She told him, dabbing at her face with a handkerchief.
Hervey stood awkwardly. ‘I am so very sorry. But why did you not say before?’
‘Oh, sir, there wasn’t cause to trouble you in it, or Mrs Hervey. Miss Hervey knows because she saw me crying one day, but I begged she would say nothing.’
His instinct was to comfort her, in the way he would Georgiana if she were distressed, but instead kept his distance.
‘Please, sit down, Annie. I really am very sorry indeed, for I know you were a small family, and close. It is a perilous thing, soldiery, and the worst of it, often as not, isn’t the enemy but the country and its peculiar sickness. India’s a fierce and fickle place, as you’ve seen for yourself, and I shouldn’t in the least try to persuade you otherwise if you wished to return home now.’
Annie dabbed at her eyes again, and thanked him. But she knew there wasn’t the least need for him to persuade her. Her people’s days were probably not long – they’d said so themselves when she’d asked them if she might go to India – and they’d said she must make her own life, and make of it the best that she could. She couldn’t tell him this, of course – it wouldn’t seem right, as if she were … well, some sort of fortune-hunter – but she could make some of her own feelings known at least, and plainly. (And if she could stop being tearful and behaving like a housemaid, and bear herself like someone respectable.)
‘No, Colonel, I would not wish to return on that account.’
‘Well, I am glad to hear it, of course, for neither I nor Mrs Hervey – and certainly not Georgiana – would wish to see you go. And I do commend you for your consideration in keeping the sad news to yourself, but please recollect that you are as family to us. Neither I nor Mrs Hervey would wish you to withhold something so distressing again.’
‘Thank you.’
It was the first time, she’d later recollect, that she’d ever answered as a woman rather than as servant – no ‘sir’ or ‘colonel’. What was become of her?
‘Well now,’ he added briskly; ‘I would not have you unhappy. You’ll be joining us at dinner this evening? I think Sir Eyre means to put on quite a show.’
She nodded, and managed a smile. ‘I shall.’
‘Capital … Then, what say you to a walk if Georgiana isn’t able to? In the Mogul gardens. I’m greatly in need of a little exercise after so many letters this morning. You might tell me a little more of what you’ve observed of this place, and the business of the thugs.’
She said she would.
Half an hour later, under Serjeant Acton’s ever-watchful eye, they began their stroll in the cool greenness of what had once been the private precincts of a considerable palace long dismantled.
‘I can’t pretend to knowing a great deal about Mogul gardens – and these here are far inferior to those at Dehli and …’ (he was going to say ‘Agra’, but thought better of it, since that was now the place of her brother’s grave) ‘… and Fatehpur Sikri.’
‘Fatehpur Sikri is near Agra, is it not?’
He smiled to himself at his unnecessary delicacy. ‘Yes. The fort and palace there are quite extraordinarily fine – red sandstone.’
‘And the Taj Mahal. I have read a little about it.’
‘Ah, yes, the Taj Mahal.’
‘You have been there, Colonel?’
‘Yes, when last the regiment was here, in Calcutta.’
‘And seen the Taj Mahal?’
‘Yes.’
‘I had very much hoped to go and see my brother, and while there to see the Taj Mahal. Is it the most beautiful building in the world?’
‘Well, I am at a disadvantage in that I have not seen all those that would claim to be more beautiful, but I would say that there is something to its situation – by a great river, the Jumna – and the brilliance of the marble stone, and the symmetry, and its dimensions and proportions, which are very great. It is certainly without comparison with anything I’ve seen, or indeed seen images of. And it’s come upon from Agra – where too, incidentally, is a fine sandstone fort, which your brother would have known well; it’s come upon via some miles of desert, and so it stands most impressively on the eye.’
Annie smiled. ‘I wonder what my brother made of it. He may not even have seen it, of course, for he was never a one for churches and such like. He was a very active boy. But I know who were the Moguls, and that they liked to make gardens that were enclosed, but to keep out the world, rather than to keep what was within. And that they liked water for fountains and pools to reflect the sky, and that it was to remind them of the mountain streams where they came from.’
