The Deceivers

by John Masters

  William’s brain registered the non sequitur of the remark. He felt his companion’s hand grip his elbow. He saw two men flanking the Sikh boy crouch forward. A dirty grey cloth flashed momentarily and jerked round the boy’s neck. One of the men tugged at it, the other forced the boy’s head over to one side. For a fraction of a second, through a blinding mist of disbelief, William heard the merchant’s transfigured, fierce voice. ‘That one, quick!’

  The farmer lay on the ground, his head twisted round at a right-angle, his eyes bolting out at his son. The two were sprawled at the edge of the fire, among the ashes and the soiled leaves which had been their supper plates. Shadowy men ran, crouched, grunted, swore. The fat merchant was on his feet, a cloth in his hands, pointing, gesticulating.

  William gasped aloud and scrambled to his feet. The branches of the bush caught him; the man at his side grabbed his feet and said furiously. ‘No, no! You promised!’ William tore loose and ran forward, shouting in Hindi, ‘Stop it, stand still! I am …’

  A face popped up from nowhere and the neck fitted into his outstretched hands. His fingers closed with a snap. He felt the strength surge into them as he lifted the man and dashed his head against a tree. The man lay on the ground and did not move. William stood panting over him and glared round the grove.

  Suddenly he realized he was alone among murderers. The fat merchant had picked up the musket and was trying to steady his aim. Other men moved around in the shadows behind him. The lopsided man had vanished. The Sikhs were dead.

  William bounded over the fire, smashed his fist into the merchant’s face as he passed, and ran out into the darkness. He stumbled among the trees, falling, bursting through thorn scrub, fighting away from the firelight. Men ran after him. He heard the crackle of leaves under their feet. The bright moon scurried through the treetops to his right, keeping pace, holding him fixed in light. A sharp thorn ripped his cheek. Another tore off his turban.

  They were close. He threw himself down under a fallen tree and caught his breath. They were loud behind him. He heard them stumble past and run together. They muttered challenge and greeting: ‘Ali bhai ram ram!’ ‘Ram ram!’ Ali again! The little treacherous swine—he would break his neck.

  The anger died, and he lay cold as death under the trunk. Insects began to crawl over him. Dead twigs crunched to the left and ahead. They could not be more than twenty feet away. They moved back and forth, met together, whispered, moved away. Silence. Faint sounds from the direction of the fire behind him. Its light filtered among the trees. It was going out, dying to the accompaniment of chunking and slithering. Digging? Smothering the fire? Were they all there? Had they left a pair of men lying here, as silent as he?

  After two hours he was trembling so violently that the tiny chatter and stir among the leaves sounded like the march of an army. He began to edge away on his stomach, moving one arm and leg at a time. Drops of blood from his face plopped steadily on to the leaves. A nightjar set up a sudden appalling shriek of alarm. The darkness moved by his right side. Orange light glared on white teeth and popping eyes above him. The explosion rocked him.

  He was not hit. They would have to reload the musket. He jumped up and ran, crouching. The surface changed underfoot, the shadow splashes fell away, he saw the moon. He was on a road, and a man stood on it. Two men. Moving, but they had heard him. His throat burned, and he was frightened. He would never escape them.

  He turned back into the jungle and ran. The men behind did not call out but came after him. The merchant with the gun was somewhere ahead still. And others. How many?

  He slammed into a tree, turned, and ran crazily back toward the road. Human arms reached out for him and he swung his fist. Some noisy thing fell into the undergrowth, groaning. The road again. He began to run down it.

  He was not young enough for this, or fit enough. They would get him. He saw the turning to Padwa, ran well past, jumped off the road and lay down. They had lost him for a minute. He got up, crawled through on to the Padwa trail, and ran.

  Chapter Six

  The moon rode high above the knoll and the village. The silence of the fields hammered at him, and the sky swung round the moon. He hurried under the orange trees planted on the side of the street and screamed suddenly when a fruit fell on his shoulder. The two dogs began to bark furiously. All lights were out. He had no idea what time it was. He sagged across the courtyard wall, his heart heaving, and could go no farther. He croaked, ‘Ooh, Chandra Sen, come quickly.’

