The Thing About Thugs (17 page)

‘They should be back anytime’, Major Grayper was saying.

Lord Batterstone gripped the edge of a reading table to steady himself.

‘Captain Meadows’, he gasped.

‘Oh yes, sir, he should be back soon too. I forgot that the two of you were acquainted.’

Acquainted. Yes, yes, you could call it that.

But Lord Batterstone could hardly enunciate those words. His throat was dry. He smiled weakly. Then he mumbled, ‘You must excuse me, sir. I forgot to instruct my man about the baggage.’

And he rushed out of the library, leaving the good Major with serious doubts, not for the first time, about the mental health of members of the English aristocracy.

Lady Batterstone had, over the years, quite unintentionally of course, made Lord Batterstone eat shoulder to shoulder with people he would have crossed the street to avoid in London. But never had his Lordship taken the slightest notice of it. This time, however, he took her aside before dinner and instructed her to ensure that Captain Meadows was not seated next to him, or immediately opposite him. Where would you want him to be seated then, she asked, eyes wide with innocence. Anywhere, he retorted, his mask of imperturbable control slipping for a second, anywhere, but not too close to my chair.

When dinner commenced, Captain Meadows was seated on the same side of the table as Lord Batterstone, but so far away as to be almost invisible. Major Grayper had been placed opposite the Captain, and the rest of the company had been arranged with due respect to social status and gender.

Now, it is a matter sometimes observed by scientists and more often by clandestine lovers, that sound travels more freely than sight. Place a wall across sight and it is stymied, but sound seeps through bricks and stones. Sight, as cheating lovers know too well, cannot turn a corner but sound, ah, sound can find its way through labyrinths. While Captain Meadows was hardly visible to Lord Batterstone, the sound of his conversation, alas, could not be banished. Not that the Captain would have made much conversation, left to himself; the fact that Mary was so confident of success was attributable to this one flaw in Meadows’ persona. A reasonably handsome man, eligible in various worldly ways, well-read and well-travelled, he lacked the sort of frilly language that would have bestowed on him the attribute of being ‘charming.’ But at this dinner he was seated opposite Major Grayper who, having smothered the feeble poet that Lord Batterstone had detected in his conversation in the library, was now discoursing with the efficiency and loudness of a man used to marching other men in straight lines and geometrical patterns.

At first, Lady Batterstone was relieved by Major Grayper’s decisive interventions: they served, towards the fag end of the dinner, to knit together the conversation at the table. Until then, instead of ebbing evenly like a sated sea, the conversation had been eddying and twirling, collecting in pools around Lord Batterstone, where it gave out the pungent scent of science; around Lady Batterstone and her good friend Mrs Montmorency, it assumed the fragrance of gardens and nonchalant domesticity; around Mr Reginald B. Sangrail and the young men and women next to him, it emanated an odour composed of equal portions of the ballroom and the stable; and around Major Grayper, it often leapt into the acridity of law and order.

It was law and order that enabled the Major to thread the various other conversations at the table through the singular eye of his discourse. This was what he said, addressing Lord Batterstone first: ‘If I may take up what you have said, that, sir, was exactly the point I was making to Captain Meadows here. As you put it, sir, and so admirably, human beings are made by divinity, and God does not play dice. Now I have often been asked — why, just this evening Mr Sangrail put the question to me — I have been asked if I know who might be behind the beheadings which, as you know, have plagued London over the past few months. With the necessary withering away of the Runners, we are left without a detective body that could spread its investigations over the whole of London, and hence I have been asked by my superiors to look into all such murders, regardless of the vicinity of their occurrence. With that grave responsibility come inevitable questions, such as the one Mr Sangrail posed to me: Do I know the identity of the murderer? Well, no, I replied, I do not know who, but there are signs. For God, as you said, sir, does not play dice: He leaves marks for us to read.’

