The Moneylenders of Shahpur (22 page)

Immediately the police jeep was noticed coming down the lane, the stallholders shot back to their vegetables and began assiduously to rearrange them; the open-mouthed women pulled their plain white saris over their heads and became anonymous bundles hurrying through the far archway, following their menfolk. After them ran a bunch of little urchins afraid of being left behind.

The old American army jeep slid to a stop on its smooth tyres, and the Bengali police chief leaped out. A constable dropped off the back of the vehicle and hammered on the door with his rifle butt. The iron bar across the inner side squeaked as it was turned, and the nervous chowkidar let in both the police chief and three constables.

Despite the melting away of possible witnesses, which he had observed as he came into the small bazaar, the Bengali was hopeful that he might now get a lead on the dacoits. In the back of his mind, he had rather expected that an attack might be made on Mahadev. The passengers in the held-up train would have seen only a vague collection of men with their faces covered; Mahadev had left his carriage and might easily have seen how they moved the loot.

Old Desai was amazed to see the police arrive so fast. He was in the process of going through Tilak’s pocket book, so that he could identify him when he himself telephoned the police.

‘I telephoned them as soon as I saw what had happened,’ his younger son told him.

The Bengali, as he approached and heard his remark,
smiled with approbation on the stout accountant. ‘Very wise,’ he told him. ‘There are not many entrances to this area, and I sent men on bicycles to block them immediately.’ He shrugged, as he approached Tilak’s body, lying on a narrow bed in the shade of a loggia. ‘Of course, if the man climbed a wall and went through one of the Societies, we might not be lucky.’

Chairs and glasses of water were brought and, while his men lounged on the other side of the compound, the Bengali got down to detail. The contents of Tilak’s wallet had hardly yielded the letters about the Fellowship, which gave his name and Bombay address, before old Desai’s office telephone rang. A nervous clerk came to say that the police chief was wanted on the line.

The Bengali listened intently and said, ‘Charge him.’ He slammed the receiver down and came crossly back to the waiting Desais. While they waited, he sat down and lit a cigarette. At last, he addressed old Desai.

‘We’ve got the man. He ran into the arms of one of our men on his usual beat, struck the constable and was arrested for assaulting a police officer. He fits your description.’

Everybody present sighed with relief. The Bengali continued to stare at the body. Then he added, ‘He’s not a dacoit. He’s known to the beat constable. He was a shoe merchant on whom you foreclosed, and he’s been known to utter threats against you.’

‘I didn’t recognize him,’ said old Desai.

‘There’s a lot of difference between a well-to-do merchant and a mad, starving beggar,’ replied the Bengali and swung off his chair and on to his feet.

The group of men in front of him stiffened visibly, as they realized his contempt for them, in spite of their wealth.

The detective called his men over, and told them to bring a stretcher and remove the body.

He had seen a lot of death, had this small Bengali; yet it angered him that a man clever enough to obtain an English scholarship had died instead of one of these accursed moneylenders. His small, snakelike eyes regarded Desai. ‘You were fortunate that such a brave man was near. Otherwise, you would undoubtedly have lost your son.’

‘Yes,’ said Desai, who by this time was feeling that he had had as much as he could endure, ‘I am grateful to him – very grateful.’

Remorselessly, the Bengali then went on to upbraid him for allowing a material witness like Mahadev to depart from the country.

Old Desai was nearly sulky when he replied, ‘I was afraid there might be other dacoits in the crowd; they might have struck again. How was I to know he was only a debtor of ours?’

After warning old Desai to hold himself in readiness to attend the inquest and the subsequent trial, the detective followed his men swiftly out of the compound, and left the demoralized Desais to their own consciences.

As the stretcher-bearers lifted the stretcher to put it into a small van which had drawn up behind the jeep, the Bengali stopped them. He lifted the cloth laid over Tilak’s face and looked down at the beautiful, calm features. He was remembering a remark of one of the older ladies, when he asked if anyone knew the victim. She had said, ‘Our new daughter seemed to know him – she turned to look at him, before he was struck down.’

As he let the cloth drop, he muttered, ‘I wonder why you were in this unlikely part of town this morning? Was there a connection between you and the new bride?’

The puzzled bearers pushed the stretcher into the vehicle and slammed and locked the doors.

