Ryman, Rebecca (109 page)

Seemingly
hewn out of stone, he had listened with all intentness but without having given
her the reward of even one responsive flicker. "I think you will find that
you are mistaken," he remarked composedly. "Every stone that is here
now will also be here tomorrow. Not one will be moved."

Olivia
laughed in his face. "You can't really believe that, can you? You know you
can't stop me!" Behind the corrosive laugh, hot tears threatened but she
willed
them not to fall. She was beside herself with rage.

He
sighed. "Ah, but you see, Olivia, I can stop you."

"How?
By resorting to old tactics? Vandalism? Sabotage? Terrorism and
intimidation?" His continued calm infuriated her, in some way made her
feel humiliated even more. She forced her mind into submission, her spasmodic
body into stillness. "You will again start to destroy because that is all
you know? Because you couldn't bear to be a second-time loser?" She burned
with spite, but somehow she manufactured a smile. "I have beaten you once,
Jai. I will do so again."

He
did not reply. Instead, his stare became long and deep, his maddeningly placid
eyes shadowed with strangeness. Olivia stared back, anger throbbing like a pain
in every part of her body. She strove to say more but her throat was blocked;
she could not raise a voice.

And
then, all at once, he was gone.

She
was left alone with the shades of night into which he had melted with such
suddenness. Her startled eyes followed the
invisible path of his departure, her
energies too depleted to regroup immediately. She had failed in her ploy; her
calculations had been wrong, her instincts fraudulent. Still paralysed with
disbelief, her mind simply could not accept defeat. Not at the moment, not yet.
For the moment it was that look of strangeness that seemed to fill all her
mental horizons, for she had recognised it for what it was and she could not
accept that either. That even less than her failure! It was a look of pity. And
Olivia was outraged by it. She had tolerated much from Jai Raventhorne, and had
now laid herself open to tolerate more.

What
she was not prepared to suffer at any price was his
pity!
It was his
worst insult to her yet, but that he would soon learn for himself.

Even
before the cock crowed the next morning, Olivia sent for Willie Donaldson.

A
long night's intense cerebration convinced Olivia that she had not been wrong
in her calculations. Her instincts had not lied to her, nor had her knowledge
of the man in all his variations let her down. It was merely a new game that he
played, one she had not foreseen. If she had miscalculated anything at all, it
was the dimensions of Raventhorne's abhorrence of defeat. It would come, of
course, but it would come more slowly than she had anticipated.

"Those
mercenaries that we have on our payroll—how many do they number at the
moment?" Like many affluent business houses, Farrowsham too maintained its
private security forces.

"Aboot
two hundred." Donaldson answered Olivia's question evenly.
"Why?"

"And
Raventhorne?" She ignored his question.

"I
canna say for certain, but I reck'n more."

"How
many on duty at our warehouses?"

"Enough.
For
current
requirements, that is."

"I
see. Well, perhaps we should double the watch round the warehouses and at our
office premises. Also, we should start taking some precautions at our
properties in Dharamtala, Circular Road, Portuguese Church Street, Chowringhee
and Garden Reach. The Bow Bazaar shops and houses all have Indian tenants. They
will not be disturbed. But where we—"

"Na
disturbed by whom?" Donaldson leaned forward to ask. "And
why?"

Olivia
frowned at his interruption, but she knew that she would have to give him some
explanation. And he would demand answers to many questions "By
Raventhorne. I learn from an informant of unimpeachable integrity that he might
soon be up to more of his tricks. It would be wise to take precautions. What I
would like to emphasise is that it is at the Templewood bungalow that we need
to concentrate the best of our resources. The area must be patrolled day and
night until the demolitions are complete. The guards must have instructions to
shoot if sabotage or arson is attempted, or if there is interference with the
work. Hire more people if we need them, Mr. Donaldson. If we offer double
wages, we can lure away the best men available from other private armies.
Anything else?" She deepened her frown in thought and reflected quickly.
"No, I think not. The plantation is too far away and the
Seagull
is
already at sea on her way to Malaya. All I need are two clear days to complete
the demolitions."

But
Willie Donaldson did not ask questions. Suddenly, he felt very sick indeed.

She
continued, "Should Slocum—or anyone else, for that matter—make inquiries?
We should merely take precautions following those hangings yesterday."

Recently,
another minor revolt had erupted among a contingent of local native sepoys.
Ordered to Burma, they had refused to sail because of official refusal to
transport their cooking vessels according to the Hindu code of caste
segregation. Rather than lose caste, the men had mutinied, convinced that this
was yet another British trick to convert them to Christianity. The rebellion
had been brutally quashed and five of the ringleaders hanged publicly.
Consequently, unrest simmered in the city, with nationalist sentiments running
high. British business houses and residents had been cautioned to guard against
retaliatory action by bands of aroused native civilians.

Fort
William had issued the warning to the district magistrate as a matter of
routine; not even Slocum had taken it very seriously. Certainly no business
house had reacted to it quite as strongly as to double watches and hire extra
mercenaries. Donaldson did not point all this out to Olivia; she was well aware
of it already. But within himself, he started to feel even sicker.

"One
more thing." Knowing that Donaldson's pallor was no indication that he was
faint hearted, because he was not, Olivia
made no more excuses. "Abrahams
and his men should be summoned immediately. I want the demolitions to start
within the hour."