Then, raising his voice to drown out the nasal treble of Reginald B. Sangrail, who was trying to slide into the more salubrious mud of races and foxhunts, the Major reworked the thread of conversation enmeshing Lady Batterstone and Mrs Montmorency through the eyes of his needle of Law and Order: ‘Now, as anyone who has anything to do with the working orders knows, and as you have noted a moment ago, what the working classes desire and need is order. But it is not an order they can create on their own; it needs to be imposed on them with an iron hand. It is with them —’ here the Major turned to Mr Sangrail and his circle, finally knitting them into his meta-conversation ‘— as it is with horses, that you need to ride with a firm hand. Kind, but firm. Kind, but firm. Now, sir (he turned his conversation to Lord Batterstone again), what I say is that I know what signs to look for: as soon as the culprit is found, he shall be identified by the signs.’

‘That is to say, Major’, Mr Reginald B. Sangrail could not help interjecting, with an iota of relish, ‘you have not found the culprit yet.’

‘It is not the finding that is important, sir. It is the reading of signs — as in, what is that (lacking the word, he looked at Captain Meadows, who supplied it: ‘phrenology’)... yes, phrenology. Once you know how to read the skull, you have your man. Now, I know that this man is either a native from the colonies or a working man, perhaps Cockney, who has been abroad. And there are other signs: I simply have to look for the signs, and...’

The Major snapped his fingers to signify the ease of the prospective capture.

‘But that, Major’, said the Captain in his quiet, studious way, ‘that is where I beg to differ. The signs, the physical signs, are not enough: they can signify different things, depending on the man’s background, experiences, and so forth.’

‘Humph’, pronounced Lord Batterstone, finally entering the discussion, ‘you mean to say, Captain, that God is a gambler.’

‘Who can really know, sir?’

‘That might be laudable freethinking in some London circles, Captain, but you and I differ on the matter. We differ very much, sir. I cannot express to you how much we differ.’

‘And yet, Lord Batterstone, I must defend my position. I am not dismissing the science, I am not dismissing the hand of divinity; I am simply suggesting that signs are not enough, that God does not provide easy answers. And in any case, how can we know enough about the brain of a man, encased as it is in its bony casement, to be able to judge him...’

(Lady Batterstone, wary now of the direction of the conversation, tried to intervene with a comment on one of the dishes, but was ignored by her lord.)

‘By reading the bony casement, sir. I think that is what we do, don’t we?’

‘There, if I may say so, Lord Batterstone, a majority of our colleagues would disagree with you: the skull gives you indications, not answers. We need to look deeper.’

‘You are wrong, sir, if I may say so. Indications, not answers! It is the mark of ignorance, if not disbelief, to attribute a failure to read the signs to the absence of signs. God has made the skull to fit the brain: if you read the covering, you read the content. It is as simple as that...’

The sea of conversation was heaving dangerously on the fragile table, shiny with silver and candles, and Lady Batterstone took the drastic action of ringing for dessert, even though some of the guests had not finished the food on their plates. Holding his pince-nez decisively in place, Mr Reginald B. Sangrail came to her rescue by turning the conversation, with uncharacteristic resolution (born of utter boredom with matters relating to science, law, order, and the working classes), to the ball that was going to be the highlight of the week.

Breakfast in his chamber. His butler entering, helping him into his slippers and gown, and leaving soundlessly. The maid placing the silver tray, as was the custom, on the table in front of a deep window seat. From there, Lord Batterstone could look out and see a sizeable portion of the terrace and the park, while consuming his breakfast slowly, between occasional glances at a book or newspaper that he seldom read in a consistent manner. Lord Batterstone had established this tradition simply in order to avoid his guests for as long as possible. If he could manage to avoid them until noon, he would feel capable of bearing their company into the evening if required.

Lord Batterstone was counting the days. After the ball next evening, he would be a free man for a year. And, if things went well, next year, he would be in Africa collecting scientific samples and not wasting his time with a bunch of social nincompoops, invited haphazardly and perhaps spitefully by his dear wife. He was grateful that Major whatsisname had been called back to London yesterday morning with news of yet another beheading — some beggar or prostitute found in an abandoned ruin — though he had, unfortunately, left his family and that insufferable Captain Meadows behind.

Beheadings, forsooth! When had London ever lacked beheadings?

