Tales: Short Stories Featuring Ian Rutledge and Bess Crawford

by Charles Todd

Turning the corner beside the stables, I slammed into someone coming fast the other way, nearly knocking the breath out of me.

  Hands grasped my shoulders, setting me back on my feet. I looked up. It was Simon.

  “What are you doing here? Go on, go back to the house.”

  I caught his hand. “Simon, listen.” I gave him the message from the gatekeeper.

  Simon, frowning, said, “Why didn’t he tell your father? Or the Maharani’s aide-de-camp?”

  “I don’t know—yes, I do, my father was already on his way to the lines. He didn’t come back to the house after the Maharani had left.”

  “Good girl,” Simon told me. “Now go. They won’t wait for me.”

  He raced down to the lines, caught the reins of his horse from one of the sergeants, and swung into the saddle. I watched as the troop formed up on command and headed out into the open country beyond the cantonment. Simon waited until they were wheeling toward the north, where the Maharani had come from, then spurred his mount to where my father rode next to Captain Dixon. Their heads were close for a moment, and then Simon fell back to his place in the ranks.

  Relieved, I walked briskly back to the house, and listened to Miss Stewart’s scolding with as much repentance as I could muster. When she had finished, ordering me to my room at once, I begged her first to let me give my mother the message from my father.

  She relented—she had, I thought, a fondness for my father than she had kept concealed with prim care—and let me go into the parlor, where my mother was looking at the book the Maharani had brought me.

  “This is very interesting, Bess,” she began, then looked at me more intently. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  Walking across the room to stand by her chair, I whispered my news, even including my visit to the fortune-teller. Outside on the verandah the men who sat cross-legged and kept the fans moving above our heads in the heat were singing softly to themselves, but I took no chances at being overheard.

  My mother listened carefully. “Well done, Bess,” she said, when I’d finished. “But Simon’s right, you mustn’t go into the bazaar alone. It isn’t wise.”

  “But how did the fortune-teller know something was wrong?” I asked. “I refuse to believe she could see into the future.”

  “She could have overheard something.” She sat there, the book closed on her finger to hold her place, her gaze thoughtful. “Fortune-tellers must know a variety of dialects, otherwise they couldn’t ply their trade all across the country. Someone who thought he was speaking confidentially might have been within hearing of her tent.”

  Miss Stewart tapped politely at the door, then came into the room. “You’ve spoken to your mother, Elizabeth. Now to your room.”

  With a sigh, I took my punishment without complaint, but I sat at the windows of my room, longing to be riding with my father and Simon and the men in his command. What was happening? Had they caught up to the entourage? This had been a private visit, not an official one. The Maharani had come with only a small escort. Perhaps, I thought, so as not to raise suspicion?

  What was the point of the warning? Was she to be killed? Or captured and held to make her husband do as he was told? He loved his wife, it had been more than an arranged marriage. Would he agree to her kidnappers’ demands? Yes, surely he would, if that would save her from death or torture or mutilation. I shivered at the thought. But the cousin who was giving the Maharajah so much trouble was a wild sort, the son of the Maharajah’s father’s favorite concubine, spoiled and always ungrateful for his education and position. Until the Maharajah’s son had been born, this cousin had touted himself as the heir to the throne, much to the annoyance of the state and the British government. And then I remembered a story I’d heard when first we came to this province. The Maharajah’s only brother, the only man who stood between the Maharajah and this cousin, had been trampled by an elephant gone rogue. Or had it? That had been shortly after the Maharajah had taken a wife. There were several versions of what had happened. Of course elephants did sometimes turn rogue. It was why ceremonial elephants were usually female. But they could be goaded into action as well.

  I couldn’t sit there, simply waiting. I slipped out my window, hurried through the garden—avoiding the gate, where I’d be seen—and sat down on a tree trunk by the wall that surrounded our compound. A breeze touched my face, lifting tendrils of hair, blessedly cool. And somewhere in the distance I heard a rumble of thunder.