  Inside the house nothing stirred. He remembered dimly that they were to leave the door open so that he could creep up the stairs and into the house without knocking. No one must see ‘Gopal’ return to Padwa. He pushed himself upright and stumbled forward.

  Under the house the dogs went crazy. He heard a chain snap and the jangling of the broken end as it came over the stones toward him. The dogs were at him; teeth closed in his leg, and the weight dragged him down. He seized that dog by the throat and began to throttle it, while the other tore at his bare stomach. He kept calling, ‘Chandra Sen! Your dogs! Hurry, hurry down!’ The watchman should have been here, but wasn’t. Chandra Sen must have sent him on an errand to keep him out of the way.

  The door of the house burst open, the light of a torch flooded the courtyard, and Chandra Sen ran down the steps, a big staff in his hand. He called the dogs by name and beat at them with the stick. William had loosed his grip on the dog’s throat, and it lay retching at his feet. After a few seconds it crawled away, while its brother began to attack it.

  Chandra Sen grasped his staff firmly and held up the torch. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Sav—Gopal. Put the light down.’ It would be too much if someone saw him now and word went to the woman at the pyre. All his terrible evening would go for nothing.

  He dragged past the patel, across the courtyard, up the steps, and into the house. Inside, his legs would not hold him and he sank slowly to the floor. A tall mirror, cracked, and framed in heavy gilt, stood against the whitewashed wall. He saw himself in it and did not wonder that Chandra Sen stared with open mouth.

  His brown-stained skin was torn and bleeding. Deep scratches scored his bare shoulders, and the flesh of his stomach was torn. Froth bubbled on his lips. He mumbled, ‘See, I am Gopal!’ and laughed, and cut the laugh short, winning control of himself.

  Chandra Sen lowered the torch; its flames dimmed and sprang up again; black smoke wisps curled to the ceiling. He cried, ‘It is! It is! What has happened, lord?’

  William sank back against the wall and told his story. He dared not glance toward the mirror while he spoke, or he would have burst out again in mad laughter. He finished, suddenly uncertain, ‘I think—get your men out, patel-ji, quickly. Perhaps we can catch these murderers. Where is my wife?’

  Chandra Sen slipped off without a word. Mary’s quick feet, light and firm, came down the passage. She saw him, and checked her step, and ran forward and flung herself on her knees beside him. ‘Oh, darling! William, are you all right? Quick, bring bandages, salves!’

  The house awoke. Voices muttered everywhere. William rested his head on Mary’s arm. ‘It’s nothing much.’

  ‘Did the people try to kill you? Is she safe?’

  ‘She? Who? Oh yes, she’s safe. It’s something else. I can’t tell you all now. Can’t we stop everyone coming in here? They’ll all know it wasn’t Gopal, but me.’

  An old woman with her veil awry, who smelled of cozy sleep, shuffled in and squatted down beside him. From the door Chandra Sen said, ‘Do not worry, sahib. No one will tell. I vouch for them.’ The old woman washed away the dirt, felt his cuts and bruises, and muttered to herself.

  Mary said suddenly, ‘Must you go out again?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She did not try to stop him, as he had half expected, but said, ‘Then we must get this colour off. The lotion’s ready. We made it while you were out.’

  The room filled, and William’s impatience mounted. The patel’s wife rubbed the
spirituous lotion into his face and hands with a cloth. It stung fiercely, and he bit his lips against the pain, but the colour came out. The old woman grunted and grumbled and went on, sure-fingered, with her work. At last Mary bandaged his stomach. He stood up, supporting himself for a moment on her shoulder.

  ‘I’ll get your clothes,’ she said and ran off to their room at the back of the house. The patel and his wife and the old woman left. Mary came back, and William jerked on his English clothes. Horses’ hoofs clattered in the yard now, and arms clashed. He was ready. He glanced in the mirror—wild eyes, cuts, otherwise all right. He said, ‘There’s no danger now. Don’t be afraid for me.’

  ‘I’m not—not for you. Kiss me.’

  He dabbed a kiss hurriedly on her lips, then turned again and sank his mouth on hers. ‘Oh, Mary!’

