Far Pavilions (109 page)

Ash's mouth twisted in a tight-lipped grimace of disgust, and Manilal said: ‘Yes, it is an ugly jest. Though well deserved. But what matters is that even the jesters take for granted that the Ranis will become suttee, as do all in Bhithor. It is, they say, the custom; though the common folk no longer observe it, and only a very few of the noble families have done so during the life-time of the present Rana. Yet the people still consider it incumbent upon the royal house to respect the old laws, for the honour of Bhithor and all who dwell there – particularly those who do not keep them. For when the Rana's wives become suttees they will stand, as it were, as a symbol and a substitute for all those widows who have shrunk from doing so, or been prevented from it by their relatives.’

‘In fact,’ said Ash savagely, and in English, ‘it is still expedient that one man should die for the people. In this case, two women.’ He saw that Manilal was looking startled, and reverted to the vernacular: ‘Well, they are not going to die, so Bhithor will just have to do without its scapegoats and burnt offerings. When do you return?’

‘As soon as I can procure more pigeons and another six bottles of useless medicines from the
dewai dukan
. Also a fresh horse, for my own will not be fit to ride for some days yet and I dare not delay my return. I have lost too much time already. Can the Sahib perhaps help in the matter of a horse?’

‘Surely. You may leave that to me. The pigeons and medicines also. What you need is rest, and you had best get as much of that as you can while you have the chance. Give me the empty bottles. Gul Baz shall fetch what you require as soon as the shop opens tomorrow morning.’

Manilal handed them over, retired to his charpoy and was asleep again within minutes: a deep, refreshing sleep from which he did not awake until the sun was up and the crows, doves and parrots were quarrelling over the spilt grain by the stables, while the well-wheel squeaked in descant to the clatter of cooking pots and all the familiar sounds of an Indian morning. But by that time Ash had already been gone two hours, leaving a message telling Manilal to procure such things as he needed and meet him at Sarji's house.

The message had been delivered by Gul Baz, in a voice laden with disapproval, together with half-a-dozen bottles of patent medicines from Jobbling & Sons, the Chemists. Manilal made his way to the bazaar, where he bought a large wicker basket, a quantity of food and fresh fruit, and three chickens. The basket, like the one he had previously taken into Bhithor, had a false bottom. But this time it had not been used, for Ash had made other plans: ones that did not include carrier-pigeons.

Unlike Manilal, Ash had stayed awake for most of the night. There had been a great many things to think about, but his mind had discarded the larger issues and fastened instead on a comparatively trivial one: Manila's curious use of an old and unkind nickname,
Kairi
. Who could have been unkind enough to see that even someone like Manilal, mixing with the other servants in the Rung Mahal and listening to their gossip, and to the talk in the bazaars, could use it automatically when speaking of her? It was a small thing. But as a straw in the wind shows the direction in which the wind is blowing, it was a clear indication of the contempt in which Juli was held by her husband's people, and – more disturbingly – that only someone from Karidkote could have been responsible for repeating that cruel nickname and encouraging its use in the Zenana, from where it would have spread to the rest of the palace.

Half-a-dozen of their own women had remained with Juli and Shu-shu, and Ash could only hope that the one responsible was among the three who were now dead (though he could not believe it was Geeta), because if not, there was a traitor among those closest to the Ranis: a female counterpart to Nandu's spy, Biju Ram, unsuspected by her young mistresses because she came from Karidkote, and currying favour with the Rana by denigrating the wife he so despised. It was an unpleasant thought, and also a frightening one because it meant that even if the Rana lived or the Raj sent troops to enforce the law against widow-burning, Juli and her sister might still be exposed to more dangers than Gobind suspected.

