What? Oh yes. But it’s better in the long run to learn the language properly.’

She smiled affectionately. ‘I know you’re right, but I do want to know how to say, “That’s too expensive.’”

He recognized that this was going to be ammunition for her feud with Sher Dil. He said, ‘
Woh bahut mahngga hai.
’

‘
Woa bote mengga hi
.’

‘No, that’s not quite right. Listen:
wvoh b’hote mahngga hai
.’

‘That’s what I said. You’re not listening, William.’

He pushed his chair back and stood up. ‘I’m sorry, Mary. I -- want to work in my shop. I won’t need any tiffin.’ He hurried out of the room.

His shop was a wooden hut with a straw roof, standing at the side of the garden behind the bungalow. On the wall opposite the door five saws hung from wooden pegs above a long, wide teak carpenter’s bench. The light streamed in through the windows and shone on the bright, lightly-oiled surfaces of his tools, the shiny edges of wooden planks and blocks. The floor was clean; a wooden box under the bench held sawdust and wood shavings. George was on the road, and on George’s saddle the displeasure of England, and they were coming down on him together behind shortening shadows. Who said it was not important to stand well in the eyes of your fellows? Only cats were impervious to blame, praise, affection, doubt. He had watched Solomon for hours on end but could not see where the strength came from.

A heavy block of saj wood lay on the bench. He moved it with one hand, one motion, under the vice; one twist with his left wrist and the well-greased screw spun round and checked on the wood; his left forefinger steadied the toggle, pressed, the vice held. He took a scaleboard plane in his right hand, touched the block of wood lightly with the fingers of his left hand, pressed the plane down and forward. The plane bit whistled, the scaleboards rose and curled and passed into his left hand, and were laid on the shelf, each exactly one-sixteenth of an inch thick. The plane whistled, and the sure strong shuttle of his hands took him away from here.

‘I think I hear him coming.’ Mary stood in the door. The sunlight had moved off his bench. He put down his tools and followed her across the garden to the bungalow. From the road a voice called in Hindi, ‘Way there, make way for the sahib!’ The clip of hoofs was loud. ‘That’s him,’ William muttered and put on his hat. ‘Don’t you come out now, Mary. Three o’clock. This is the worst time for sunstroke.’

She stood on the verandah, her head in the shade, her dress shimmering bright in the diagonal sun. William walked down the steps. George rode slowly up the drive, followed by a running groom. He waved his hand in greeting and William waved back, looking at him half in admiration, half in envy. That was the way a man ought to look -- tall and fair, immaculate as the morning, riding a wide-nostrilled Arab with a long tail and long mane. George showed no dust of the road, no strain of the journey, no hint of the unpleasantness of his errand. George had a wide mouth, soft golden whiskers, and grey eyes. The sun struck the royal blue of his coat and reflected up, glowing and softening, under his chin.

William’s grooms ran out and held the Arab by the snaffle. George swung down from the saddle in a single graceful movement. He swept off his hat in salute and smiled with a flash of white teeth.

‘Morning, William. How’s our bridegroom? Recovered from the excitements?’

‘Yes. I’m all right. Fine. Come in. Have a peg?’

George ran up the steps and bent over Mary’s hand, brushing it with his lips. His glittering silver spurs hung just correctly loose, so that their chains clinked and jingled musically against the stone. Mary pulled her hand away. ‘Good morning, Mr Angelsmith. I trust you had a nice journey.’

‘Very pleasant, ma’am. And how do I find you?’

‘Very well, thank you. Would you care to eat soon?’

‘I had a spot of chhota hazri at Bhadora, ma’am, but to tell the truth I could do with a real meal and a little something to go with it.’

‘Good. I thought you might. Dinner is ready.’

George chattered amiably as he washed his hands in William’s bathroom. William answered in monosyllables and shuffled his feet. The shadow had come and lay over the house.

