by Rumer Godden
‘One electric polisher could do the work of twelve women,’ said Kanu.
‘I know, but I like to employ as many villagers as I can.’ Auntie Sanni was quite comfortable.
Now, a humble woman, her sari drawn over her head, was giving the floor a last sweep because, to Samuel’s grief, if the wind were high, sand blew in over it. Of the great Samuel himself there was no sign: he, too, was changing into a fresh white uniform for dinner.
There was a billiard room with a good table, empty now; it had a bar in one corner. Perhaps, thought Michael, gentlemen, chiefly Indians, would come in from Ghandara to play, have a few drinks or perhaps bring their ladies for dinner, but the veranda bar, he imagined, was reserved for residents.
The drawing room-ballroom was away from the rest, an immense double room. Its floor was green as, though paler, were the walls, lit by crystal-beaded candle sconces – Henry Bertram certainly didn’t stint himself, thought Michael. A matching chandelier hanging in the centre of the room bore this out. Auntie Sanni had chosen a rather naive sweet-pea chintz for the sofas and chairs, and there were small brass-topped tables on carved ebony legs. Over the ornate marble fireplace was a not very good painting of a young girl – plump even then – in a 1920s ball dress, pale blue with sequins. The auburn curls were held in a circlet of small pink roses and she had a bouquet to match. A coming-out ball? wondered Michael. It was plain that Henry Bertram had been proud of his granddaughter.
It was a room that was evidently used for occasions. Did Patna Hall host weddings? Receptions? But he guessed, Seldom now, and when he dared to turn on the electric fans they creaked, yet he could see it filled with people in elegant dress, dancing or chattering and laughing. Then, as he turned to go, he saw the Shiva Nataraja.
In a niche above a side door that opened onto the veranda steps to the sea, the Nataraja danced, a votive light burning before him with offerings of flowers, fruit and rice. As Michael looked he was transported back to Sparkes’s strongroom and saw again the beauty and strength of what he had come to call ‘the real Nataraja’. At first he saw no difference between that and this but exact as this Shiva was, to the last little flare in the circlet of flames around His head, and although there was still a feeling of steadiness, well captured, there was no aura of that inward strength of detachment, that in-dwelling. Well, this Shiva had been made by a craftsman, but no more than a craftsman, and Michael’s thoughts went to that true artist-sculptor of centuries ago.
‘You are looking at the Shiva.’ The voice made him jump. Auntie Sanni was standing beside him.
She, too, had changed, into a clean Mother Hubbard, white scattered with bright blue flowers – Auntie Sanni loved colours. She wore her pearl necklace, the pearls real and beautifully matched; the curls had been brushed hard and her toenails polished. Hannah, he was to find, was not only housekeeper but Auntie Sanni’s personal maid. Every evening when she was dressed, Colonel McIndoe in his heavy silk dinner jacket – in the hot weather a silk cummerbund – came to fetch her and escort her to her swinging couch on the bar veranda, ‘Her throne,’ mocked Kanu. Michael guessed this was, like so much at Patna Hall, the evening ritual, yet now she was alone. ‘I still say, “Our Shiva-ji”,’ she told Michael. ‘I’m the only one who does.’
‘You still say it?’
‘Every morning. Every night. He is still Shiva.’
‘Auntie Sanni.’ Then Michael remembered he was still a newcomer. ‘May I call you Auntie Sanni?’
‘If I may call you Michael.’
‘Of course. Will you tell me what happened?’
‘You have read Professor Ellen’s testimony?’ she asked.
‘Yes, but underneath …’
‘Ah! Underneath. There are things she doesn’t know. My grandfather, Henry Bertram, was a wonderful man. When Shiva-ji was found buried and the workmen refused to go on my grandfather did not double their wages as has been told but sent for their priest to unearth the little statue and turn it round. The men did not dare to touch it but most Englishmen then would have stepped in and got it. After prayers the priest turned it gently and then lifted it up. Usually statues which have been long buried – and this had been so for centuries – are crusted with soil and stone, particularly by the sea, and there could have been termites, but the Nataraja came up as clean as on the day he was buried, the limbs still dancing, each flame intact. Above all, His face was serene and smiling.
