by Rumer Godden
The police station, undecorated, was a sturdier building than the town hall, made, too, of stucco. ‘It will be cool,’ Olga said thankfully.
Two policemen stood on the steps in regulation khaki shorts, tunics, puttees, boots and red-banded turbans; brass shone on their belt buckles and shoulder straps. ‘Chief Inspector Anand keeps his men in trim,’ Sir John approved.
The Chief Inspector came out to meet them: a plump, dapper little man, his uniform, too, was impeccable. He had a moustache so fine it looked as if it had been pencilled in dandy fashion but his eyes were kind as he took them into a waiting room, apologising for bringing them out in the heat.
‘May I see you first, Mrs Armstrong, since you were the last person to see Mr Browne . . .’ He did not add, ‘alive.’
Olga Manning Armstrong did not lie; she simply told the truth but not the whole truth, giving her testimony with a quiet steadfastness that impressed the Chief Inspector.
‘Well, I am used to courts,’ she told Mary afterwards.
‘Mr Browne came to your door.’
‘Yes, to ask if I had seen Mary, his wife.’
‘And you had not?’
‘No. I was going to bed.’
‘It must be painful for you’, said sympathetic Chief Inspector Anand, ‘to have me question you just now when there is so much tragedy but you can be of utmost help. What made you, Mrs Armstrong, go in later?’
‘He, Mr Browne, was hurting the donkey – of course, I didn’t know then how badly it was hurt but I heard the blows. I couldn’t stand that.’
‘He was angry?’
‘Very. Then I heard Kuku – Miss Vikram. She had come down with the sweepers.’
‘And later?’
‘I thought I had better look in to see if there was anything I could do – really for Mary’s sake.’
‘She was not there?’
‘No. I didn’t do any good. Mr Browne pushed past me and rushed out.’
‘Why do you think he rushed out?’
‘He did not like what I said.’
‘About the donkey?’
Olga bowed her head.
‘You did not see him again?’
‘How could I? I went back to bed.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Armstrong.’
To Kuku lies were second nature but she did not dare to tell them now. ‘Mr Browne telephoned the house. You answered?’
‘Nat-u-rally. I am hotel manager.’ Kuku did not say it with pride, she was terrified. ‘I called two of our women sweepers. We cleaned up the room. It was – disgusting. Blaise – Mr Browne – was right to be angry. He was right,’ pleaded Kuku.
‘When the sweepers had gone?’
‘I tidied the room. The donkey had smashed a photograph – glass . . .’
‘Then?’
‘I went back.’ There had been only an infinitesimal pause.
‘You did not see Mr Browne go out?’
‘No. I had gone myself,’ said Kuku with truth.
‘Thank you, Miss Vikram.’
‘Do I have to tell the Inspector everything?’ Mary asked Sir John, still shuddering.
‘Strictly speaking, you don’t have to tell him anything. It is simply that we and they are trying to find out what has happened to Blaise. We must find out so that it will help if you tell them what is relevant.’
‘That I was with Krishnan?’
‘It is relevant. I’ll be with you, Mary. Tell the Chief Inspector openly how you helped Krishnan with the elephant, how, from the time you came to Konak, you have helped with the Party’s plans, made friends with all of them, believed in them,’ but the Chief Inspector was to ask, ‘Your husband, did he share in this belief?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know why?’
Mary was too honest to prevaricate. ‘He did not like me having anything away from him.’
‘Ah!’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘Perhaps last night he came after you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has he done that before?’
‘Yes,’ and, ‘I know what you mean,’ flashed Mary, ‘but he saw nothing because there was nothing to see.’
‘Last night? To be fair, Mrs Browne, most men would not be pleased to find their wife, a newly married wife, Mrs Browne, out on the beach at night with someone who was to him . . .’ the Chief Inspector did not say ‘outsider’, instead he said, ‘a stranger,’ and he asked, ‘Was there a quarrel?’
‘Not a quarrel. We were only teasing him. I wish we hadn’t.’
Chief Inspector Anand was acute. ‘Because your husband did not understand you were only teasing?’
‘Yes,’ and Mary had to say, ‘I’m afraid he took it seriously.’
‘Seriously enough to make him take his own life?’
‘Take his own life?’ The aghast astonishment was genuine. ‘Blaise,’ and involuntarily it came out, ‘Blaise would never have done that. I was the one who was always wrong.’
‘Yet he must have gone deliberately into that dangerous sea.’
‘He was angry, too angry to think what he was doing. Oh, don’t you see?’ cried Mary. ‘He was angry with us. He went back to the bungalow and found Slippers – the donkey. That was my fault. I had forgotten the sugar.’ Tears came into her eyes. ‘Slippers made that mess. It must have made Blaise furious. I’m sure he didn’t know what he was doing. He probably felt filthied. He was always very particular. I’m sure he just wanted to get clean.’ Into her mind came Krishnan saying, ‘The sea washes everything away,’ and suddenly, ‘Don’t. Don’t,’ cried Mary. ‘Don’t ask me any more.’
There was the sound of a motor scooter, the Indian put-putti. A policeman came into the room and whispered to the Chief Inspector. ‘Excuse me for a moment, Mrs Browne, Sir John.’
They heard a murmured colloquy but not the words. Then quick orders. Sir John got up. The Chief Inspector came back and with him a middle-aged policewoman, the first Mary had seen. I didn’t know India had them, she thought. This one wore, Mary was always to remember, khaki trousers, tunic and cap like the Chief Inspector’s, with a red border. She moved quietly to stand behind Mary’s chair.
