by Jon Cleary
“There are other taxes beside the road tax for travellers?”
“Oh yes, sahib. Taxes for this, taxes for that. They say it is because of the Durbar. It was like that at the other Great Durbar, eight years ago. The people have to pay so that our masters can look princely and magnificent.”
“You’re a socialist?” Farnol smiled, agreeing with the man but not prepared to let him know.
“A socialist—me? Sahib, I’m an entrepreneur.” He had once hawked books around army barracks, getting an education while he made a living. He had a vocabulary that he rarely had the opportunity to use. “Some day I shall live on Malabar Hill in Bombay. Could a socialist do that?”
“But you resent paying taxes?”
The merchant looked over his shoulder. “What merchant does not, sahib? Do Mr. Fortnum and Mr. Mason pay willingly?” He lit a lamp, hung it on the side of his cart, beamed and winked in its light. He was a man of the world, here on a back road in the hills. “I’ll come again in the morning, sahib, bring you some wonderful presents for the memsahib. Which is your tent?”
Farnol smiled again. “I’ll be up, watching for you. Bring some jewellery, some stones. But good stuff, if you have any.”
“I have everything, sahib.” The waxed moustache seemed to move with a flourish under his hooked nose. “I am an entrepreneur.”
He went away, taking his evil-smelling camels with him, and Bridie said, “I shan’t allow you to buy me an expensive gift.”
He smiled. “I told you, you finish up buying from them just to get rid of them. Otherwise he could follow us all the way down to Delhi.”
7
I
Extract from the memoirs of Miss Bridie O’Brady:
I WAS saddle-sore and longed to be riding in an automobile. In 1911 there were 500,000 automobiles on the roads of America, but in India they were still few and far between. Sitting in my canvas bath that evening, easing the soreness out of my bottom, I began to think of travelling the rest of the journey down to Kalka in Prince Mahendra’s victoria. But even as I luxuriated in the thought of that comfort I knew I’d be back on my horse tomorrow morning, riding beside Clive. I fear women like a little masochism in their love for a man.
Not that I had yet admitted I loved him, even to myself. I kept reminding myself of the circumstances, that I was past the age for infatuation (as I grew older I realized, of course, that there is no limit to the age for infatuation). The test would be if and when I went to bed with him (can this be a lady of 79 writing this? Call it the truth of senility). In those days that was a test; even fast girls did not fall into bed as quickly as they appear to today. Listening to my granddaughters talk about some of their friends I wonder why some of them ever bother to get dressed. A bath, a peignoir and clean sheets and they’re set for life.
“May I come in, m’dear?” said Lady Westbrook outside the tent flap. “I shan’t look.”
She came in, sat down with her back to me and lit a cheroot. She had already had first use of the bath and was dressed for dinner. She was wearing the same dress she had worn each night I had dined with her and I wondered if it was the only gown she owned and what was in her trunk, which was brought in each night but never opened. I had come to have some affection for her, which was unusual, for I think that women do not make friends of each other easily. We were compatible, perhaps because we knew the acquaintance would not last beyond Delhi.
“Entre nous—” I had soap in my ear and it was a moment before I realized she had used a French phrase. She had been reading Henry James in the coach this afternoon, her lorgnette moving up and down like a pair of loose eyes to accommodate the movement of the coach. “Entre nous, m’dear, I think the plot has thickened. And your dear Clive is not taking us into his confidence any more.”
“He’s not my dear Clive, Viola.”
“We’ll see. The point is, I think he must be frank with us. There are two sides in this matter and Clive is acting like the typical English officer, not taking his troops into his confidence.”
“You and I are his troops?”
“Of course. Oh, and Karim Singh and that Irish fellow.”
“Who are the other side?”
“Bertie, Mala and that awful brother of hers.”
“What about the Baron? And the Mondays?”
“I think the Baron is neutral. Strange, a German being neutral. I think Magda and her husband are first reserves for the other side. Or perhaps they are the ball-boys. Isn’t that what they call them?”