  Or was it gunfire?

  I moved into the open, scanning the sky. This was the hot season, not the rainy season. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen in any direction.

  Gunfire then. It must be. And it went on for several minutes before the volleys grew more ragged.

  My heart was in my throat. My father—Simon—men in the ranks I’d known for years—they were all out there, in danger. I strained to listen.

  It seemed to be coming nearer. Had the troublemakers been routed? But why were they coming back this way? To hide in the village until they could manage to escape? It didn’t make any sense. Who would protect them?

  I could hear horses now, coming fast.

  I sat there, straining my ears to listen. I almost missed the flash of color on the far side of the garden. There it was again, and all at once I heard Miss Stewart scream. It came from the summerhouse, the little wicker house where we sometimes sat in the cool of the evening. Miss Stewart often went there to read.

  I was on my feet and running before it dawned on me that to go to her rescue would mean putting myself in danger, and as the daughter of an officer, I was a far more important hostage than a governess. People were shouting now, the men who pulled the fans, the kitchen staff, the porter at the gate. I could hear my mother’s voice, and then she broke off in mid-word.

  Had she been taken as well?

  I ran for the low wall that surrounded our quarters, climbed over that into the next garden, which belonged to Captain Dixon and his wife, and raced toward the barracks. I burst through the door of the first one I came to. There were half a hundred men there, some of them just coming off duty, others getting ready to take their turn, and a handful sleeping or playing cards. At sight of me, a dozen men sprang to their feet, staring. Some of them were out of uniform, and a sergeant stepped forward at once, blocking my view, saying, “Miss Crawford—” in reprimand.

  “Sergeant Barton,” I said, fighting for breath, “something’s wrong at our bungalow. There’s been a skirmish—the patrol. I think one of the men they’re chasing has come back to the house. They’ve got Miss Stewart, and possibly my mother—”

  They hadn’t waited to hear me out. Sergeant Barton was saying grimly, “I told you it was gunfire, not rifle practice,” as he set me aside and hurried out the door.

  I followed, in amongst the men who’d caught up their rifles. “Please, be careful of my mother—Miss Stewart—”

  But they had already turned toward the gardens of the Dixon bungalow, next to ours, brushing past the porter at the gate. I saw the old man’s anxious face, and knew he must have heard the cries from my house.

  We cut across the garden, and the men leapt over the low wall, bending low, using the trees and shrubs for protection as they made their way to this side of our bungalow. I could see the kitchen quarters now, the servants standing stock-still, looking toward the far side of the house, as quiet as if they’d been struck dumb.

  I caught up with Sergeant Barton as he reached the side of the house and turned to deploy his men. “My window—” I pointed to it. He turned to see that it was open, in spite of the heat. Nodding, he motioned to two of his men, then to the window.

  “They don’t know their way. I do,” I said quickly. “I can show them how to reach the other side of the house. They can see the summerhouse from my father’s study. I think that’s where whoever it is found Miss Stewart.”

  He stared at me for a moment, then nodded again. This time he boosted me up and back through the window.

  Just
then I heard the patrol coming into the horse lines. Leaning out, I whispered, “My father—he’s back. Someone must warn him, or he may be walking into an ambush.”

  The sergeant turned to order one of his men to the horse lines, and I took the opportunity to walk quietly across my room to the closed door. I listened carefully, but didn’t hear anyone. Two privates, cursing under their breath, were following me into my room. I put my finger to my lips, and gently, slowly, opened the door into the passage.

  All was quiet. Too quiet. I gestured for the two men to follow me, and I crept as silently as I could down the passage to my father’s study. That door stood open—he hadn’t come back to shut it after seeing the Maharani off. I ducked low, so that I couldn’t be seen by anyone watching the study windows. When I could do it safely, I got to my feet and carefully peered around the curtains.

  I could see the summerhouse, just as I knew I could. Miss Stewart was standing in the doorway, and even from here I could see that she was trembling. In the shadows behind her, there was only darkness. And then I saw movement, and the glint of light on what was surely a revolver. Whoever he was, he was kneeling just behind her, hidden from view by her skirts.