‘The workmen prostrated themselves and my grandfather promised that this little shrine would be made in our most important room to which not only the house servants but all the villagers could come and worship. The workmen refused to take another anna for their work to build the hotel which, of course, meant,’ she added laughing, ‘he had to keep their families for months.’
‘He must have been a remarkable man,’ said Michael, for the second time.
‘He was, and what would he have said now to this horrible Cromartie case?’
‘It must be horrible to you too. Walter Johnson, the head clerk at our chambers, saw Mr Cromartie and tried to persuade him not to bring it.’
‘He deserves to lose. He must lose. I have no pity for Mr Cromartie,’ said Auntie Sanni. ‘He says he bought the Shiva Nataraja in good faith. That is not true. Good faith would mean he bought it to love and revere. Oh, no! He bought it to make money, invested in it, and now, because he has not made the profit he expected, he is prosecuting, and so denigrating the god even more. Also he is a fool. My grandfather always said, “Beware of litigation.”’
‘So beware of me,’ said Michael.
Auntie Sanni looked up into his face, then took his hands with both her own. ‘I think I need not beware of you, Michael. I know now we are in this together. Now, come. You must meet my husband and the few others who are staying here – old friends except the policeman.’
‘The policeman?’
‘Yes. I’ll tell you later.’
But Michael stopped for a moment. ‘Auntie Sanni, don’t you mind about the fake?’
‘It is not a fake. It was time for our Shiva-ji Nataraja to move on. He had other work to do, but very kindly he left himself behind, for us. Come,’ said Auntie Sanni.
The veranda bar was the residents’ sitting place, with cane chairs and tables, cane stools, old-fashioned steamer chairs with extended arm boards on which feet could be comfortably put up. There was a bar at one end, well stocked. ‘Well, we get visitors from all parts of the world,’ Auntie Sanni would say, and halfway down was her swing couch, with its bright chintz cushions and canopy. It was true that before lunch, which she called ‘tiffin’, and before dinner she liked to sit there and reign. Now a small group of people were sitting round one of the cane tables near Auntie Sanni’s throne. All old, thought Michael, with a touch of dismay. One of the oldest, the lights shining on his bald head, got up at once, came to Michael and shook hands.
‘I am Samantha’s husband,’ he said, no one else used that name, ‘Colonel McIndoe. We’re glad to see you here. Kanu,’ he called, ‘get the sahib a drink. Whisky, gin, vodka, a glass of wine?’
Kanu, transformed by a striped cotton jacket, came at once.
‘Whisky, please. Thank you, sir.’
Kanu looked at him surprised. Perhaps because I called the Colonel ‘sir’, thought Michael, as Auntie Sanni began, ‘Alicia, this is Mr Dean come to help us over this miserable affair. He wants us to call him Michael. Michael, Lady Fisher is one of our oldest friends.’
‘You must be tired,’ Lady Fisher said gently, but then, ‘No. You young people are never tired.’
‘Not when we’re on the scent, I suppose,’ said Michael. ‘I’m so glad it has brought me here.’
‘Patna Hall has brought us every year, hasn’t it, Sanni?’ There was clearly a deep friendship here. ‘My husband and I. John, this is Michael Dean,’ and Michael knew there was some familiarity about Sir John, his height, the silvery – cliché or not he could not help thinking it – ‘silvery’ hair. He’s like
someone I know. Sir John immediately confirmed it. ‘You’re from the chambers of Sir George Fothergill? I’m glad. Good set. I have a niece there.’
‘Honor Wyatt.’ Michael was certain.
‘Yes, in fact I was able to be instrumental in bringing her to your chambers. I used to know Simpson well and, of course, that wonderful head clerk, John Johnson.’
‘We have his son Walter now, and Johnny, Walter’s son, has just joined us. Walter’s a great advocate for Honor.’
‘I don’t wonder. She’s an outstanding young woman.’
‘John,’ Lady Fisher interposed, ‘Mr Dean hasn’t been introduced to Ellen or Chief Inspector Dutta. Professor Ellen Webster,’ and ‘Ellen, I think you’ve been expecting Mr Dean?’
‘Indeed I have.’
She was a small, over-thin woman – Probably works too hard, thought Michael, and is too intense. Michael could never help analysing everything. The Professor was pale, her hair cut into neat shortness, grey eyes behind steel-rimmed spectacles, an almost anonymous blouse and skirt. She doesn’t care about superficial things, thought Michael.