  Chandra Sen waited for him outside. ‘Do we need a big party, sahib? That will take more time. I will have to get men from all over my estates. But we are six here, not counting your honour.’

  ‘That will do for now. But I think you had better send out to warn the others that they may be needed in the morning…. You have? Good.’

  Five horsemen waited in the yard. Two carried sabres, two muskets, and one a pike. The pikeman was his own butler, Sher Dil. His groom was there too, holding his horse, and the pistols were ready in the holsters on the front arch. A young boy, Chandra Sen’s son—about the age and size of the boy William had just seen murdered—held the bridle of a seventh horse. The veiled shadows of women murmured shrilly from the lighted doorways and windows of the house.

  William gathered his strength and swung slowly into the saddle. He raised his hand. ‘Your master has told you what has happened?’ The riders muttered assent. ‘Good. We will go first to the grove where the murders were done. If we find nothing there, we had better spread out and search the roads.’

  ‘How will we know the murderers, sahib?’ said Chandra Sen.

  William stopped short. What did they look like? They were nondescript: two Brahmins, four or five others. The fat merchant—his face was clear enough. Two of the others were Mohammedans; he had known that from their turbans. One was old; he remembered the wrinkled face. One was young—no, that was one of the Brahmins. But had some of them been among the murdered? The Sikh and his son were not the only ones who had been killed. Or were they? It had happened too quickly. Then he ought to describe the lop-sided man; he too must be caught; but it was impossible to describe him, except for that bent neck.

  Haltingly he told the party what he could remember. His confidence ebbed away, so that with his hurts he felt sick and ready to vomit. He was not sure now that he would recognize anyone except the fat man with the popping eyes and nibbling lips. Men would be brought roped to his jail, and he would not be able to swear to them. What would the laws of evidence say? What would Mr. Wilson say?

  Chandra Sen gathered up his reins, looking at William keenly. ‘That is good enough. We will catch them if we have to arrest every traveller on the roads.’

  William jerked his shoulders, as though he could by that gesture shake loose his worries, and pushed his horse into a fast canter. One behind the other, the six horsemen tore down the street after him, then on to the path between empty moon-bathed fields, then into the jungle where the horses’ hoofs struck loudly against the tree roots and sparks flew back from Chandra Sen’s torch into the faces of the riders behind.

  The grove of murder was silent. In the dying moonlight the shadows lay differently, and William was not sure that this was it. By day it was recognizable easily enough; but there were other groves. He did not know … he was not sure.

  He reined in his horse. ‘Chandra Sen, this is the place—I think.’

  Chandra Sen raised his torch, holding reins and naked sword in the other hand, and looked across at him with—what? compassion? Damn them all, it had happened, just as he described.

  The riders jostled forward, and the horses blew softly through their nostrils and bit one another’s necks. A man coughed, another cleared his throat of dust, spat, and swore under his breath. Sher Dil said officiously, ‘Silence!’

  William thought this was the place. He did not know what to say or do now, and was silent, tongue-tied.

  Chandra Sen cried, ‘You three, go back down the road, all the way to Madhya. Tell the police daffadar what has happened. Bhimoo, Sher Dil, accompany the Collector-sahib and me. I think the villains may have gone on, sahib, and crossed the river.’

  ‘They won’t have used the ferry, anyway,’ William said dully. ‘It will be closed down.’

  ‘Yes, but the merchant might have lied to the Sikh about the direction he was travelling in. He might have crossed the river earlier in the day. And the man, the Mohammedan who had been with the Sikh, he crossed with the Sikh and his son apparently. Let us go and find out what we can.’

  ‘All right.’

  Chandra Sen swung round and, followed by William and Sher Dil and the grim watchman, galloped for the ferry. They reached the west bank of the river in a few minutes and did not pass anyone on the way. The bank was deserted and silent; the houses of Bhadora opposite were dark; a single small light burned in the ferrymen’s hut. Chandra Sen shouted, and shouted again, and at the third time a surly voice grumbled across the water in answer.

  ‘Who the devil are you? Wait there and sleep till morning. Any man who travels at night is a damned fool.’

