The Faraway Drums (23 page)

“You have had so many adventures here in India—will you write a book about it all when you go home to America?”

“Maybe. But I think Mr. Kipling has cornered the market on stories about India.”

“Ah, how he maligned us up there in Simla with some of his stories. But then sometimes he could write the most marvellous tale. Have you read ‘The Man Who Would Be King?’”

“Yes.” I sipped my drink, tried to sound, oh, so casual: “Would you like to be King of the Himalayas?”

He gazed at the river a while and I waited for some sharp answer that said he had not been taken in by my innocent question. A kingfisher, late going home, skimmed the water, looking for an evening snack; then suddenly it was gone, disappearing into the blue shadows on the opposite bank. I remembered the old legend, that the kingfisher came out of the Ark as a dull grey bird; not knowing which way to fly, it flew directly into the setting sun, which burnt its breast red but left its back reflecting the green-blue of the evening sky. I noticed that the Nawab, moving closer to Delhi and the expected magnificence of the Durbar, was changing his colours. This evening he did not wear the white shirt and black tail-coat he had worn previously, but was in a pale blue
achkan
and breeches. He wore no jewellery, but perhaps he was holding that back for the final display.

At last he said, “No, I should not like to be King of these mountains. There are too many nooks and crannies where enemies might hide. I am a lazy man, Miss O’Brady. All I want is a quiet life.” He looked at me then and smiled. “A quiet, rich life. To play cricket all day and spend my nights with beautiful women.”

“Would your cricket leave you any energy to spend on the beautiful women? I’m told our baseballers do all their mating in the off-season.”

“
I field in the slips—one doesn’t have to expend much energy there.”

This was all too esoteric for me: what the devil were
the slips
? I hoped that Clive was working fast questioning the youngest wife from the
zenana
; I was not going to be able to keep going very long on the subject of cricket. But I dared not look back towards the tents where the
zenana
was quartered.

“Will you still play cricket when the British finally leave India?”

The light had almost gone now, but even in the falling darkness I sensed him stiffen. “Who told you they were going to leave?”

“They must go eventually, mustn’t they? Someone once wrote that the beginning of the end for the British Raj was the Mutiny. I did a lot of research before I came out here, Your Highness.”

“Call me Bertie. I don’t think you did enough research—or you read the wrong sort. The Mutiny was over fifty years ago—the English are still here. Do you see any evidence of their leaving?”

I realized I had taken too sharp a tack. I might learn something more about him than what he presented to the world; but the chances were I should soon be out of my depth. I had indeed done some research reading on the ship coming out to Bombay, but since my arrival I really had not seen any evidence that the British were ready to pack up and leave. Indeed, the coming Durbar might be just the reverse, a raising of flags and flourishing of trumpets to let the world know that they intended to remain in India.

I was saved by the approach of Magda Monday. She was the right one for the moment. Had the Ranee or Lady Westbrook come on the scene I fear the Nawab would have lingered only a moment, then politely left us. But another pretty woman, even if her looks could now hardly be seen in the gathering dark, would keep him interested. I wondered what beauties were hidden behind the veils in the
zenana
.

Magda lavished perfume on herself. Though she sat on the other side of the Nawab from me, I still got a very strong whiff of her. “What a lovely perfume!” said the Nawab, sniffing as if he had a cold. “Is it French?”

“Bulgarian,” said Magda, and seemed to send out another wave of it. It was like being down-wind from a rose-syrup factory. “My husband has it specially made for me. Do you like your ladies perfumed, Your Highness?”

Oh my God!
But the Nawab seemed to revel in the direct assault. “Of course. I noticed you aren’t wearing any, Miss O’Brady.”

“
I couldn’t find my eye-dropper.”

Magda laughed. She was like her husband: you couldn’t dent her with an axe. “Miss O’Brady prefers the subtle approach. But one only needs that with men who are afraid of women. And you’re not afraid, are you, Your Highness?”

