‘Oliver?’
‘Yes?’
‘Please help me.’ Tears of exhaustion and self-pity rose to my eyes as I spoke.
‘What is it, Laura? You know I will.’
‘I … I did an awful thing last night. At least I think it was an awful thing now, but then I only remembered that she said I could always call on her for help, that it would always be ready for me. I didn’t think of it as thieving, but perhaps they have relatives and then I will certainly have to send it back. Everything is so dreadfully uncertain and there’s no way of knowing what we might need money for, cash for, before we reach Calcutta, and none of us have very much with us. But if they have relatives, I will send it them back. I promise I will!’
‘Who? What? Send what back?’
‘Mrs Wilkins’s garter.’
‘What are you talking about?’
He put his hand under my chin and forced me to face him. Seeing the tears, he wiped them away with a fold of my burqha. ‘What is all this, Laura? Now start from the beginning and tell me.’
‘It was on the ship, that’s where it began. I had looked after them, Mrs Wilkins and Elvira, when they were ill, and I suppose they were grateful, although I didn’t do any more than they would have done for me or anyone else, I’m sure. But afterwards, when they were well again, Mrs Wilkins showed the garter to me. I think it was the last day on board. She always wore it, and she said India was a hard place for a young girl and that if I ever needed help—money, you know—I was just to write and let her know. She had sold two already, but she was a thrifty soul and there would always be enough for me.’ I gulped and sniffed.
‘You mean there was money in the garter?’ He began to look less puzzled.
‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘Jewels! Pearls and rubies and a very large emerald. I didn’t think of it at first. Not when I found them. But then I remembered, and I went back. The … the flies … they were so repulsive! But I got it, and then I went away and was sick. It was horrible, Oliver, horrible! A terrible thing for anyone to do, and I know I was wrong. Robbing the dead is a crime. Oh, Oliver, what am I to do?’ I wailed.
‘Where is this thing?’ he asked.
I took it out and gave it to him. He examined it minutely, much as I had done in such different circumstances on the ship ten months before. He pulled a few stitches at one end, making an aperture, then shook the garter vigorously. Four milky pearls and a ruby fell into the palm of his hand. He whistled in admiration.
‘Magnificent!’ he exclaimed. ‘If they are all as good as these, you are almost a wealthy woman.’
‘But they are not mine. I don’t want them. Don’t you see, I stole them! I went back and found them near Mrs Wilkins’s dead body!’ I enunciated each word very deliberately so that he would understand. He regarded me blankly for a moment, then the corners of his mouth twitched and, burying his face in his hands, he gave himself over to laughter.
I sat watching his shoulders shake and wondered whether my misdeed had been too much even for him. Did men sometimes have hysterics as women did?
When he looked up, there were tears in his eyes, and for a while he could not speak. Every time he tried to, he would catch my anxious eye and something would set him off again. At last he leant back against the wall and mopped his perspiring face with the tail of his turban.
‘Oh, my jewel,’ he gasped, started to laugh again, but controlled himself. ‘My queen amongst women. My angel of expediency. My saint of common sense. There are no words good enough for you!’
‘Stop it, Oliver. You’re teasing me, and a moment ago you promised to help. I am really worried about what I did.’ But something in his face, a suggestion of disbelief, perhaps, prompted me to smile as I spoke.
‘You have absolutely nothing to worry about,’ he assured me solemnly. ‘No woman capable of retaining her practical good sense in spite of what she experienced on such an occasion as last night need ever worry. About anything. Anywhere!’
‘But that’s just it, don’t you see? I’m ashamed of having done it, but I’m even more ashamed of being the sort of person who could think of doing it. Emily … well, you know it would never have entered Emily’s head. She would never have thought of the jewels, or that they might be useful to her, with those two poor things lying there in that awful condition. Perhaps I wouldn’t have either, ordinarily,’ I allowed myself, ‘but now with everything so upset, we might very well need more money than we have with us. It seemed such a pity to leave them there.’
‘No, don’t. Please Laura, don’t explain. It would start me off again, and I can’t bear any more. Oh, my God!’