‘You have indeed been reading, Annie. I understand it is exactly so.’
The fountains at Sthambadree, though, were of no great height – hardly that of a man, where those at Dehli and Agra were twelve feet and more; and the hedges and flora ran wild, though the trees gave shade, and doubtless fruit in due season. And the walls, though tumbled down, still somehow kept out the world. Besides a couple of gardeners who were not greatly exerting themselves, the place was theirs.
‘Why is my brother’s regiment to come here, Colonel? Will they no longer be in Agra?’
‘They will return there.’
‘Oh, I am sorry to ask. It’s not my place.’
‘You are at liberty to ask what you please, Annie, though I’m afraid that I’m not always at liberty to answer as I please.’
‘Of course. It’s just that I heard we might be returning to Madras soon, now that the regiment has caught these men, and I wondered if his, my brother’s, regiment were to replace us – the regiment, I mean.’
Hervey warmed to her ‘us’. It never went better than when a regiment’s camp-followers thought themselves on the strength.
‘The answer to that, Annie, is “no”, on both counts. Before the regiment returns to Madras I have to visit with the ruler of Chintal, a Ranee, a princess, and then afterwards there might be need of them here a little longer. But in all probability I shall send Georgiana back if there’s need for us to stay, for I don’t think it would be especially agreeable to remain here then, my being away and all. Besides, I think Mrs Hervey will be nearing her time.’
Annie found this disappointing. She hadn’t really supposed she’d ever be able to see Agra and the Taj Mahal, certainly not now her brother was dead, but she was finding these country parts very agreeable, not least because so was Georgiana. She’d never before enjoyed such freedom, the freedom that the horse granted – to jump a stream, to gallop, to see so much from a position of security …
‘Of course, Colonel, though for myself I would gladly stay and see more.’
She knew that half her duty lay at Madras with Allegra, and that loyalty demanded she be with Allegra’s mother for her time (which she didn’t in the least resent), but there was Georgiana, whose care she’d been given …
‘Colonel Hervey, I hope you won’t think it impertinent of me, but I know that Miss Hervey, given the chance, would stay longer.’
Hervey stopped. ‘You’re sure?’
‘I am. She knows you’re to go to Chintal – oh, perhaps I ought not to have said – but I am sure she wishes to go with you. She knows the ruler is a princess, and that you saved her father’s life.’
He wondered how she knew he was to go; but that was no matter. There was always camp gossip. Nor could he remember what he’d said about his time there; it couldn’t have been much, for Georgiana always complained that he’d never speak of soldiery, unless a parade or some such. Doubtless, though, Corporal Johnson had woven a rich pattern of tales …
‘Well, I’m not altogether sure it would be entirely safe. It’s not the Crown’s territory,’ he said, taking up his stride again.
Annie wouldn’t argue with him on that point; for how could she (though Georgiana had shown herself cool enough when it came to dacoits and pistols)? But her expression was obviously more than mere disappointment.
‘I’ve already told Sir Eyre Somervi
le that it would be most imprudent for him to come, so I can hardly now say “yes” to Georgiana.’
This, however, seemed to permit her some latitude. ‘I would say, on Miss Hervey’s behalf, Colonel, that women perhaps see country and people different from men, and that this might be of assistance.’
He almost missed his step.
XV
Diplomacy
Later
‘The surgeon to see you, Colonel.’ St Alban laid a sheaf of papers on Hervey’s desk.
It was four o’clock, and the heat of the day, nothing compared with Madras when they’d left, was comfortable without the punkah – a good time for office, however tedious, especially after so diverting a walk.
‘Excellent! I trust he brings no ill news, though,’ said Hervey.
It had been a week and more since he’d seen him (Milne had insisted on visiting each troop, strung out as they were around the Circars), and there were matters of business to discuss, as well as the pleasure of his company.
‘I fancy that no surgeon brings wholly welcome news, Colonel.’
Hervey looked at him quizzically. ‘You are a little sombre, today.’