Ash did not doubt that the Government of India would see to it that if the Rana died there would be no suttee. But if the Rana lived they might not be able to protect Juli from punishment (or Gobind and Manilal either, should he find out about those smuggled letters) for that would be a purely domestic matter. Even if all three were to die or simply disappear, it was doubtful if the authorities would ever hear about it. And if they did, and asked questions, they would not ask soon enough; for in a country of vast distances and poor communications these things took time, and once the trail was cold, any explanation, such as a sudden fever, or the bland statement that the Hakim and his servant had left the state and were presumably on their way back to Karidkote, would have to be accepted, for there would be no evidence. And no way of proving anything…

Ash shivered involuntarily, as Manilal had done, and thought in panic: ‘I must go myself. I can't sit here and do nothing while Juli… Manilal was right: the Rung Mahal stinks of evil and anything could happen there. Besides if Gobind can get letters to her, so can I… not from here, but I could from there… I could warn her to be on her guard because one of the Karidkote women may be disloyal, and ask about the
dai
and what really is happening. She wouldn't run away with me before, but she may feel differently now, and if so I'll find a way of getting her out – and if she still won't, at least I can satisfy myself that the police and the Political Department are taking steps to see that if that animal dies, no one is going to try to force his widows onto to the pyre.’

It would have to be force with Shu-shu. They'd have to drag her to the burning ground, or tie her up and carry her, and Ash imagined that she would probably die of fright long before they got her there. Juli had told him once that Shu-shu had always been terrified at the very idea of suttee, and that it was for this reason she had not wanted to get married, because her mother… ‘I hope,’ thought Ash viciously, ‘that there is a special hell for people like Janoo-Rani.’

When Gul Baz brought in the tea at dawn, he found the Sahib already up and dressed, and engaged in packing the small
bistra
– a leather-bound strip of canvas that he took with him on night exercises rolled up and strapped to the back of the saddle. Yet a glance was enough to show that he was not planning on being away for a mere night and a day. On the contrary he was, he said, going on a journey that might keep him away for anything up to a month, though on the other hand he could be back again in a matter of eight or ten days – his plans were uncertain.

There was nothing unusual about this, except that always before any packing that had to be done was left to Gul Baz, and there was generally far more of it than could be contained in that small roll of canvas: several changes of clothing, for a start. But this time Gul Baz saw that the Sahib meant to travel light, and was taking only a cake of soap, a razor and a single country-made blanket in addition to his service revolver and fifty rounds. There were also four small and disproportionately heavy cardboard boxes, each containing fifty rounds of rifle ammunition.

Recognizing these, Gul Baz had allowed himself to hope that the Sahib was only going on another trip to the Gir Forest – though why he should take the revolver and need such a vast amount of ammunition…

The hope died as Ash went over to the dressing-table, and unlocking a drawer, took out and pocketed a small pistol and a handful of rounds (items that he could certainly have no use for on any shooting expedition) and a tin cash-box that he emptied onto the table, remarking that it was a stroke of luck that Haddon-Sahib should have decided to pay cash for the two polo-ponies, as it would save him a trip to the bank. He began to sort it into separate piles of gold, silver and notes, counting under his breath, and did not look up when Gul Baz said heavily, and not as a question: ‘The Sahib goes to Bhithor, then.’

‘Yes,’ said Ash ‘– though that is for your ear alone… three fifty, four hundred, four fifty-nine, five… six -’

‘I knew it,’ exclaimed Gul Baz bitterly. ‘This was what Mahdoo-ji was always afraid of; and on the day that I saw that hakim from Karidkote drive up to this bungalow I knew that the old one had been right to be afraid. Do not go, Sahib, I beg of you. No good can come of meddling in the affairs of that ill-omened place.’

Ash shrugged and went on counting, and presently Gul Baz said: ‘Then if you must, at least let me go with you. And Kulu Ram also.’

Ash looked up to smile and shake his head. ‘I would if I could. But it would not be safe – you might be recognized.’

‘And what of yourself?’ retorted Gul Baz angrily. ‘Do you suppose they will have forgotten you so soon, when you gave them such good cause to remember you?’