Suddenly, perversely, I liked her. She was an old campaigner from the battles of the sexes; she had won her medals, perhaps by losing her honour, but she had certainly won them.

I wondered how Clive, who did not have a subtle approach with women, was faring with the Nawab’s youngest wife. Then we heard the shot from over behind the
zenana
tents.

End of extract from memoirs
.

II

Farnol had seen Bridie go down to sit with the Nawab and at once he had made his way discreetly, using the long line of tethered elephants as a screen, towards the
zenana
. The two tents housing the wives had been set well apart from those of the main party; two armed men from the Nawab’s escort guarded them. But a latrine shelter had been put up in a stand of bamboo behind the tents, and Farnol, standing by the last of the elephants, had seen one of the older wives go towards it without any interference from the guards. He stood and waited and two or three minutes after the first wife had emerged from the shelter the youngest wife came out of one of the tents and walked towards the bamboo. Once behind the screen of bamboo she moved quickly across to join Farnol.

“My name is Ganga, but you mustn’t mention it to my husband.” She spoke in Hindi, her voice just a whisper behind her veil. “I do not know what he would do to me if he knew I had spoken with you. He can be very cruel with his tongue sometimes.”

“What is it you wanted to tell me?”

“The other Englishman—Major Savanna?” The girl was trembling; Farnol could smell the fear in her. “The gossip is that you do not know why he was at Prince Mahendra’s palace.”

Farnol did not wonder how the gossip had reached the
zenana
: Indian ears, he knew, could hear whispers in a cyclone. “Do you know why he was there?”

“To see Prince Sankar.”

It
took Farnol a moment to understand whom she meant. “Your husband’s cousin?”

“Yes. The Rajah of Pandar. He was there at the palace the night we arrived. I saw him with Major Savanna.”

“Was Major Savanna all right when you saw him? I mean, was he ill?”

“I don’t think so. He was very angry. He and Sankar were arguing—it was a very fierce argument.”

“Could you hear what they were saying?”

“Only a word or two. They were in a courtyard below our rooms, but on the other side of it. I heard Major Savanna say your name.”

“Did you hear what he said about me?” Jesus God Almighty, could Savanna have been in the plot to assassinate him?

“No. I said, they were too far away. But once Major Savanna almost shouted your name, he was so angry.”

“Did any of the other wives see them?”

“No, I was at the window on my own.”

“Why are you telling me this?” He wanted to believe her; but she could be lying to him for her own ends. Or someone else’s.

She was silent. In the darkness she was a presence rather than a shape; it struck him that if she passed him in daylight without her veil he would not recognize her. All he knew of her was her eyes and her voice; the voice sounded like that of someone very young, a schoolgirl. Behind them the wall of elephants stirred restlessly; a
mahout
called out for them to quieten down. The night breeze rustled drily through the bamboo and over by the kitchen tent a cook screamed at some bumble-footed coolie. Dinner would soon be ready, he must be getting back to join the others before he was missed.

“I do not like being one of the wives—”

“Your husband must love you—” He didn’t really believe that.

“He tells me he loves me more than the others. But he tells that to all of us—”

He wanted to laugh. It was like some joke from
Punch
, if
Punch
went in for jokes like that.

“I want to leave the
zenana
.” He had to lean forward to hear her; she smelled of some musky
perfume
that her sweat of fear heightened. “Perhaps you could help me—”

Farnol saw the tiny red flash in the darkness in the instant that he heard the shot. Ganga fell forward into his arms and he dropped to the ground with her, waiting for the second shot. Behind him an elephant screamed and out of the corner of his eye he saw the long line swaying against the stars like a mountain range heaving in an earthquake.
Christ, they’re going to break loose and stampede!
Careless of whether there would be a second or third shot, he scooped up Ganga, got to his feet and staggered away from the elephants, plunging blindly into some bamboo and crashing through it as if it were no more than sticks of celery. He could hear the
mahouts
shouting as they tried to quieten the elephants, but the huge beasts were screaming and trumpeting and, faintly behind their clamour, there was also the terrified neighing of the horses.