St Alban looked awkward. ‘Colonel, I have to tell you that Lieutenant Waterman has died.’
‘Oh.’
The death of an officer wearing the same device on his shako – the death of any rank, indeed – was ever a reason for gravity. That he’d not much liked Waterman, and disliked even more the business of Askew, for which he’d held him in part responsible, was by the bye.
‘Of what cause?’
‘I believe that that’s what the surgeon wishes to speak about.’
‘Was it in Bangalore?’
‘No, he’d returned to Madras. I detailed him for the rear party.’
Hervey raised an eyebrow, perplexed: first Channer sending in his papers, suddenly and without explanation (though no loss – indeed, in truth, he was glad of it); but Waterman dead? This was the solution that no one could have wished for.
‘Nothing untoward?’
‘Colonel, I sense that that’s something on which the surgeon wishes to speak directly with you. I didn’t press him. He knows where I stand, and I trust his judgement.’
‘Handsomely put. Very well, show him in. And then, perhaps too, you’d better withdraw.’
St Alban bowed.
Milne came in saluting and taking off his cap in one motion.
‘My dear doctor!’
He took the chair as Hervey indicated. ‘A relief from the saddle, Colonel. My poor mare’s carried me well this past week, but more miles than I’d foreseen.’
‘Some refreshment?’
‘St Alban said he’d send in tea.’
‘Very well, what’s to report?’
‘On the whole, as regards the troops, very little. B had a man die of a convulsion, one of the new draft and—’
‘Which of the new draft?’
Milne took out his notebook. ‘Newing.’
Hervey shook his head. One new recruit was much as another, but Newing, the farmhand from Kent, who’d shown promise at riding school …
He’d only reluctantly agreed to letting them join a troop instead of the rear details (all bar two, whom the RM was certain weren’t yet fit to pass out) on condition they were under the strict eye of a serjeant.
‘How do you account for the convulsion?’
Milne said he couldn’t, that it was almost certainly a latent condition.
‘So not the fault of any neglect.’
‘No, I judge not.’
‘Proceed.’
‘There are one or two sunstrokes, but nothing likely to prove fatal. No, I should say that the exercise is to the greater health of all.’
‘And what of Waterman?’
Milne sighed. ‘Now there’s a strange case. Gibb, the Fifty-seventh’s surgeon, who’s doing duty, wrote me that he’d been called to his bed, Waterman having been discovered lifeless by a servant in the middle of the morning, and found no obvious sign of the cause of death, but a great odour of alcohol – brandy, he thought. He therefore had the body brought to his hospital and carried out an extensive post-mortem examination. Waterman’s stomach didn’t contain the excessive alcohol he’d expected, and he began to think it possible that there’d been some sort of violent reaction and Waterman had spilled the contents of his flask. An examination of his nightclothes suggested this was in fact so. He then made an examination of the exterior of the body – I have to say that I would have done so before any incision, but that’s by the bye; we each have our methods – and he found two wounds on the left ankle.’
‘A snakebite, you mean?’
‘A krait, he believes.’
‘How might he know that?’
‘The bite’s usually deeper than the cobra’s.’
‘So he died of a snakebite. Yet another, if this time more exalted than your chowkidar’s wife. Though I must say I don’t think I’ve heard of an officer being bitten in his own room, though one or two close shaves … I presume we may suppose he was bitten in his room, not elsewhere?’
‘Booted, I doubt the snake could have made such an impression on his ankle, so we may presume he was indeed bitten in his room. Unbooted, perhaps, if he were in his cups, he mightn’t have felt the bite, and changed into night attire and gone to bed. Or perhaps he lay with his ankle exposed. It’s deuced odd, be what may.’
‘A cobra came into the stillroom at Arcot House.’
‘But there was no glass or flask or bottle to be found in his room. So either his nightclothes were soaked in brandy outside his room, or else the container was removed.’
A khitmagar, one of the begum’s, brought them tea.
‘You’re saying there’s something irregular in his death?’