‘Ah, but this time I shall not be going to Bhithor as a Sahib. I shall go in the guise of a boxwallah; or a traveller on pilgrimage to the temples at Mount Abu. Or perhaps a hakim from Bombay… yes, I think a hakim might be best, as that will give me an excuse to meet a fellow doctor, Gobind Dass. And you can be sure that no one will know me – though some might know you, and more would know Kulu Ram, who often rode with me to the city. Besides, I shall not be going alone. I shall have Manilal with me.’

‘That fat fool!’ said Gul Baz with a scornful sniff.

Ash laughed and said: ‘Fat he may be, but fool he is not: of that I can assure you. If he chooses to let people think him one, it is for a good reason, and believe me, I shall be safe in his hands. Now let me see, where was I? – Seven hundred… seven eighty… eight… nine hundred… one sixty-two –’ He finished counting the money, and having stowed away a large part of it in the pockets of his riding coat, returned the rest to the cash-box and handed it to Gul Baz, who received it in grim silence.

‘Well, there you are, Gul Baz. That should be more than enough to cover the wages and expenses of the household until I return.’

‘And what if you do not?’ demanded Gul Baz stonily.

‘I have left two letters which you will find in the small top drawer of my desk. If after six weeks I have not returned and you have received no word from me, give them to Pettigrew-Sahib of the police. He will act upon them and see that you and the others do not suffer any hardship. But you need not worry: I shall come back. Now as to the Hakim's servant, when he wakes tell him that when he is ready to leave, to come to the Sirdar Sarjevan Desai's house near the village of Janapat, where I will meet him. Also to take the bay mare in place of his own horse that is lame. Tell Kulu Ram to see to it, and – no, I had better tell him myself.’

‘He will not be pleased,’ said Gul Baz.

‘Maybe not. But it is necessary. Do not let us quarrel, Gul Baz. This is something that I must do. It is laid upon me.’

Gul Baz sighed and said half to himself: ‘What is written, is written,’ and did not argue any more. He went off to tell Kulu Ram that the Sahib required saddle-bags, and to bring Dagobaz round to the porch in a quarter of an hour's time; and having done that, fetched fresh tea – the original mug by now being cold. But when he would have brought the sporting rifle, Ash shook his head and said that he did not need it – ‘For I do not think a hakim would own such a weapon.’

‘Then why take the bullets?’

‘Because these I shall need. They are of the same calibre as those that the
pultons
use; and over the years many Government rifles have found their way into other hands, so I can safely take the other.’ He had taken the cavalry carbine, and, as an after-thought, his shot-gun and fifty cartridges.

Gul Baz dismantled the shot-gun and stowed it in the
bistra,
and when all was ready, carried the heavy canvas roll out to the porch. And as he watched Ash mount Dagobaz and ride away in the crystal-clear light of dawn, he wondered what Mahdoo would have done if he had been there.

Would Mahdoo perhaps have been able to turn the Sahib from his course? Gul Baz thought it highly unlikely. Yet for the first time he was glad that the old man was no longer alive so that he, Gul Baz, was spared from having to explain how it had come about that he had stood by and seen Pelham-Sahib riding away to certain death: and been unable to do anything to prevent it.

39

Ash's first call had been at the house of the District Superintendent of Police, whom he had found lightly clad in a dressing-gown and slippers, eating
chota-hazri
on his verandah. The sun was still below the horizon, but Mr Pettigrew, a hospitable soul, did not seem to mind receiving a caller at such an early hour. He waved aside Ash's apologies and sent for another cup and plate and more coffee.

‘Nonsense, my dear chap. Of course you can stay for a few minutes. What's the hurry? Have a slice of papaya – or what about a mango? No, I'm afraid I still haven't had a word from old Tim. Can't think what he's playing at. I thought I was bound to get an answer to that telegram. But I expect he's too busy. However, you needn't worry, he's not the sort of chap who'd stick it in a drawer and forget it. In fact, he probably went off to Bhithor to see that there's no hanky-panky. Have some more coffee?’