The Bengali returned to his jeep and climbed in beside the driver. He wondered if he had stumbled on a love affair as well as a murder, and, with all a Bengali’s understanding of the passions of human nature, he decided it was unnecessary to intercept the younger Desais at the airport; he could get a conviction without them. In his own mind he was certain that the victim had given his life for the sake of the girl – old Desai’s exact description of the movements of his son and his wife and the beggar at the moment of the tragedy made that fairly clear.

As his driver took him slowly through the ancient streets, he thought about Mahadev Desai and his new wife, and then about the fine scholar whose life had been so summarily ended. There was a story there, he was sure of it.

He threw his cigarette end out of the window and it was immediately pounced upon by a beggar. Who am I to muddy the water further, he asked himself angrily. Tilak Sahib, rest in peace; I’m going to hang the bastard that killed you; but it’s one of those cursed moneylenders who should be at the end of the rope – they drove him mad.

The news of Tilak’s murder came too late for that day’s newspapers, and the Bengali police chief, taking his address from the letters found on him, informed only his family in Bombay. Neither John nor the barber who had come to cut his hair that afternoon, were, therefore, aware of it. John, however, was not in the best of tempers; he felt indescribably petulant and he had been unable to concentrate on his writings. The arrival of the barber had been a relief, and he limped out on to the veranda and sat down in his basket chair.

The barber wrapped a clean towel round his neck.

‘Have you got my comb and shaving brush?’ asked John. ‘I prefer them to yours.’ And he looked with distaste at the grubby shopping bag of barbering necessities lying on the veranda floor.

The barber looked pained and his beautifully waxed moustache twitched with irritation, but he answered, with a slight bow, ‘Of course, Sahib. Ranjit has brought everything, including hot water in your own lota.’ He pointed to the little brass vessel sitting on the veranda rail.

‘Good,’ grunted John. ‘Very well.’

The barber began to comb. Since all Englishmen have an unnatural interest in the weather, he talked about the weather. Diplomat, gossip, messenger, the barber studied all his customers, and, as he went from house to house and village to village, he retailed the news, views and scandal of the district, slanted according to the views he supposed his customer of the moment held.

‘Getting a little thin just here,’ he announced, planting an accusing finger on a non-existent bald patch amid the thick thatch on John’s head. He put down his comb and rummaged in his shopping bag.

‘To avoid losing one’s hair it’s important to oil it daily. Now I have here a new oil which many of my customers are finding most efficacious …’ and he waved a bottle in front of John’s nose.

John blinked as the bottle sailed dangerously near, but managed to read
Asoka Medicinal Hair Tonic
on a flower-decked label.

‘What does it smell like?’ he asked doubtfully.

The barber whipped out the cork and a tremendous perfume immediately enveloped them both.

‘I’d rather be bald,’ said John decisively.

The barber bit his lower lip and looked hurt, then he surveyed John’s head from the front, cocking his own head first on one side and then on the other. ‘Well, of course, it doesn’t show in front,’ he said at last, ‘but it won’t be long.’

‘I couldn’t stand it,’ said John, all his sales resistance hastily marshalled. ‘Perfumes – er – perfumes make me sneeze,’ and he sneezed to demonstrate the fact.

The barber leaped out of range of any droplets, and said with a regretful sigh, ‘Pure mustard oil might help, though I think it’s really too far gone for that.’

Frown lines on John’s forehead warned him that his customer was getting irate.

‘Well, well, never mind,’ he said. ‘I expect you would like a shave, as usual, Sahib.’

‘Yes,’ John replied.

‘Ears cleaned? They need it – you’ve got hairs growing in them.’

‘Very well,’ his customer agreed resignedly.

‘Nice wedding Mehta Sahib had for his daughter,’ said the barber as his scissors clipped merrily.

‘I expect so,’ said John. ‘I didn’t go to the wedding – only to the reception for friends the next day.’

‘Oh, it was very fine indeed, though the number of guests was limited by the size of the compound. She has married a very fine gentleman – his toenails were clean and well clipped,’ he added as a professional detail.

‘Did you get the toe powdering job?’

‘Yes, indeed. I did his brother, too, when he was married.’

‘Decent tip?’