“It depends what game they’re playing.” I got out of the bath and began to dry myself. “Viola, are you trying to tell me you and I are in danger?”
“Not me, m’dear. They won’t bother with me. But yes, I think you may well be. And that’s why I think Clive should tell us everything he knows or suspects.”
“I’m not sure that I want to know.” My editor at the Globe would have sacked me on the spot if he’d heard me. A newspaperwoman not wanting to know . . .
She turned her chair round, ignoring the fact that I was in no more than my drawers and was just drawing on my chemise. “Are you afraid, Bridie?”
“Yes.” Women are more direct and honest about being afraid.
She nodded and pondered, as if wondering if, at her age, it was worthwhile being afraid. “I suppose I am, too. For you, I mean. Well—” She stood up, pulled her crocheted shawl about her bony shoulders. She would never have been beautiful, but in her young days she would have been handsome and men would have looked at her twice. Which is enough, with the right man. “We must buttonhole Clive tonight and pry everything out of him.”
“Prise,” I said pedantically, without thinking.
“Pry, prise.” She went out of the tent and I heard her say to the evening, “An American trying to teach me English!”
Dinner that evening was no better than we’d been having. Mulligatawny soup again, curried venison (the chinkara that Mahendra had caught a couple of days ago?), stewed fruit with bright yellow custard that looked as if it had been coloured and flavoured with a little curry powder. My taste buds must have been blunted; I actually enjoyed what I was served. Subconsciously, perhaps, I made allowances; the dining-tent was not meant for haute cuisine. We sat at a trestle table that kept rocking from side to side; bearers were continually crawling under the table-cloth to shove flat stones under the trestles’ legs; it was like dining with one’s legs in a kennelful of dogs. Children from the village crowded one opening of the tent, eyes, bright points in their thin dark faces, stabbing at one’s guilty heart.
“Ignore them,” said Lady Westbrook. “The cooks will give them the scraps later.”
“Are you sure?”
She looked along the table at the Ranee. “Mala, will you settle my conscience and tell your bearers to feed all the scraps to the children?”
The Ranee was casually dressed for dining in the bush, wearing no more this evening than perhaps a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of diamonds. “I thought you didn’t like children, Viola?”
“I only dislike the well-fed ones. They are always the cheekiest and noisiest.”
“Hungry ones can be cheeky, too.” Magda sounded unexpectedly, uncharacteristically serious. Perhaps she, too, had once been hungry.
The men were all quiet and, looking at them, I realized that none of them, with the possible exception of Zoltan Monday, would ever have known real hunger, the sort of hunger that stood outside the door of the tent now. They all belonged to the ruling classes, even Clive.
So we dined there in comparative splendour in our tent, under the paraffin-lamp chandeliers, with the servants bustling in and out with plates of food that must have tortured the senses of the children in the doorway. I’m ashamed to say I did no more than sit there and feel sorry for them. Without realizing it, I was falling into the defence of those confronted by India for the first time. The size of its poverty is so huge one begins to accept there can be no solution. The problem is probably worse now eve
n than it was then.
End of extract from memoirs.
II
When dinner was over Bridie said, “Lady Westbrook and I would like a little chat with you, Clive.”
He had risen from his chair when the women stood up from the table, but he didn’t move to follow Bridie. “Later. I have to have a chat with the men first. They’ve put the port out. It would be rude to leave now.”
“The Nawab and Prince Mahendra are leaving.”
“Ah, but they always have the excuse that they’re not supposed to drink.”
Bridie, showing her displeasure, left the tent and Farnol sat down again opposite the Baron and Zoltan Monday. He could only guess at what Bridie and Viola Westbrook wanted to discuss with him. He did not believe that they had information that would be new to him: what would be their source? He could only think that they wanted to offer suggestions on what he should do. Despite the fact that certain army brass thought he was too nonconformist in his approach to certain military and intelligence tasks, he was still too much a soldier. Sandhurst and then the Staff College at Quetta had, by studied omission of any mention of them, never encouraged the idea that women had anything to contribute to a soldier’s profession. Women’s thinking was too emotional, it muddied what should be clear-cut issues. He was not so unintelligent that he thought women unintelligent; Bridie, Viola Westbrook and Mala were present evidence of sharp, wide-awake minds; even Magda was not, as he had heard Bridie use the word, dumb. But intelligence did not make them experienced. And, though the stakes were higher than he had ever known before, he was the only one experienced in the murderous intrigue that was entangling them like weeds at the bottom of a dark pool. He would reject their suggestions and would be abused as a stubborn, blinkered male; which, perhaps, he was. But everyone knew how blinkered was the stubborn logic of women.