‘You’re going to help us save our Nataraja.’ She held his hand, looking up at him closely, and he knew that here was a heartfelt passion, though she had learned how to keep it cool. ‘Mr Dean, this is Chief Inspector Dutta of the Indian police.’
‘I didn’t know that they had been called in,’ said Michael, as he shook hands.
‘I am always called in.’ The Inspector chuckled. Younger than any of these guests, he was still middle-aged and plump and genial, but Michael sensed at once that Inspector Dutta was not a chief inspector for nothing. Though dressed for the evening, he still seemed to be in uniform, thin trousers and a tunic jacket, both khaki, and a red scarf round his neck in lieu of a tie. ‘I am necessarily here,’ he explained. ‘Our government has decided that we must outface Mr Cromartie and must have positive proof that the image was stolen. Forgive me, Professor Webster, if I say that your testimony, though so valuable, is still not positive proof, besides which it was written so long after the theft. We must discover when, how and, above all, by whom the Bertram Nataraja as it has begun to be named, was taken.’
‘I should think very difficult after all these months,’ said Sir John:
The Inspector laughed. ‘Set a thief to catch a thief. I am an accomplished one, stealing shreds of evidence wherever I can and weaving them together until I understand fully.’ There was a hint of menace in the way he said that; then he was jovial again. ‘I’ll catch him.’
‘Michael,’ Auntie Sanni obviously wanted to end that conversation, ‘you must be thinking our hotel is over-quiet and empty but tomorrow it will be much better as Professor Webster’s group will be arriving.’
And to Michael’s surprise the Colonel, Sir John and Lady Fisher chanted, ‘The cultural ladies, the cultural ladies.’
‘Don’t be alarmed, Michael,’ said Auntie Sanni. ‘Before Professor Ellen’s day that’s what Samuel and Hannah used to call them, not mockingly – they have a great reverence for learning.’
‘Since Ellen took over it has completely changed, with many men now, and it’s considered a privilege to be accepted for a tour – students get grants. I believe we shall have a Chinese girl on this one,’ said Lady Fisher.
For the first time Michael looked, really looked, at Lady Fisher. When she spoke it was with authority but most of the time she sat quietly, her eyes alight with interest as she listened to what everyone was saying. He guessed that was her greatest asset, listening, and a rare talent. Sir John had a sun-tanned, wrinkled skin from years in the tropics, but Lady Fisher, who had spent all of them with him, had a complexion that looked as if strong sun or a rough wind had never touched it. ‘Alicia prefers not to go on the beach or bathe, or lie in the sun,’ Auntie Sanni said to Michael, who was sitting on the swing couch beside her.
‘Then why does she come to a seaside hotel?’
‘To be with John. Has it never occurred to you, Michael, that some eminent men, with pressures of work, tangles of worries, disappointments and horrendous surprises, need a calm, steadfast and highly intelligent wife? Sir John thinks he is taking care of her but she is really taking care of him.’
‘Well, Ellen,’ Sir John persisted, ‘when they come, I’ll leave.’
‘Nonsense, John.’
Lady Fisher said, ‘I grant you that, in the old days, the ladies were a bit of a bore but Ellen’s here now and Artemis has flown out from London to bring them from New York. The tours always begin and end in New York. Artemis is Ellen’s assistant.’
‘Assistant! She’s my star. No wonder, John, you always fall for her,’ Professor Ellen teased him.
‘Artemis is a witch,’ admitted Sir John.
‘I’ve never known a girl called that,’ said Michael. ‘Isn’t it a bit fanciful?’
‘I think it’s a lovely name,’ said Lady Fisher.
‘And she’s a lovely girl,’ said Professor Ellen.
‘So, John, you’re not to forget how things have moved on and call the women old tabbies.’ Lady Fisher turned to Inspector Dutta. ‘They’re such inspiring tours. I wish more young people could get grants for them. I think your government ought to support them. Can’t you use your influence?’
‘I have no influence. I do only what I am told.’
‘That I don’t believe,’ and Professor Ellen went on, ‘In fact, since you came to Patna Hall I am sure, over the Nataraja, you’re on the same side as Michael and all of us.’