The dining-room was cool and dark. The sweat which had broken out on him when he saw George began to dry cold under his coat. Sher Dil served the meal; Mary’s deep, pleasant tones rang like a bell in the high ceiling; the bell was a little insistent. George’s light tenor rose and fell. Plates and dishes clattered softly on the sideboard. The waterwheel at the foot of the garden distantly chunked and gurgled. George and Mary held up the conversation.

They made a superb pair, one fair, one dark, both young and alive, both effortlessly capable in their spheres and sex. Two thoroughbreds -- with Dobbin the tertium quid. He watched them secretly, trying to see them both in full focus at the same time; but he couldn’t, because George was on his left and Mary opposite. George and Mary reacted on each other, and a tension grew wherever they were. He could not tell whether it was dislike that strained them or -- the other thing. He cut little pieces off his steak and could not swallow them; and drank the snow-cooled claret thinking it was water.

George drank down the last inch of wine in his glass and touched his napkin to his lips. Leaning back in his chair, he said, ‘A magnificent --’ But William could stand it no more. He jumped to his feet, the chair legs scraping agonizingly, and said in a loud voice, ‘Well -- er -- I expect we have a lot of business to get through, George, don’t we? I mean, we’d better start.’

George rose. ‘Too true, too true. Pray excuse me, ma’am.’

Then they were in William’s study, and William closed the door carefully. The windows on to the verandah were open. The sparrows had gone up to rest in the trees; the gardener was plucking weeds under the wall; the bullock walked round and round in endless circles at the well; the door of his carpenter’s shop needed a new coat of paint. He closed the windows.

Searching in the drawers of his desk, he found a box of cigars and held it out.

‘Cigar, George?’

‘I think I will, old boy. Thanks.’

Solomon lay asleep on the desk among the papers. William lifted him gently and put him on the floor. In silence the two men cut their cigars, pierced, lit, drew, puffed. William sat down at the desk. George stood by the mantelpiece, examining his cigar as if he found something of more than passing interest in it. William sat up. He had dreaded what was coming, but now that it was here a needle of anger pricked him. Damn them all, he’d done his best.

‘Well, what is it? A severe reprimand? His Excellency’s displeasure? What?’

George shrugged and waved his cigar. ‘You take these things too seriously, William. It’s not as bad as that. And if it were, who cares? The Old Man’s not pleased, not pleased at all. No mention of official sanctions, old boy, nothing like that. But he’s muttering to himself about you.’

George moved away from the mantel and sank into a chair, all in one of his single, easy movements. William clamped his teeth on the cigar.

George said, ‘But seriously, none of us can understand how this -- er -- massacre has not been discovered before. No reflection on you, you understand. The Old Man appreciates how well you know the natives, how good you are at keeping them happy. But there it is. He wants to know. Everybody wants to know.’

William sprang up and trod on Solomon’s tail. The cat howled, and both men started, then relaxed, and laughed. William sat down again.

‘I don’t know. I’ve sat here racking my brains trying to think what I could have done, and Reeves before me too, I suppose, and the Saugor Pandits before that. They can’t have wanted the gang to murder people in this territory, can they?’

‘Maybe. Get a percentage of the loot. The Old Man doesn’t though! Well, there it is. The murders are bad enough, old boy, but we all know murders can’t be entirely prevented here. What upsets the Old Man is that you don’t even know when one’s been committed. Old Griffin happened to be in Sagthali when your report arrived’ -- Griffin was the Collector of the Khapa District adjoining William’s to the south and west -- ‘you know what a livery old lecher he is. But he’s about the Old Man’s age, and they were cronies before they came to the parting of the ways -- rum.’ George lifted his elbow twice. ‘The Old Man still has a high opinion of him in some respects.

Griffin said, “Nothing like that could happen in my district. If it did, by God! I’d know the next day!” ‘

William stared out of the window. ‘Nothing like that in my district.’ He should hope not; the scale of murders was appalling enough; and the gang itself must have been kept alive for a century and more by new blood, by descent from father to son perhaps. It was unthinkable that two such bands should be operating in adjoining districts at the same time. One was enough for the smell of scandal to permeate up to the Governor-General. It was his own bad luck that the unique horror flourished in the Madhya District.