“Who brought the port?” said the Baron.
“The Ranee. She always thinks of men’s comforts.”
“Does she provide many of them?” said Monday. “One hears gossip—”
Farnol and the Baron smiled at each other, the one from experience, the other from forlorn hope. Farnol said, “It’s not good form to talk of a lady in the mess.”
“Are we in a mess?”
“A nice play on words,” said the Baron, savouring his port. “The Hungarians are always so much wittier in English than the English.”
“And so are the Irish,” said Monday, trying to be modest.
Farnol, careless of an Englishman’s reputation for wit in English or any other language, said bluntly, “Yes, we are in a mess, Mr. Monday. I think you are contributing to it.”
“Do we have to spoil a pleasant evening?” But the Baron knew it was already spoiled.
Monday retreated behind the small mask of his port glass. “You are wrong, Major. I have contributed nothing, not even a lady’s pistol.”
“Then I can only think you are still waiting to meet your buyer.”
It was a wild shot, but it nicked the target. Monday took a long time to swallow the sip of port he had taken; it was good port but it didn’t call for such long savouring. At last he said, “That’s the truth of it, Major. Until I do meet him and sell him something, am I breaking the law?”
“Who is your buyer?”
“Ah, Major, I can’t tell you that!” Monday smiled, trying to shorten the interrogation by friendly unhelpfulness.
“Mr. Monday, tomorrow we shall be moving out of Pandar into the Punjab. British rule applies there. I’m sure I can find some law you’ve broken and I’ll have you locked up. You may be in jail for a week or a month, because I understand every magistrate in the country is on his way to Delhi for the Durbar. There’s a rumour they are all going to be decorated by the King. You have no idea how far civil servants will go for an honour.”
“You’re pulling my leg, Major.”
“You can’t be sure of that, Mr. Monday. Ask the Baron how conveniently we can stretch the law here in India. I’m sure he’s reported on it to Berlin. All colonial powers like to learn from each other.”
“All but the French and the Belgians,” said the Baron, intent on keeping the club exclusive.
“Ah, the French,” said Monday, trying for any diversion. “They tell themselves they have nothing to learn from anyone.”
“I hope the Hungarians have more sense than that,” said Farnol. “Especially you, Mr. Monday. I warn you—if you don’t tell me who your buyer is, you won’t get past Kalka. You’ll be held there at least till the Durbar is over.”
Monday put down his empty glass and the Baron leaned across and re-filled it. “I’d advise you to be honest with the Major, Herr Monday.”
The Hungarian sighed, picked up his glass, then put it down again. “I went to Simla to meet a man named Mr. Brown. I waited three days for him, but he never appeared.”
Farnol looked at the Baron. “You’ve spent more time in Simla than I have. Have you heard of this chap Brown?”
“It’s not an uncommon name. There are half a dozen Browns in the government offices in Simla.”
Farnol nodded. “It’s obviously a nom-de-guerre, a rather obvious one, I think. Don’t smile, Mr. Monday—I’m not trying to be witty. With what you sell, all your clients are in a war of some sort. How was he going to contact you?”
“I was to stay at the Hotel Cecil till he got in touch with me. I waited three days and I thought that long enough. My wife wanted to get back to Delhi to see the Durbar.”
“You put your wife’s pleasure before Krupps’ business?”
Monday’s face tightened. “Don’t insult my wife, Major!”