Milne looked quizzical. ‘Gibb has entered the cause of death in the register as probable snakebite, and burial has taken place. Beyond that, his profession doesn’t require more of him, but as an officer he’s unquiet and has reported his suspicions to the provost marshal.’
‘Then there we’ll have to leave matters. What a thoroughly wretched business. I’ll write to his people at once, even if no more than to say he is dead and the cause is uncertain.’
Milne nodded. ‘I should think that best, yes.’
‘Very well, you’ll join us for dinner? Sir Eyre is host.’
‘Very gladly, Colonel,’ he said, rising. ‘If you’ll excuse me, meanwhile, I should like to visit the prisoners before I take my bath.’
Hervey opened the door for him, and when he’d taken leave he called in St Alban.
‘Milne has told me the deucedest thing …’
St Alban listened warily; then when it was finished he shook his head. ‘I should have warned him to be on his guard. Sammy told me he’d heard all manner of threats, though he couldn’t – wouldn’t, perhaps – say who uttered them. I merely dismissed it as the stuff of the wet canteen.’
‘It’s conjecture only, Edward. At this stage the evidence is but circumstantial.’
‘Indeed, Colonel, but if true it bodes very ill.’
‘I don’t need reminding of that. I don’t think I ever heard of an officer being dealt retributively in so calculating a manner.’
‘I should hope not.’
Hervey sighed. ‘I’d better write at once. Who are his people, do you know? Sussex, I think.’
St Alban shook his head. ‘I’ll have the chief clerk look. Oh, and the major has arrived, and with letters for you,’ he added, handing him a small bundle.
They dined in some state that evening, and a tent as sumptuous as any nabob’s. The governor’s baggage train had come up from Guntoor and his quarters made under canvas in the fastness of the great fort. It was here at Sthambadree that Hervey had planned to assemble the field force, and Somervile was determined to see it. He fancied (as soldier manqué par excellence) that he was never happier than when pointing a pistol or wielding a sabre in the company of those who
se profession it was, and he was certain that it would be his last chance of military adventure. (He’d leave the reconnaissance to Hervey, but he’d not concede if and when it came to a campaign.) What would then follow after his governorship came to an end was as yet uncertain. The best he could hope for was a not too disagreeable colony somewhere, though how he’d receive such a preferment with a government of Whigs he couldn’t imagine. The trouble was, he was a little too senior for a plum in Leadenhall Street, and a little too junior for one of the more sought-after posts. He’d lately been sounded for Van Dieman’s Land, not long detached from New South Wales, but, as he’d said to Emma, his wife, if he had to be a prison governor he’d rather it were Dartmoor.
They were twelve at dinner, all in uniform save Somervile himself and his secretary, who both wore plain white kurtas, and Georgiana and Annie, who both wore silk. Fairbrother, released from his disguise as a seth, shaved, scrubbed and his hair cut and dressed, was immaculate in rifle green; the commanding officer of the Bodyguard and Somervile’s aide-de-camp were equally immaculate in red; Sleeman wore the frogged kurta of the Political Service; while Hervey, Milne, St Alban and Major Garratt were in their best blue, their red put away until it could no longer be avoided.
Hervey was surprised by how pleased he was to see the major, for all the trouble he’d given him lately (the anticipation of trouble, at least). Garratt was as affable as ever. To all, he could only appear the ideal of the man of candour, the man altogether confident in his ability as a soldier, who took delight in simple pleasures – the hill and the stream, the table, and cards – content in his comfortable-enough circumstances, even though in age senior to his superior. There was really nothing more that he, Hervey, could reasonably have desired in his second in command.
And yet this wretched … misfeasance (there was no denying the word). And the worst of it was that if it were so, there was no knowing what else the major indulged himself in. But he’d decided on this already, had he not, in seeking to arrange the appointment at St Helena? He’d judged that the corn dealer’s inducement (if it was no more than that) was a peccadillo rather than a crime; for a crime could not be overlooked. And it must surely be so, for Garratt couldn’t possibly be the man he saw before them now – brave, resourceful, sociable – if at heart he was corrupt?
The Tigress of Mysore Page 18