He said, ‘Perhaps Griffin would have found out if he’d been here.’ He remembered Mary at the grove, her driving anger, and her determination that he should root out these murderers. She might be listening outside the door. He would not put it past her. He said, ‘George, I’ll catch these people if it’s the last thing I do. I’ll go out after them. I’ll cross-examine every man who lives here or passes through, if it takes me all my time for the next two years. You didn’t see the bodies. I’ll get them!’

For the first time George seemed embarrassed. He blew out a slow cloud of smoke and said carefully, ‘William, I don’t think that would be advisable.’

William frowned in bewilderment. ‘Not get them? Why not?’

‘No, not spend all your time on it. You know, the Old Man really sent me down to talk to you about your Deori revenue assessment, and one or two other things.’

‘What other things?’ William knew the answer without asking but spoke to gain time to think.

‘Well, what happened at Kahari? Did that woman burn herself in the end? You forgot to mention it in your report.’

‘No, she didn’t. I don’t have to report women who think they’re going to become suttee and then don’t, do I?’

George eyed him speculatively, a tiny flush of colour tingeing the sunburn of his cheeks. ‘No. Well, of course, I’d happened to mention it to him, so he wanted to know. How did you stop her?’

‘The husband came back.’

‘To stay?’

‘No. He disappeared again.’ William was bogging down and growing angry. The woman waiting at the pyre came often into his thoughts, never bidden, always to torment him: right or wrong? He said, ‘What else?’

‘Oh, that case --
Sohan Lall v. Manohar Dass and Others
. Someone’s complaint about the grazing rights in the Taradehi forests, I think it was. Thakur Mall’s appeal came up, and the Old Man allowed it, and wrote a lot of rude things about your original judgement. Reversed your finding and annulled our sentence, in fact.’

‘But Thakur Mall is guilty!’

‘You and I know that, old boy, but the law, the evidence! There were irregularities. You didn’t do this and you did do that. In fact’ -- he stood up and walked slowly down the room -- ‘in fact the Old Man says you would be well advised to study your law books afresh; to finish the revenue statement before the end of the month; and dispose of all the outstanding civil causes you have on your hands.’ He softened the message by imitating Mr Wilson’s measured manner of speaking.

William didn’t want sympathy. He wanted Mr Wilson and the Governor-General in Council to understand what it was like here. He pounded the table suddenly and raised his voice to a shout. ‘
I’m doing my best!
Why won’t they give me time? Have they forgotten what it’s like in a district? If I spend my time in my office I can’t meet the people and find out what’s really going on.’

George Angelsmith cleared his throat.

William finished savagely, ‘Oh yes, I see! I don’t sit in my office, I don’t do any paper work, and still my people are murdered by the score under my nose! Look here, I’ve been thinking. This is obviously an emergency, something quite exceptional. If I can have an assistant, an Englishman, and an appropriation of a few thousand rupees -- just for this year -- for about forty extra mounted police, I’ll get this straightened out.’

George replied at once, as if the request had been foreseen and its answer prearranged. ‘Not a hope, old boy, not a hope. We’re all shorthanded, and there’s no money to spare. We’re not collecting as much from the district as the Mahrattas did. Dash it, you keep writing in to say the land revenue collections should be lowered.’

‘I know, but I do have a special problem here, don’t I?’ George shrugged his shoulders in answer and came to a halt beside the desk. William sat flushed and angry, staring down at the scattered papers. It was not really true that he had a special problem here. He had the ordinary problem, much intensified. Apart from the mounted police at his headquarters there was nothing -- nothing but the villages, each with its patel and watchman, and the zemindars and jagidars with their occasional posses of armed tenants and servants. Crime in a village could be detected because the watchman knew everyone’s comings and goings. Open armed robbery by strong roving bands -- of which the Pindaris had been the archetype -- could be put down by cavalry. But this that he had stumbled on was something between: too small, secret, and tenuous to be caught by cavalry; too large and mobile for the watchmen, who were in any case chained to their villages and could not know anything about the travellers who passed by on the roads.