Mary and Captain Meadows stood in the small pagoda in one corner of the landscaped parks that surrounded the mansion of their hosts. They were not thinking of beheadings. Or, at least, Mary was not; Meadows was a bit worried about the way talk in London rags had moved towards accounts of thugs. It was only a matter of time before someone pointed a finger at Amir Ali, he thought. The Captain was convinced of Amir’s innocence, but he had his doubts about the authorities — despite the fact that the Major was in charge — and he did not trust the London mob. In any case, he hoped that Amir had availed of his discharge from the Captain’s service to board the first ship going east.

But Mary did not allow the Captain to dwell on such thoughts. She had better things to fill his mind with: things to do with herself. She dropped a handkerchief, and when the Captain did not notice it drop, she pointed it out to him. Meadows gallantly stooped to retrieve the fabric from the bedewed grass.

‘Oh, look’, said Mary.

Captain Meadows looked. There was a ladybird on the handkerchief.

‘It is quite unusual’, began Captain Meadows.

‘Isn’t it beautiful’, Mary interrupted.

There was a slight pause before Captain Meadows could think of the right response. ‘Not as beautiful as you, if I may say so.’ But perhaps it was not the right response.

Mary frowned.

‘Are you comparing me to a bug, Captain?’ she asked with a perfect pout.

She watched him stutter and fumble and realized once again why it was taking her so long to reel him in: this highly eligible man, excellent in so many ways, simply lacked the social ease with which other young men besieged her at parties and balls. But Mary, though exceptionally pretty, was no fool. She was not looking for a beau, not any more; she was looking for a husband. And Captain Meadows had ‘husband’ written all over his pale, blushing face with its long sideburns and washed-out eyes. She relented and laughed.

The Captain looked incredibly relieved.

Jenny and Amir could not hold hands in the polite parts of the city. This was new, Qui Hy had told them: when she was young, no one had objected to a coloured woman walking hand in hand with a white man. Perhaps that was so, thought Amir, or perhaps it was simply because in his case, it was the woman who was white. He did know that he could walk with Jenny in the rougher neighbourhoods of the city, in the rookery, for instance. But in the polite parks and streets he had to walk behind her, or some man or the other would take offence on Jenny’s behalf and shove him away with a word or a gesture.

This was less disturbing for Amir, who had long realized that all societies had their untouchables, than for Jenny. She felt obliged to protest on his behalf. On one occasion, it had led to a scuffle. It would have ended badly too, if the two white men who had objected did not speak with such a heavy American accent — this had inspired Jenny to accuse the two of being slavers, thus winning the sympathy of the crowd. Killers of Lovejoy, this isn’t America, a voice from the crowd had shouted. The men had been shoved and booed away by the mob and Jenny and Amir were actually cheered and applauded when they resumed their walk. But now Amir pre-empted the possibility of unpleasantness by keeping a step behind Jenny in the fashionable avenues of London.

Having spent the afternoon at Hyde Park, watching squirrels quarrel with long-tailed tits in the uneasy company of people of the higher classes, they were now walking back to Amir’s half-house. Amir relished these rare trips — for Jenny was always working — to parks or monuments. He was fascinated by the look of rapture with which Jenny pointed out the latest features of the place they visited — this time, it was the monumental entrance at Hyde Park Corner, which Jenny recalled being built when she was a child. But while she could point out all the new features, she was largely ignorant of the history of the parks and palaces. She would listen with a combination of disbelief and fascination when Amir supplied some of the missing history, culled from papers or gossip. This afternoon she had laughingly refused to believe Amir when he told her that the Serpentine was an artificial lake, created only a century ago.

In general, Jenny and Amir did not talk much. On the way back from Hyde Park, they admired the buildings and the dresses: Amir because he was still getting used to this city, Jenny because it was seldom that she had time to look at the houses she passed, the people she served.

As they walked towards the neighbourhood where Amir was renting a place, not very far from Qui Hy’s dhaba, imperceptibly they drew closer to each other. As the streets got darker and dirtier, the houses more dilapidated, the invisible pressure of decorum that had kept them apart dissipated and they realized they were holding hands. Unlike her hair, which was carefully tended and protected even during her most difficult chores, Jenny’s hands were hard and callused. If her hair, when she let it down for Amir, evoked a desire to protect, her hands seemed to proclaim a capacity to survive on their own, unprotected by anyone. It was this that Amir found most fascinating about Jenny: her vulnerability and her toughness.