He stumbled through some bushes, avoided a cactus tree more by instinct than because he saw it, and staggered out into the open beside the
zenana
tents. The panic was subsiding in the elephant and horse lines, the
mahouts
and
syces
gaining control. He stopped and laid Ganga on the ground, knowing as he did so that she was already dead. He was kneeling beside her when the Nawab loomed over him.

“What happened?”

Farnol stood up slowly, feeling for the first time the scratches and cuts from his crashing through the bamboo. People were crowding in behind the Nawab; the other wives, servants; but so far he had seen none of the Europeans nor the Ranee and Mahendra. For the moment he was in the Nawab’s territory, like someone trapped in an alien embassy.

“She is dead. Someone shot her.”

A bearer raised a paraffin lamp on a stick as the Nawab dropped to one knee beside his dead wife. It was as if he had not recognized the limp shape at Farnol’s feet; but now the yellow glow of the lamp showed her face with its veil torn away. Farnol was surprised how young she looked; she could not have been more than sixteen. Young and beautiful, but dead; the Nawab suddenly bent his head and gave a strangled sob. The other wives all began to weep then, as if they had been waiting for their husband to lead them by example. The servants looked neither sad nor curious, as if a death in the
zenana
could never touch any of them.

“I’m sorry, Bertie.”

Farnol
walked quietly away, the wives and servants opening up their ranks to let him through. He came out into the open to see Bridie and the others standing in a group outside the dining-tent.

“One of Bertie’s wives has been shot,” he told them.

There was a gasp from the women and murmurs of concern from the men. But Farnol was watching Mahendra, the only one who showed no expression at all. In the pale yellow light from the paraffin lamps in the dining tent, the young prince looked as if he might have been alone, lost in contemplation that had nothing to do with the tragedy of a moment ago.

“Who shot her?” said the Ranee. She sounded angry; but she could have been afraid. “Why?”

“Clive—” The Nawab had come up, stood on the edge of the group. “I’d like to talk to you. Alone.”

Farnol glanced at Bridie, wondering how successful she had been in distracting the Nawab’s attention before the shooting. But the light was not good enough for him to read any glance she gave him; he turned away and followed the Nawab down to the edge of the river. He was sickened and shocked by what had happened to Ganga, the effect doubled by the thought that he, and not she, had been the real target.

“What were you doing with Ganga?”

There was no point in lying: the girl was safe from any punishment Bertie might inflict on her. “She wanted to see me about Major Savanna.”

“She should have minded her own business. She’d still be alive if she had. What did she know about Savanna?” But the question seemed rhetorical; his voice broke. “She was the one I truly loved, Clive. But she never believed that.”

That’s always a problem when you have five other wives
: but one couldn’t say that without sounding flippant. Still, he was surprised at the sincerity of Bertie’s grief; the man had never shown himself to be anything but self-centred. “How old was she?”

“She would have been sixteen next week.”

A child, by his own standards: but then he had always been more interested in older women, whether English or Indian. “I never dreamed I was exposing her to any danger by talking to her. Except from you—I thought you might be angry with her if you knew.”

“
I’d never have hurt her.” Bertie waved a hand at the night: “But who would kill her?”

“Bertie—I think whoever it was, was trying to kill me. In the dark I think he was off target.”

“You should not have talked with her,” the Nawab said stubbornly, as if there were some hope that death could be rescinded.

Below them the river hissed and whispered and out in midstream a fish splashed, a large one, perhaps a
mahseer
. It seemed to Farnol, his mind still askew, that the sounds were sinister. Abruptly he wondered if Bertie had brought him down here to make him an easier target for that second shot. The moon came up over the valley’s rim like a yellow explosion in slow motion and he knew how clearly he must be outlined against the suddenly bright river.

“She told me your cousin Prince Sankar was at Mahendra’s palace the night before last, that he was with Savanna before Savanna became ill.”

The Nawab stared out at the river, sighed heavily. “I did not know that. I haven’t seen Sankar in, oh, almost a month.”