‘Fair, fair.’ The barber did a rapid run round John’s left ear with the scissors. ‘Of course, they’re moneylenders – but so rich, Sahib, it is unbelievable. You should have seen the gifts.’

‘I can imagine them.’ John ducked as the scissors shot across his forehead.

‘Keep still, please, Sahib.’

The barber stepped back in order to view his handiwork, and then said coyly to John, ‘I hear you’re considering marriage, too, Sahib.’

‘What?’ shouted John, sitting up in his chair so suddenly that he nearly lost an eye to the advancing scissors.

The barber jumped backwards, scissors held engarde, his professional aplomb severely shaken. ‘I – I – er just heard a little word about it,’ he said, eyeing John nervously.

John laughed at him and relaxed again into his basket chair.

‘Wherever did you hear it?’

The barber took up his comb and combed furiously, while he considered his reply. He bent his head to look at the hairline he had trimmed. ‘I think that’ll do,’ he muttered, and whipped a hand mirror out of his shopping bag.

John glanced at himself in the tiny mirror. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘No oil. Where did you hear it and who is to be the bride?’

‘Aren’t you going to be married, Sahib? I must say I thought it unlikely, in spite of other rumours to the contrary.’

He looked down at John’s spare body and the hurt legs.

John was irritated by the look. ‘Well? I want to know who I’m to marry – Miss Prasad?’

The barber ventured a snigger at the mention of this prim, dedicated female. ‘No, no, Sahib. The English lady with the copper-coloured hair, Sahib. She’s often in the villages, working with Dr Ferozeshah. I don’t know her name.’

‘Oh, Miss Armstrong. Well, she’s a friend of mine. I wonder why anyone should think I’m about to marry her, though.’

‘It was your inquiry about the house which Dean Mehta rented temporarily for his daughter’s marriage. It’s to let again. A good house, Sahib, with its own well.’

Despite being smothered in shaving soap, John sat bolt upright in his chair.

‘Look here,’ he almost shouted, ‘I haven’t made any inquiries about that house.’

The barber tut-tutted and wiped soapsuds off John’s eyebrows.

‘The landlord himself told me, Sahib; I came straight from him to you. He said you had asked about repairs and rent, so naturally he assumed you were about to marry – the lady comes to see you regularly.’ The barber waved his razor in the air rather hopelessly. ‘It seemed quite natural, Sahib.’

John sniffed. ‘I’ve made no inquiries and I don’t intend to get married just to please my neighbours. The man must be out of his mind.’

‘Just bend your head a little to the left, please, Sahib. That’s better.’ The fearsome razor swept gracefully round
his neck. ‘Your skin is not what it might be, Sahib. The sun is very hard on white skins. Now, I have here …’

‘No,’ snapped John resolutely. ‘My old red hide is doing quite well, thank you. Married, indeed.’

‘Well, Ranjit said it would be quite soon.’

‘He did, did he? Hmm. I suppose it was he who actually saw the landlord?’

‘Of course, Sahib.’ The barber was by now completely bewildered, and silently tackled the cleaning of John’s ears, while John sat and fumed.

The mirror was again produced and John looked at himself.

For the first time for years he really considered what he looked like. Heavens, his face was seamed and weatherbeaten, and was that really grey hair at his temples? Surely, at thirty-four he should not be grey?

The crushed barber saw his client’s fingers stray up over the offending skin and hair and hastened to pay a compliment.

He smiled ingratiatingly and said, ‘Most distinguished-looking, Sahib.’

‘Humph,’ said John, nonetheless slightly comforted. ‘How much?’

The barber was paid, packed his shopping bag and retreated down the path to the compound gate, promising to come again in two weeks’ time.

‘Ranjit!’ roared John, and, at the tone of voice, Ranjit appeared with the speed of a rabbit, hastily wiping his wet hands on his sweat cloth.

‘Just what have you been doing? That lunatic of a barber said you were inquiring about the house for rent down the road.’

Ranjit swallowed, considered what he should say and only succeeded in looking very guilty.

‘Well, Sahib, it … er.’

‘The wretch suggested I was going to be married … now I’ll be bothered by everybody asking me if I am, blast it, and every tradesman in the district will try to sell me things. What on earth have you been doing?’

