Ryman, Rebecca (52 page)

The
top sheet of the sheaf, stiff and formal, was a legal document. It was brief
and to the point and Olivia read it quickly. Then, more carefully, she read it
again. The remaining papers she had no need to go through; the top sheet had
said it all. Stunned, she sank down on the bed.

"Well?"
It was Raventhorne who spoke first. "Would you consider that an adequate
defence?" His eyes were like flint, untouched by his amused smile.

"This
. . . can't be true!" Olivia breathed as her colour drained.

"It
is."

"Das
signed this willingly?"

"Hardly!"

A
cold hand wrapped itself around her heart. "There must be some mistake,
some hideous misunderstanding ..."

"The
mistakes and hideous misunderstandings are not mine, I assure you," he
informed her drily.

"But
. . . why
Das?"

"He
was the one most easily bought by them to engineer the farcical plot."

The
cold turned to ice in her veins. "Was?"

"Yes."

She
knuckled a hand against her mouth. "You . . . killed him?"

"Yes."

She
was aghast at the unconcern with which he made the admission. "But why?
Why
when you already had his signed confession?"

He
regarded her coldly. "Dead men can neither tell tales nor deny signed and
sworn testimony. Das was scum. He deserved what he got."

That
he had killed a man did not shock Olivia; she could well believe that
Raventhorne had killed before. And she had been brought up with sudden death in
environments of violence where a man could be drinking at a bar one moment and
dead the next, driving a coach on a highway and ambushed into a ditch before he
could turn around. What terrified her was Jai's added vulnerability.

"They'll
never let you go, Jai. They'll hound you until they get you one way or
another!"

"I'm
used to being hounded. They will not find Das's body until it... no longer
matters." Something amused him about that and he smiled.

Olivia
fought back the biting fear that brought beads of moisture to her forehead, and
brushed an unsteady hand across her eyes, trying to think clearly. "With
Das . . . missing they'll say this confession is a forgery."

He
shrugged. "Perhaps. It doesn't matter."

"What
will you do with his statement?"

He
raised a quizzical eyebrow. "What do you think?"

Olivia
swallowed. "Make it public?"

"Don't
you agree that I should? Don't you believe they deserve to be exposed?"
For the first time he indicated anger. "I say
they,
but you know as
well as I do that only one of them is twisted enough to concoct such a devilish
plan. Ransome is a loyal stooge but he is not evil."

"And
if you do make this public, will my uncle be the one charged?" The new
situation added further dimensions to her horror. "It's unthinkable,
monstrous!"

Raventhorne
laughed. "You have much to learn, my naive American, about the workings of
blind justice in India! Criminal offences can be tried only by English judges,
and no Englishman—policeman or magistrate—would ever allow such an impertinence
against a member of his club. Slocum will have the
earnest
endeavours of the entire community to discreetly whitewash the façades. The
main consideration will be to avoid a public scandal, and your uncle will enjoy
unanimous sympathy among those who matter. If need be, the Governor General
will be asked to intervene. Justice will not be miscarried; it will merely be gently
diverted into channels more acceptable to the community. Das's confession will
be scoffed at, pronounced a fake and finally buried. Everyone will contend that
Kashinath Das was, after all, only a dirty, native turncoat and liar, that he
was forced by me to make the confession and to bite the hand that had fed him
for so long, and that Calcutta is well rid of his kind anyway. And when and
if
his body is ever found, Calcutta will secretly heave a sigh of relief and
sleep better that night, for not even dirty, native turncoats and liars are
wily enough to speak from the grave. Far from being hounded, I might even be
discreetly praised for having killed Das. At last that infernal bastard Kala
Kanta has done something to justify his misbegotten existence,' the English
will say in careful whispers over their evening brandies and cigars. 'Let's
drink to the half-breed just this once, even if he has grown too big for his
boots.' " He paused to take a breath and rested his head back against the
chair, suddenly spent. Fatigued, he shut his eyes. "You need not be
concerned for your uncle. No, I will not make Das's confession public."

It
was the first time he had spoken to her at such length, and so openly. Tears
swelled in Olivia's eyes at the extent of his bitterness, at the depth of his
cynicism. But she could think of nothing to say, no words with which to
contradict his dismal predictions. Restless again, he walked up and down and
she watched him in helpless silence, herself torn between divided loyalties to
kith and kin and to this haunted man to whom she had committed her all.

"Arvind
is the only one I care about." Face cracking with strain, Raventhorne
spoke again. "He knows the truth, of course. As for the rest of the bunch,
Slocum already has a copy of this; so do Ransome and your uncle. Whatever their
public postures, in private they will sweat, for among them only Arvind knows
that Das is dead and can no longer bear witness one way or the other."

"And
those witnesses under lock and key?" Olivia asked dully, filled with love
for this maligned man already so burdened with undeserved ill repute.
"What about them?"

A
touch of humour relieved the strain on his face. "They are no longer under
lock and key, I presume." He paused to flick a
careless finger
through the sheaf of papers on the bed. "If there is anything a
money-lender has reverence for, it is accounting. And, of course, receipts. The
'witnesses' were handsomely paid with Templewood money. As his natural
instincts dictated, Kashinath made them all sign receipts." Contemptuously
he tossed aside the sheaf. "Not even Barnabus Slocum can produce a smell
of roses out of this stench!"