  But where was my mother?

  The two men had caught up with me, and I told them in a whisper what I’d seen.

  “She’s simply standing there, a decoy. With someone holding a revolver behind her. I don’t see my mother. I don’t know where she is.”

  And then I could hear Miss Stewart’s voice. It was hardly recognizable, quavering, high pitched, clearly badly frightened. “Mrs. Crawford? Please—please come out. He’ll shoot me if you don’t. Please?”

  My mother wasn’t there! I breathed a sigh of relief. But what to do to save Miss Stewart?

  The sergeant had crept up behind us in the study, and I was sure he’d heard her plea.

  “Where do you think your mother is?” he asked me in a hoarse whisper.

  “In her parlor. It’s where I left her a little while ago.”

  “Go to her. Carefully, now! Ask her to keep them occupied in the summerhouse while some of my men try to circle it.”

  I nodded, then made my way out of the study. Creeping down the passage again, I saw that the parlor door was also standing open. Dropping to my knees, I crawled to it and into the room.

  Someone near the window whirled, and I saw the muzzle of a revolver pointed straight at me before my mother realized who was there and lowered it.

  “Bess!” The word was little more than a hiss.

  I crawled over to her, and she held my hand as I told her what the sergeant had said. “But you can’t go out there, or he’ll have two hostages. And that’s worse.”

  Mother nodded, then it was her turn to put her finger to her lips, just as Miss Stewart called again.

  Mother raised her voice. “I’m afraid. I’m too afraid,” she cried, and it was strange to hear a woman holding a revolver pleading fear.

  “Please, you must,” Miss Stewart begged.

  “Where’s my daughter? I want to know where she is—if she’s safe. I won’t come out until I know she’s all right.” Her voice was quavering nearly as badly as Miss Stewart’s, but my mother’s eyes were angry, her face set.

  “I—I don’t know where she is,” Miss Stewart said. “I sent her to her room.”

  “She’s not there. Don’t lie to me. I won’t move from here. Her room is empty, I tell you!”

  “Please, don’t worry about her, Mrs. Crawford. Come out, now, or he’ll kill me.”

  I crawled away, back to the study. There was still one soldier there, watching events in the summerhouse. He motioned for me to be careful, and after a moment I joined him at the window. Looking out, I thought my governess was on the verge of collapse. Her face was pale, her hands shaking as she held them down against her skirts.

  “I can’t trust you, if you won’t tell me where my child is,” Mother was saying.

  A hand on my shoulder nearly made me leap out of my skin.

  It was Simon, and he was breathing hard, as if he’d been running.

  “Tell me what’s happening.”

  I gave him a very brief account. He nodded. “Stay here. Count to ten, and then start crying for your mother.”

  I wanted to argue, but he was gone, slipping like a shadow out of the room. But where was my father? If Simon was here, he wouldn’t be very far away.

  I counted to ten, then raised my voice and began to cry. “I’m here, Mother, I’m here, what’s happened to Miss Stewart? Where’s my father? What’s happening?”

  Just then another voice crossed over mine. It came from the far corner of the verandah, I was sure of it.

  “Major Crawford here,” it said, but it wasn’t my father speaking. It was Simon, although he sounded very much like my father. “I’m unarmed. Let her go and I’ll come out.”

  I could see Miss Stewart’s head turn as if she were listening to instructions from whomever it was holding her hostage.

  “You must come out first,” she said then. “He won’t let me go until he sees you’re unarmed.”

  Very clever, I thought. We now knew there was only one man in that summerhouse.

  My mother’s voice, seemingly filled with fright, called, “Richard? Please, don’t do it. Don’t step out. He’ll kill you, and Miss Stewart as well.”

  Simon, still speaking as if he were my father, said, “Can’t you see that poor woman is about to faint? Let her go, and I’ll do anything you ask.”