‘This detestable case!’ Auntie Sanni burst out. ‘It was you, Ellen, who told me – and everyone else – what our Shiva-ji was worth in value of money and that seems to me the beginning of the trouble. Since then everything has gone wrong.’
‘It seems so,’ Professor Ellen said miserably.
Auntie Sanni was shaking, tears running down her face. Lady Fisher got up, went to her and put an arm round her, holding her close. At the same moment Samuel sounded the gong.
‘I’ll tell him to hold dinner back a few minutes.’ Colonel McIndoe was up, but nothing could have revived Auntie Sanni more.
‘No. No, Giles. You can’t do that to Samuel. Nor can I.’ She stood up too. Lady Fisher had given her a handkerchief and she dabbed her eyes. ‘Dinner is ready,’ and she and the Colonel led the way to the dining room.
That was always a proud moment for Samuel. He stood at the entrance, regal in his flowing white tunic, full trousers, and red and gold cummerbund. His white turban, with its fan of white muslin, was held by a narrower crossband, red and gold to match, with a glittering Bertram crest. His whiskers and upturned moustache were white too, his eyes alert to every least movement.
It was understood that they went to different tables. Professor Ellen was with Auntie Sanni and the Colonel, the Fishers had their own corner and Inspector Dutta turned to Michael. ‘We are both alone. Shall we eat together, Mr Dean?’
‘I’d like that, but please call me Michael.’
‘Then I am Hem.’
Samuel had anticipated this, and led them across the room to a table already laid for two.
‘Now you must want to pump me,’ the Inspector said, as they took their seats, ‘but you will be wasting your time. The food here is too good to think of anything else.’
The table itself was inviting: the single rose was a fine one and, in china soup plates with the Bertram crest, a chilled raisin soup waited, rich brown and refreshing.
‘I am, I admit, impressed,’ Inspector Dutta said, ‘particularly because I have seen how it is all achieved. Miss Sanni does not believe in change. In Patna Hall’s pantry there are packing cases lined with zinc, a small brazier burning red to keep food hot and an army of boys to run with dishes between the kitchen, which is outside, and the house.’
Hot plates were slipped in front of them and Samuel himself waited on them. ‘Koftas,’ he explained to Michael, ‘little batter rolls of fish. Crayfish. Very good.’
Michael discovered he wa
s starving while Hem Dutta said, ‘I should very much like to give you some wine but, Michael, you choose. Europeans know much more of wine than us ignorant Indians.’
‘Ignorant! Hem, don’t put me to shame. It’s we who are ignorant of your great country.’
‘Choose,’ said the Inspector, and when the wine list came, Michael was careful to find something good but among the less expensive – he had no idea how much an Indian policeman, even a chief inspector, earned. Then his dilemma was solved: Samuel brought a bottle of cool white wine, already opened – ‘From Miss Sanni.’ He poured it.
Michael stood up to thank her. ‘To Miss Sanni and Patna Hall.’ Everyone drank.
The hotel served a menu of both Indian and European food. The koftas were followed by partridges on toast, then Auntie Sanni’s exquisite apple meringues – she made them herself. Afterwards there was cheese and Samuel brought round a perfect port – ‘With Colonel Sahib’s compliments.’
‘Coffee served on the veranda, Sahib.’ Deep in talk they had not been conscious that, though the other waiters had gone, Samuel was still there.
‘I’m sorry, Samuel,’ said Michael.
‘Sahib is welcome.’
Nor did they want coffee. ‘I think,’ said Inspector Dutta, ‘I shall take a stroll in the garden and go to bed.’
‘What a good idea.’
They walked in silence across the lawn, avoiding the beach. Michael was still flying but not in an aeroplane. The surf thundered even in this peaceful garden, full of shadows with only gleams of light from the house. From a bush near the steps there was a scent of such sweetness and strength that it wafted far over the lawn. He could see its small white flowers and stopped. ‘Isn’t that …?’
‘Raht ki rani,’ said the Inspector.
‘Queen of the Night. Yes, I remember.’
‘They say its perfume is so strong it can make you giddy.’
‘I am giddy.’
But the Inspector was not listening. He sighed. ‘It is on nights like this that I miss my wife,’ and, as Michael was silent, he asked, ‘Michael, have you a wife?’