It
was difficult not to share in his contempt, not to participate in his anger at
the infamy, but part of Olivia still held back. "That poor old man's death
was an accident, Jai, it was not intended—"

"Not
man, Olivia,
native!
Any European will tell you that with so many about,
one more or less makes little difference. None at all when an aristocratic
English skin is at stake." Once more his bitterness bubbled.
"Kashinath Das was filth. The world
is
perhaps a better place
without him. But our innocent watchman, Haveli Ram, was a harmless soul devoted
to us and to his gods. We have broken bread with him, Arvind and I; we know his
wife, his sons, his grandchildren. He trusted us, served us diligently and with
loyalty—until one white man's greed snuffed out his life just like
that!"
He snapped his fingers, lips twisted with hate. "Does it make it
easier for his family that his death was an
accident?"

Olivia
longed to go to him, to hold him, to love him again and somehow use her love to
cleanse his festering wounds, but she knew that he would not now allow himself
to be reached. "What my uncle did was wrong, hideously wrong. I know
that." She spoke with despair, seeing the futility of words to repair the
damage but unable to leave thoughts unsaid. "You don't see this, Jai, but
in many ways he is as blind, as obsessed as
you.
He too has a canker in
his soul. It forces his hand, clouds his judgement, induces strange madnesses .
. ." In her anxiety to touch some chord somewhere, she ran to him and held
his hand. "For what he has done he will be accountable one day to
God!"

He
shook off her hand and started to laugh. "God has an eternity at his disposal;
I am somewhat less patient. Besides, I do not believe in divine justice. My
means of retribution are less ethereal, more earthy." He laughed again as
if at a jest she had made.

But
Olivia saw that the pewter eyes were unamused, alien. The look in them could
have come from the dead; it was lifeless. Suddenly frightened, she took his
hand again and would not let it go. "No more killing, Jai,
please . .
.!"

He
shook his head. "No. No more killing. There will be no
need. As the
uncle on whose behalf you supplicate so laudably is fond of saying—there is,
after all, more than one way to catch a monkey." He kissed her hand,
disengaged his and was once more empty of everything, even hate. "A
longboat awaits you below. As always, I trust Bahadur to reach you back
safely." He walked to the door and opened it for her.

She
was once more excluded from his mind. Morosely, Olivia followed him up onto the
deck, where the freshness of dawn stung her cheeks and chill breezes whipped
her skin into blushes. Spectral vapours lay on the waters but the river was
beginning to stir into daily life. The reviving breezes cleared Olivia's head
of its encroaching fatigue but she walked in a daze, unable to assimilate
reality. So much had happened in this one night, too much! She felt sad and
happy and confused with a mind like jelly and a body still marvellously
enriched by the intoxicating passions of the night that had fulfilled her as a
woman. Savouring the delicious languors weighing down her limbs, she stretched
with feline pleasure. Sheer force of habit brought an eternal question to her
lips but, with a smile, she bit it back; she knew, as always, that she would
see Jai Raventhorne again, albeit in his own time, at his own choosing. In the
meantime she was content to wait. Content? No, not content! But she would wait.
If it took the rest of her life, she would wait. There was nothing better she
would want to do with it anyway.

"Take
care of your health. The ague can be notoriously persistent; it will weaken you
further."

The
return of his concern for her, the gentle worry in his face, suffused Olivia
with warmth. For a fleeting second she clung to him on the deserted deck.
"I love you, Jai. I love you with all my heart."

"Yes.
I know." Just that, no more.

Against
all good judgement, the eternal question erupted. "When...?"

He
put a finger across her lips. It felt cold. And in the coppery dawn light, his
pallor was bloodless. "I have loved you neither wisely nor well, Olivia,
but I have loved you. Can you remember only that?"

"How
can I not, oh how can I not?" Torn with longing, she surrounded him with
her arms and held him close.

"Then
will you trust me, Olivia,
trust
me?"

"Yes!"

"Promise
me that you will."

"I
promise, I promise." Anxiously she searched his face for
a motive for
his urgency, but she could identify none. He was still unsmiling, his skin
still pallid white. "Of course I trust you, Jai!"

Briefly,
a strange smile touched his mouth. "Then, perhaps, you will find the
humanity to also forgive me."

"There
is nothing to forgive." Aching to dally, to stay with him longer, she
curbed her yearning to raise a matching smile. "I have loved you wisely,
well and willingly, Jai—how can you still not know
how
willingly?"

He
merely shook his head. "Then make haste and go. Soon it will be bright and
you must not be seen." He did not kiss her.

From
the longboat below, Olivia shaded her eyes and squinted up for a last look at
his beloved face. The
dhoolie
she had retained had obviously long since
been dismissed, for it was nowhere to be seen. With neither fear nor
embarrassment, she waved. Standing motionless at the deck rails, he did not
wave back. His concern for her reputation moved and amused her; by tomorrow
there would be no more need for deceit. She was proud, yes
proud,
of her
chosen destiny. And by tomorrow all Calcutta would know it too! With a light
laugh she looked up again, savouring a last glimpse. He stood in the same spot,
straight and immobile. The wind blew his jet black hair into a cloud around his
face; his eyes, Olivia knew, were upon her. In the rapidly lightening morning a
shaft of early sun caught and held his features. Something glistened; Olivia's
waving hand stilled and on her lips her smile died.

In
Jai Raventhorne's eyes there were tears.