‘But are you sure? You don’t think I was very wrong to do it? Honestly?’
‘Tell me, what would have happened to that … that thing, if you hadn’t taken it?’
‘The jackals …’
‘Yes, but then someone, sooner or later, would have found it and discovered what it contained. There is no one in the world so curious or so rapacious as an Indian peasant. Have you thought what would have happened if the men who killed the Wilkinses had discovered it, as well they might have done?’
‘No.’
‘They would have bought guns, ammunition, supplies with them to use against other people like the Wilkinses. Against us, perhaps. They would have made good use of them, believe me.’
‘Yes—but after all, those were … enemies.’
‘Would Mrs Wilkins sooner her enemies had her jewels than her friends?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘You said yourself she had offered you her help. Now, in a wrong way but at the right time, she has given it to you. And tell me, how did she come by the things in the first place? Did she buy them?’
‘No! Oh, she told me all about it. The Major, only he wasn’t a major then of course, got them after a battle ages ago, in one of the states, from the coat of a dead princeling, Mrs Wilkins thought …’ My voice trailed away in confusion.
‘Oh, no! Oh my God! I’m off again!’
This time I was able to join in the unseemly laughter with only a trace of remorse left in my mind.
* * *
That evening, as we made our way back to the cart to resume our journey, I made an opportunity to have a few words alone with Oliver.
‘I am sorry,’ I told him, ‘that I am not able to feel for you as you would wish me to. I am very … grateful for your regard.’
‘Are you?’ He was striding along with his rifle over his shoulder, and I had to hurry to keep up with him and out of earshot of the others. ‘But I don’t want your gratitude, Laura. There’s no place for gratitude between two people as matched and equal as us. I’m willing to wait for what I want from you. I always get what I want—in the end!’
And with a grin he lengthened his stride and left me to pick my way onward alone.
CHAPTER 9
We travelled steadily all that night and until the early afternoon of the following day. Ishmial had managed to procure a strip of canvas from somewhere with which he roofed the wall of the cart so that its occupants were protected both from the sun and curious eyes. We had decided again to press on by daylight, for now Lucknow was only a score or so miles away, but the pace of a bullock-cart is scarcely hectic, however harshly the driver may yell at his long-suffering beasts or however cruelly he may twist their bony tails.
As we drew near the city, even the side roads that we were using became busy with traffic, with other carts and shabby horse-drawn gharis and ekkas, with mounted men and throngs of villagers, with sometimes bands of sepoys marching in ragged formation or half a dozen sowars on fine mounts who galloped in the middle of the road regardless of pedestrians. And the closer we got to Lucknow, the more obvious became the atmosphere of tension, of crisis around us. Several times we stopped boldly at roadside serais where Ishmial bought food, watered the bullocks and made use of the opportunity to ask questions and listen to gossip, that gossip of the Indian roads that travels faster than a message by tel
egraph, and carries more of actual truth than any newspaper. The information was not reassuring; it became apparent that all the north-eastern section of the Indian peninsula was now in turmoil—all Oudh, Bihar, and Bengal, to say nothing of Delhi itself. The sepoys we saw swaggering along so arrogantly were all mutineers, most of them making their way to Lucknow from small stations up-country. As I watched each party pass, peeping through the slit between the canvas and the top rail of the cart, I wondered whether these were the men who had attacked the Wilkinses. Oliver thought it possible that the dreadful deed had been done by the Major’s own men, who had known his intentions and seen him set off with his family and his cartload of baggage, a powerful incentive to murder in the present times.
So far, we had managed to skirt the towns and larger villages, but now we could no longer avoid passing through them on our course, and each of the little towns, with its tall balconied houses cut through by narrow alleys crowded with people, indicated clearly the mood of the country.