Estelle,
like Donaldson, had turned pale listening to Olivia's confident commands,
watching the high red spots on her cheeks and the excitement that had produced
them. Unlike him, however, she had no difficulty in locating the germ of the
problem.

"You've
seen and talked to Jai, haven't you?" As soon as Donaldson had left and
they were at the breakfast table, she cornered Olivia.

"Yes."
There was no reason to lie to Estelle.

"And
he refused your bargain?" She lifted a sarcastic eyebrow.

"For
the moment."

"How
do you presume that?"

"Once
the demolitions start he will change his mind soon enough!"

"He
will not change his mind!" Estelle countered emphatically. "He never
does. If you truly believed that, why all these elaborate defensive
measures?"

Olivia
shrugged. "It would be foolhardy to be unprepared. We both know his methods."

Yes.
They did—who better than they! It was not, however, Jai Raventhorne's methods
that Estelle was concerned about at the moment, it was her cousin's. But she
did not say so.

The
answer to Olivia's first urgent message was delivered to her by her personal
peon soon after breakfast. Mordecai Abrahams was devastated to have to inform
her that he was not available to carry out his commission at the Templewood
bungalow until the following week. An even more urgent summons had come to him
from elsewhere. He had been forced to accept it.
Next
Monday morning,
however, without fail at dawn . . . Olivia did not bother with the rest. In a
fury, she tore up the note and let loose her temper on the hapless messenger.
Then, wasting no more time, she dispatched the peon to three more addresses of
contractors from whom she had received estimates for the work. Whichever of
them was available was to be brought to the Templewood house without delay, she
instructed the man. About charges, he was forbidden to haggle. She would pay
twice whatever they demanded.

It
was at this point in the still early morning that Olivia had a most unexpected
visitor: Ram Chand Mooljee. She was greatly taken aback. Mooljee, she knew,
never visited clients; it was they
who went to him. In the privacy of the
downstairs study where she received him with ill-concealed impatience, Mooljee
touched her feet and instantly plunged into vehement self-denigrations. He was
a knave, a man to be despised, the son of a moth-eaten camel, a renegade who deserved
to be hung—nay, hanging was too good for the likes of him. He should be—

"What
exactly is the problem, Mr. Mooljee?" Olivia cut off his tedious
self-vilifications with an exasperated gesture. "Is it any special
business that brings you here this morning?"

Indeed
it was, very special business. "I am ashamed to have to say it, honourable
memsahib," Mooljee moaned. "I should have my tongue amputated, my
hide flogged." He sighed as if about to cry, took out her satin-covered
box from the folds of his voluminous apparel and laid it on the table. "I
regret that I can no longer retain your collateral."

"Why
ever not?" She was even more surprised.

Remorse
forgotten, Mooljee's face went bland. "With no warning, I find myself in a
situation of dire financial embarrassment. It is a family matter. I cannot
disclose it. But I am in a dilemma, a grave crisis. My wife and children are
distraught with worry. I myself—"

"Well,
I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Mooljee," again she diverted the tiresome
flow, "but in what way can
I
help you?"

"The
help the compassionate memsahib can give me is to return my loan." His
jowls drooped in mournful folds. "Were it not for unspeakable family
dishonour whereby my community will spit on me—"

"The
loan? But of course I will return your loan, Mr. Mooljee! As I have already
assured you, the moment my funds from Lloyd's of London—"

"Alas,
my need cannot wait, worthy lady!" He wrung his fat hands in abject
despair. "I must have the money
today
itself."

"Today?"
Olivia was outraged. "That is absolutely impossible! You know very well
that I have already paid in full for the property." Not only was she
peeved, she was openly sceptical. Ram Chand Mooljee in dire financial straits?
He, the richest Hindu merchant in town? "I'm sorry, Mr. Mooljee," she
said frigidly, making no secret of her acute displeasure, "but there is no
way I can return your loan today. If you
insist
on immediate repayment,
I permit you to sell my tiara. As you know very well, it is worth far in excess
of what is owed you."

But
this too, he said, he could not accept. To go to the market himself would be to
reveal his family circumstances, to lose face
and reputation. There would be
ruinous gossip, his wife would die of shame, his children would drown
themselves, his—

"Well,
what do you expect
me
to do about the matter?" Olivia demanded
angrily. "Sell it myself and give you the money?"

This
suggestion he accepted with alacrity. In fact, he suddenly beamed. "That
would be very fine,
very
fine, generous lady! Such benevolence to salvage
the self-respect of this wretched villain! I am overwhelmed." Delicately
he dabbed each eye with a corner of his pleated dhoti.

"Very
well then." Livid, she picked up the jewellery box and rose. "I will
see what can be done by tomorrow. We will exchange receipts when you send for
the money." He accepted her decision with due humility.

Olivia
did not, of course, believe a word of Mooljee's story. Moreover, he had wasted
her precious time, and far more would be wasted in arranging the quite
unnecessary sale of the tiara. Still in a temper, Olivia sent to the office for
Bimal Babu and entrusted the job to him. An austere, elderly Bengali who had
been with the Agency since its inception, Bimal Babu was someone she knew she
could trust implicitly.

As
Bimal Babu left with the tiara, Olivia's peon returned. It appeared that none
of the contractors she had suggested was free to take on her work in this
particular week. Two others he had located were similarly engaged elsewhere and
a third said he was too sick to leave his bed.