‘I happened to meet the landlord, Sahib, and I asked him – er, out of general interest, Sahib. You will remember that we were talking about the need for you to have a better house a little while ago?’

John took a large breath and reminded himself that Ranjit was his most devoted friend.

‘And getting married?’

This question in Ranjit’s opinion demanded a straight answer. It was obvious that his young master – John was permanently about eighteen in Ranjit’s mind – did not know what he was doing. Otherwise he would not ask such a silly question.

‘Sahib, even in England, if you favour a young woman with your interest and she eats with you and you sit close to her, doesn’t that mean that you’ll marry her?’

Despite his indignation, John’s eyes began to twinkle. ‘It depends on your intentions.’

‘A man such as yourself could not possibly have any intentions, except marriage,’ declared Ranjit stalwartly, but wondering suddenly if Englishmen were, perhaps, a little like Indians in some respects.

John’s temper had cooled. He took out his pipe and lit it, putting the dead match carefully back into the box, before he answered.

‘I’ve no intentions at all, Ranjit. You know that my legs are a mess. They don’t work very well and they are scarred. I’m also no longer young. I wouldn’t like to ask a woman to marry such an old crock.’

Seeing that the storm had passed, Ranjit ventured to sit
down on the top step. He rubbed the grey stubble on his chin, as he considered John’s last remark. He loved his master, as if he were his own son, and enjoyed serving a bachelor, but lately the Sahib had been fretful without reason. He had seen him watch the little Memsahib go down the path to the gate, and then turn back to his desk, to sit silently staring at the papers before him, unable to work.

It was the law of all Hindu families that parents should marry off their children. Men and women should enjoy their spouses and only in age turn to asceticism. The Sahib had never known the joys of marriage and this was not normal.

Few servants liked to serve a married couple – wives had a habit of poking their noses into every domestic detail – but Ranjit was prepared to do this, if it made his master content. He, therefore, cleared his throat, blew his nose, and went into battle.

‘Women, Sahib,’ he began, ‘are peculiar creatures. When they care for us, it is frequently because of our deficiencies and stupidities.’

John blew a cloud of smoke, and laughed.

Ranjit looked indignant. ‘You laugh, Sahib, because you have no experience. The little Memsahib …’

The laugh died in John’s throat. ‘Well, what about her?’ he asked quite sharply.

Determinedly, Ranjit plunged on. ‘The little Memsahib doesn’t see that you are a little older than some. She does not
see
your sick legs, though she will help you to cure them. She sees only you, Sahib.’

John looked silently out over the shabby compound. Ranjit had the eyes of a vulture, missing nothing.

At last he said, ‘Have you asked the lady for me, Ranjit?’

‘There is no need, Sahib. It is in every look she gives you.’

‘Do you like her, Ranjit?’

‘Yes, Sahib.’ He searched for words, pulling nervously at
his little pigtail at the back of his head as if to stimulate the brains within. ‘More than other English ladies I have served.’

‘Ah, well, Ranjit. Cats can look at kings, and I suppose I can look at a pretty woman sometimes. Now I am going to think about this map I am to draw for Shri Lallubhai. Go away and make me some dinner.’

‘Ji, hun,’ assented Ranjit, heaving himself to his feet and wondering if he had done any good at all with his attempt at matchmaking.

Dusk came while John was still working on the map. Lacking a large table, he had pinned big sheets of paper to the walls of his room. Propped up by the end of his table, he stood in front of these, pencil in one hand and ruler in the other, while he roughed in the districts that he knew. He hoped that his assistant from the City Engineer’s Department would be able to add more details to his work.

He had turned to pick up a fresh pencil and to switch on another light, when he thought he heard the compound gate click. He paused, took up his stick and went towards his open front door.

It was much darker than he had realized, the stars already lay like brilliants on indigo velvet and the world was quiet with after-dinner hush.

She saw him before he saw her, his spare figure silhouetted against the light of the lamp, and she came towards him like a drifting ghost.

‘Diana,’ he exclaimed.

The sound of her first name made her pause, then she came swiftly up the steps, her arms full of rolls of paper, her face aglow.

He took the rolls from her and tossed them on to his couch, then took her arm and drew her into the softly lit room. He did not let go of her arm, but stood looking down at her.