The bunnias were doing a roaring trade, the streets outside their little shops solid with sepoys buying food, as watersellers and coffee vendors, with their conical copper jugs and their tinkling bells, moved busily among the crowds. On the balconies, women of doubtful virtue, for they were unveiled, watched the comings and goings and engaged in high-pitched conversation with the soldiery beneath them. Even the usual smell of an Indian bazaar—of rotting vegetables, filthy drains, hot oil from the sweet shops, dust, urine, cheap sweet perfume, and incense coils and sweat—seemed to be heightened in the heat and excitement, and the stains of red betel nut juice, spattered on every building, were ominously like blood to my nervous eyes.
The sun reaching its unbearable zenith forced us to halt, and some distance off the road we took shelter in a clearing of what seemed to be a large stretch of forest. For the remainder of the day, the only people we saw were a couple of woodsmen with their axes, and a woman going home from market carrying her purchases on her head, singing to frighten away animals and evil spirits. It was quiet and we slept away the hours of heat in the shade of the trees. After we had eaten in the evening, Oliver asked me to give him my rakhri. He had discussed the matter with Ishmial, and they had decided that, not knowing what state the city was in, it would be well to have an adequate escort to protect us through the maze of narrow streets. Oliver had bought a sheet of paper and a bamboo pen, and now sat down and wrote a letter to Wajid Khan in elegant Urdu, explaining our position and asking for some men of his household to see us safely into the Residency.
‘I have been politely but pointedly expectant of his help,’ he said, ‘assuring him that I know he could not in honour disregard such a token as I send him. It might do the trick; anyway, he can only refuse. I have taken care to be rather vague as to our whereabouts, just in case … And if he does refuse, well, we will still be the better off for Ishmial’s news of the city.’
Then he arranged a meeting-place with Ishmial, folded the floss-silk bracelet in his letter, and Ishmial tucked it into the folds of his cummerbund, salaamed and set off.
I experienced a moment of desolation as his tall form disappeared among the trees; now we were truly diminished, five Europeans and a baby alone in a hostile land. Fatigue and uncertainty bred in me a sense of hopelessness, and I told myself that we would never see Ishmial again. After all, why should he return to us? We were merely a responsibility, a liability, perhaps even a danger to him. What did he owe us that he should risk his safety for us? Toddy-Bob, too, seemed downcast at the going of his friend and sat whistling and whittling in a most dejected manner until we retired.
We were to meet Ishmial at dawn at a serai only a couple of miles further along the road, so that we could enter the city with the countryfolk taking their produce into the bazaars, whose numbers would give us a certain protection. At sunset we doused the small fire we had made to cook on and lay down to sleep, Emily and I stretched uncomfortably in the cart with the baby, the men on the ground beside it. The three of them were to take turns, as usual, to remain awake and on guard. Eventually we slept.
I seemed to dream all night. Not dreams of terror, but curious disjointed memories of scenes and people intermingled absurdly in improbable situations: my Aunt Hewitt sitting in the Hassanganj fernery knitting a tie on thin steel needles that became, somehow, Ishmial’s bandoliers; Emily declaring that Toddy-Bob always ate all the cucumber in vinegar at tiffin; a pile of Indian sweetmeats, covered with flies, as I had often seen them in the bazaars, all moving together, and Oliver Erskine assuring me that he never wore slippers made by Moti. Whatever the dream, I was hurrying; but my legs were leaden and, despite the effort I made, I knew I was missing something very important.
After an eternity of frustration I awoke, sweating, and lay looking up at the circle of stars above the clearing. It was very still, much quieter here in the forest than it had been in the peepul grove two nights before. But something had disturbed me; something was amiss.
Then I heard a very small sound, a clink of steel against the stone, such as a nail in a boot-heel might make; no more. My mind leapt to alertness. My face was uncovered, but the burqha covered the rest of my person. For some time, I heard nothing more, and concluded the sound had been made by whichever man stood guard. But I took the precaution of easing one hand out of my burqha and covering the butt of my pistol, which lay hidden in the folds of my clothing. I dozed again. Perhaps I actually slept. Then my eyes were wide open and I saw a form, black against the brighter black of the night, bending over the side of the cart with one hand outstretched, and in that hand a knife. In the same instant I saw the starlight glint on a broad silver bracelet which Emily wore on her right wrist. Unconscious of any formal reaction or process of thought, I tightened my fingers round the trigger of the pistol and fired directly into the dark bulk of the body, angling the weapon upwards from where I lay.