  Almost in that same instant, Miss Stewart went down in what appeared to be a dead faint, and Simon must have stepped out into the open. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him standing there, unarmed just as he’d said. My heart turned over, and I heard my mother gasp.

  I saw the man in the summerhouse rise to his feet, leveling his revolver. But before he could fire a single shot, another one rang out and the man went down.

  Simon went bounding into the summerhouse, bending over, reaching out for something. Then I saw him pocket a revolver. He turned to Miss Stewart, but she was already sitting up, a weak smile on her face. My father came sliding down from the banyan tree near the wall. I saw his boots before the rest of him appeared, and his revolver was still in his hand. Using Simon as a decoy to give him time to get into position, my father, had had a clear view of the man holding Miss Stewart at gunpoint. As soon as she had fallen down in a faint, my father has also had a clean shot. Between them and he and Simon had come up with a hasty but clever plan.

  He quickly joined Simon at the summerhouse, and together they reached in and pulled out a man in the livery of the Maharani’s grooms. He was shot through the shoulder, his right arm hanging limp down by his side, but his face was twisted in fury. I saw him spit in Simon’s direction, but Simon had already leapt back.

  My father, quite angry, helped Miss Stewart to her feet.

  I went racing to the parlour, where my mother was leaning against the wall, the revolver still clutched in her hand. Her face was pale.

  “I was so afraid he’d hurt her before I could get a clear shot. Thank God your father came in time,” she said, then smiled at me. “Are you all right, love?” she asked me, straightening up to put her arm around me.

  I could see, through the window, that Miss Stewart was clinging to Simon as if to a lifeline, and my father was just handing the wounded man over to Sergeant Barton.

  As the man turned toward the house, I could see for the first time that he was the one with the ugly scar across his face. And then Sergeant Barton and a corporal were leading him away, out of the garden toward the colonel’s office.

  My father looked up at the house, and came striding toward the verandah and the parlour door. He came through it like a whirlwind, scooping my mother into his arms and holding her close. Over her head, he grimaced at me.

  “And just how many more rules have you broken this day?” he said to me. “Bursting into the barracks without permission, leading a foray into the garden and craw
ling through your own window, not to mention invading my study with armed men.”

  Ignoring that, I said quickly, “The Maharani—is she all right? And the rest of these men who wanted to harm her? What’s become of them?”

  “Your father managed to do a bit of the work himself, you know,” he said, the grimace fading into a grin. “We got there in time, although those men put up quite a fight. But it was short lived. The one with the scar got away, and we tried to catch him before he reached the compound. But we were delayed by the mopping up. The Maharani is well, and she sends her love.”

  My mother moved away from his embrace. “I was so worried for you,” she said, touching his face before adding, “I must see to Miss Stewart. A cup of hot tea, I think, with a little of your brandy in it, if you don’t mind, my dear.”

  She handed him the revolver and strode out of the parlor toward the garden. I watched her reach out to help Simon with the still-shaken governess.

  My father’s face was stern when he turned to me. “You took too many unnecessary risks,” he said.

  “It was Mother who was at risk. I was on the other side of the garden when it started.”

  “It could have been you and not Miss Stewart in his clutches.”

  “That’s true,” I admitted, knowing he was right. “What were they going to do? Take the Maharani as hostage? Or kill her?”

  “It appears that they were expecting to force the Maharajah to give up his title in favor of his cousin, and then leave for exile in England.” My father looked toward the garden and the summerhouse. “I’d wager he and the Maharani wouldn’t have made it to Bombay alive, even if he’d agreed to leave.”

  “What will happen to the cousin now?”

  “I shan’t inquire too closely,” my father said. “I was told once that there was an old dungeon beneath the palace. It hasn’t been used in two generations. I shouldn’t be surprised if it’s occupied for a while.”

  I could hear Colonel Haldane’s voice on the path leading up to our door. My father heard it too.

  “Least in sight,” he said to me, then put his arms around me for a brief moment before hurrying to intercept his commanding officer.