“I apologize. I didn’t mean to insult her. But it does seem strange to me that you would make the journey all the way to Simla from—where did you come from?” Monday sat rigid inside the role of an offended husband. “Come, Mr. Monday. Where did you get your invitation to come to India? You didn’t come out here on the chance of picking up some business.”
Monday crumbled slightly. He suffered more for Krupps than Krupps knew or cared. He tried not to concern himself with the morals of what he did; all he wanted was to make a good living, with opportunities for travel. He sometimes wondered if the workmen back in Essen ever gave a thought to the end result of what they manufactured, if they thought of the shell bursting and the shrapnel hitting home and some stranger, man, woman or child, dying in agony, even if only the swift agony of knowing that life was over. He was only the salesman, he often told himself, not the maker. But he could never sell himself that line, not entirely.
“I met an Indian gentleman in Constantinople. He was on his way to study in Berlin.” He looked guardedly at the Baron, who ignored him.
“His name wasn’t Har Dayal, by any chance?”
“No. I don’t think I have to give you his name, Major. Constantinople isn’t in British territory. Yet.”
Farnol gave him a weak smile, like a card that had been trumped. “I don’t think the Turks would welcome us. They have always been more hospitable to Germans. And, I suppose, Hungarians who work for German firms.”
“Business is business. The Turks want to buy only the best.”
“Well said,” said the Baron, stirring up the sediment of his pride. He came of a school that found it hard to believe that trade had anything to do with national pride.
Farnol felt he was losing control of the conversation. His voice took on an impatient note: “So you met this Indian gentleman and he told you to come to Simla and see Mr. Brown on the off-chance of picking up some business?”
“I don’t do business that way, Major. I was given a down payment of five thousand pounds as evidence of faith. Mr. Brown was to give me the details of the order and where and when it was to be delivered.”
“A big order?”
“Initially it would be half a million pounds, then possibly more.”
“All field guns?”
Monday hesitated, then nodded. Then the Baron said, “I don’t think so, H
err Monday. You not only work for Krupp, you are also an agent for Mauser and Deutsche Waffen Munitionsfabriken.”
Farnol was learning much more than he had expected. What sort of revolutionary movement was it that was already thinking of ordering field guns? And how many rifles and machine-guns could be bought, even after the purchase of the field guns, with the sort of money Monday had mentioned? He had seen the Mauser-DWM 198 rifle and the DWM MGO-08 machine-gun used by Pathan tribesmen on the North-West Frontier and he knew how effective they were. Most rebellions began with a few captured rifles and machine-guns. But this was someone, a madman perhaps, who was already thinking in terms of a war rather than a rebellion.
“How could they bring so many guns, especially field guns, into the country?” The Baron was as disturbed as Farnol. “It would be impossible to do it without their being intercepted.”
“Oh, they could do it, Baron. They could bring them in over the old roads, down through Persia and Afghanistan. It’s been the way in for centuries.”
The Baron looked at Monday with genuine disgust. “Anything for profit, Herr Monday. Whatever Major Farnol does with you, I shall certainly report your activities to Berlin.”
Monday looked at him almost sympathetically. “I think Berlin already knows, Herr Baron. For your own sake it would be better to turn a blind eye.”
The old man sat very still, as if only his will kept him from slumping in dejection. He glanced at Farnol and the latter nodded understandingly: the man in the field so often never entered into the calculations of the plotters back home. But the Baron knew more than the Englishman did: that German embassies and consulates were expected to act almost as foreign offices for Krupps salesmen. He had had that indignity forced upon himself when he had been the consul in Shanghai. Only God and the Kaiser knew what went on these days between Berlin and Essen. A soldier, he thought, should never become a diplomat; and once again cursed the loss of his arm.
“It is despicable.” His voice seemed on the verge of breaking. He should never have come here to India, he had always been too sympathetic towards the English. But he had had connections, he had asked for the post and he had got it. Yet all the while, he supposed, they had been laughing at him behind his back in Berlin. He took out his fury on the Hungarian: “Coming here as a visitor, to sell arms to a pack of revolutionaries. Like—like some Levantine hawker—”