The noise of the single shot echoed round the clearing with terrifying intensity, frightening me much more than the knowledge that I had caused it. I saw the figure impelled backwards by the force of the bullet and for an instant glimpsed a dark, surprised face tilted to the stars before it fell out of sight, making no sound. Then the baby wailed, Emily shrieked, and Oliver, Charles and Toddy-Bob were all around us. I crouched in a corner of the cart, trembling, while my mind cleared and the men milled round the cart investigating the body and demanding explanations of Emily, who was only capable of crying distractedly and pointing to me.
Oliver came around the cart and placed both his hands on my shoulders. ‘Good girl,’ he muttered. ‘Good girl. Now you have your cry and you’ll feel better. You saved us, Laura. Bless you!’
Being told to cry, like a child advised to weep away its disappointment at a missed party, dispelled any desire I might have had to do so. Besides, my memories of what I had seen in the peepul grove were still too vivid and, though Oliver obviously thought I would be overcome by remorse and guilt at having killed a man, I was conscious of no such laudable sentiments. What bothered me was that I might have made a frightful mistake: it might have been Charles at whom I fired so instinctively, looking in at his wife and child asleep in the cart. But then I remembered the knife glinting in the starlight and my mind eased; it was the sight of the knife that had made me press the trigger, not an unthinking reaction to fear. I had done it in conscious self-defence, and at such a time and in such a place, who would blame me?
‘Well, you’re a cool customer. No denying that, Miss Hewitt. And now, since you are not going to have hysterics, would you mind telling us what happened—quickly!’ Oliver grinned as he spoke, and I pulled myself up and told him the little I had to tell.
‘Perhaps I was wrong to shoot. I should have given myself time to think. I could have screamed, at least.’
‘You could have indeed and by the time you’d stopped screaming you’d have been dead yourself. Just remember that.’ And he turned away.
‘You stay here, Charles. Toddy, take that side and search
the thicket. There may be others. I’ll go this way, and Charles … shoot at anything that moves; we’ll call out when we are returning to warn you that it’s us.’
They disappeared immediately into the undergrowth. Charles sat on the tail of the cart, with his pistol cocked in his hands, trying to soothe his wife, and at the same time blaming himself for having slept on guard, for this was how the intruder had managed to approach the cart so closely.
‘I’ll never forgive myself !’ he said with painful guilt. ‘I must have dozed. Everything was so quiet; it seemed so unlikely that we would be disturbed, and I suppose I just, well, let myself sleep. Oh God, when I think what could have happened! You could all have been killed while I slept!’
‘Oh, don’t exaggerate!’ I snapped back. ‘One of us might have met our end, but no more. He couldn’t have seen Oliver in the lee of the cart, or Toddy-Bob under the trees, and if he saw you at all, he probably took you for another woman who would run rather than resist.’
‘It was my fault,’ he insisted, ‘all my fault …’
‘Well, yes, so it was,’ I had to agree, ‘but there’s no point in going on about it now, Charles. Oh, Emily, do stop snuffling like that.’
‘But,’ protested Emily, ‘it … it’s still down there; I can see his feet. Oh, Charles …!’
And the snuffles became a full-blooded wail again. I put my arm round Emily, drawing her head down on to my shoulder so that she would not see the corpse; I had no wish to see it myself, and could understand her feeling of repugnance. Charles got up and walked nervously to and fro, peering into the thick darkness of the jungle. It vexed me to see him, usually so controlled, undone by his own involuntary lapse. I had been shocked at seeing him drunk on the day of Pearl’s birth, but seeing him like this filled me with embarrassment as well as pity. I prayed (but whether for my sake or Charles’s I could not say) that Oliver would be forbearing with him and hold his tongue; knowing Oliver’s temperament pretty well, I did not think he would.
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