  ‘It is Chandra Sen, patel, who speaks, and with him is the Collector-sahib from Madhya,’ said Chandra Sen in a quiet, high voice that carried over the dark water and echoed back from the houses. There was a long pause. Then the ferryman, his voice a loud whine, ‘I come, your honour. I come as fast as I can.’

  Listening, they heard him swear at his sons, heard their grunts and oaths. The lamp moved, water splashed and gurgled, the faces floated closer across the river. When the bow touched bank the ferryman came, stooped forward. He peered shortsightedly at them, amazement written on his coarse face.

  ‘It is indeed the Collector and the honoured patel. But—but—how has the sahib been hurt? Is it——’

  ‘Never mind that,’ Chandra Sen answered curtly. ‘There has been foul murder committed near here. The sahib saw it done.’ He gave the futile descriptions of the men. ‘Do you remember any of those people crossing in your boat today, yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, your honour!’ The ferryman grew voluble. His sons stood behind him, eyeing William. ‘The Sikh and his son crossed an hour before sunset—I remember them. He was tight-fisted and gave us a miserable baksheesh. And now he’s dead!’ He sighed sententiously, his bloodshot eyes vindictive and triumphant in the guttering torchlight.

  ‘Yes, he’s dead,’ William snapped angrily, ‘but not before he told something of your little ways which will be of interest to my police. Now, about the lopsided man, the fat merchant, the others—do you remember them?’

  ‘We don’t remember, sahib,’ the ferryman whined, clasping his hands together and bowing his huge, knotted shoulders. William noticed how the ‘we’ shared with his sons the blame for what had not been remembered, while the ‘I’ of the previous sentence assumed all the credit for remembering the Sikh. This ferryman of Bhadora was an unpleasant person. ‘We don’t remember——’

  Chandra Sen interrupted, ‘Very well. Try to recall the men we have described. If any of them come this way, seize them.’

  The ferryman began to protest, whining. What could he do against murderers? He was afraid. He was a man of peace. Chandra Sen said gently, ‘You have four sons, do you not? Your boat rests its bow on my land now, does it not? Do you want to be driven away from here?’ The ferryman clasped his hands and was silent.

  William and Chandra Sen and the two servants turned away and rode back a little distance. William sat his horse, the others surrounding him, and thought. Where might the murderers have gone? What had they done with the bodies? If he could find those it would at least dispel the doubts he saw behind the patel’s polite
ness—doubts of his sanity. The watchman too was looking at him as though he had gone out of his mind and must be humoured. Sher Dil was worried for him. Those two did not know just why or how he had seen the murders. They never would. Upstream the little fire at the burning ghat had gone out. The woman was there, waiting.

  Heavily he said, ‘Shall we rest here till dawn, patel-ji? Then we’ll go to the grove and look for the bodies. We’ll want the rest of your tenants probably.’

  Chandra Sen told Bhimoo the watchman to return to the house and bring the larger party on as soon as it was light enough. ‘Ohé!’ William called as the man trotted out of the torchlight. ‘Make sure they bring all the picks and shovels they can. We may have to dig.’

  William and Chandra Sen dismounted, tethered their horses, and lay down to rest. Chandra Sen seemed to sleep soundly, wrapped in his loose clothes, but William could not sleep. The lap of the drifting stream hurt his head. Sher Dil stood on guard and murmured with the ferryman and his sons. They had built a fire, and the light played on the tangled leaves above his head. Their low voices rattled in his skull.

  He thought of Mary. Damn, he ought to have sent word to Madhya. He had a patrol of eight mounted police there, under a daffadar. He did not think quickly enough. He remembered then that Chandra Sen had done it all, and he turned over painfully on the hard ground. As he stared at the fire and the men hunched round it, it became another fire and they other men. The Sikh boy who was dead stood beside him, offering him food.

  The murderers formed a dangerous band, and they had come into his district at a time when travel was at its peak. Scores of defenceless travellers were at their mercy. The band could not survive uncaught for long—or could it? The jungles of his district were wide and contained many places of refuge: forgotten water holes, caves among the hills, deserted Gond villages. He prayed suddenly that the murderers would leave his district and go into someone else’s. He bit his lip and tried to think of Mary again.