Chief Inspector Anand cleared his throat. ‘A messenger has just come from the beach at Shantipur. Mrs Browne, I do not want to distress you but I must ask you, do you recognise this ring?’
A heavy gold ring with a crest, a stag’s head and a motto, ‘Loyauté et vérité’. ‘Yes,’ Mary said with stiff lips. ‘It’s his. It is – his signet ring. He always wears it on his left hand.’
‘Mrs Browne, a fisherman found it. Diving, he saw on the sea bed a small shine of gold. It was on . . . on . . .’ The Inspector hesitated to go on. The policewoman moved to Mary. ‘On – a finger, Mrs Browne.’
‘Only a finger?’ Mary whispered.
‘I’m afraid it is only a finger. The – the shark must have dropped it. Maybe there were two sharks and they had a fight. That can happen . . .’
‘I told him about the baby shark!’ Mary screamed it so loudly that the policewoman put her hands on the quivering shoulders. Mary shook her off. ‘I told him. I begged him. He wouldn’t listen. I told him.’ She suddenly stood up. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
They had been a long time at the police station. Mary had vomited until she thought she had brought up the dregs of her being. The Chief Inspector had wanted to call a doctor but ‘She’ll be better after this,’ said Olga, whom Sir John had called in; strong and capable, she had held Mary steadily, not sympathising but encouraging her. When at last they drove back through the town it was in the afternoon sun; the processions had long ended, the crowd was milling round the town hall though voting was still going on, the queues, seemingly endless, moving step by step towards the polling booths.
Voters made their cross or mark opposite the symbol, many of the women holding a baby on their hip while a toddler clutched their sari, but all eyes were alight with interest and awe.
Krishnan, though, was standing alone on the tow
n-hall steps. ‘Good!’ Sir John could not help saying, ‘Good!’
Mary opened her eyes and looked.
Krishnan was no longer wearing his loincloth; he was dressed like the disciples, all in white, but stood head and shoulders above them as they gathered jubilantly round him. He stood making namaskar over and over again to the crowd. There was no sign of Padmina Retty.
‘Is he winning?’ asked Mary.
‘Counting will go on all through the night,’ said Sir John, ‘but it looks as if he has already won.’
Of course he doesn’t know, thought Mary. How could he? As she thought that, Krishnan looked up.
He saw the car, the police – Chief Inspector Anand had given them outriders. Krishnan looked, a long look. Then he bent and whispered to Sharma who ran down the steps, wriggled and squeezed his way through the mass of people. He could not get to the cars but reached a police outrider.
‘Get me a car,’ ordered Krishnan.
‘A car? Why a car? You can’t go anywhere now,’ cried Dr Coomaraswamy.
‘I must. I shall be back as soon as I can.’
‘But, Krishnan! How can you go? Look at the multitude. You cannot leave them.’
‘I must. You must talk to them until I come back.’
‘That will not satisfy them. Krishnan, wouldn’t someone else do? Sharma . . .’
‘No one else will do.’ Krishnan was violent. ‘I have a debt to pay. Sharma, get me a car – or better, a motorbike and a helmet and gloves to disguise me.’
As evening came on a hush lay over Patna Hall, a tense hush. Hannah, Samuel and the servants did their work quietly with shocked faces, Hannah’s lips moving constantly in prayer. Kuku was prostrate in her room. ‘Why should she take on so?’ Hannah said to Samuel. ‘We go on with our work, why cannot she? What was Browne Sahib to her?’ asked Hannah indignantly, ‘While little Memsahib, poor little Memsahib . . .’
For the second time Hannah had helped Mary to clean herself. Auntie Sanni had moved her out of the bungalow into the room next to the Fishers. There Hannah had put her almost bodily into bed. Mary had gone into a deep sleep with Lady Fisher watchful in the next room. ‘Eighteen and a widow,’ she had said in grief.
Olga Manning – it was still difficult for Patna Hall to think of her as Olga Armstrong – had tactfully gone down to the bungalow. ‘Do you mind being there alone?’ asked Sir John.
‘I think I am past minding anything.’
Now Sir John was on the telephone trying to get calls through to England and New York. ‘Mary,’ he had said, ‘you must tell Rory.’
‘Rory? What is this to do with Rory?’ her look seemed to say. ‘Rory may be in New York, Washington, Peru.’
‘It’s quite easy to telephone any of them.’
‘I know. At school I used to have to call all kinds of places but if I did, what could he do?’
‘Look after you,’ but Sir John refrained from saying it. ‘And Blaise’s people. His poor mother . . .’
‘Mrs Browne? Yes,’ said Mary. ‘I know I must speak to Mrs Browne.’
‘Perhaps tomorrow,’ said Sir John. ‘For now, better let me.’
‘If you would.’
The telephone system at Konak was antiquated. ‘It takes time to get through,’ Auntie Sanni always told her guests. ‘You need to have patience,’ and now, ‘Kuku should have got through for you.’ For the first time that day Auntie Sanni was exasperated.
The beach was empty now. All the fishing boats had come back, the coastguard speedboat had gone. There was no more they could do. Thambi had let them go and sorrowfully made his way back to the gatehouse where, for once, Shyama had made him an evening meal. ‘Is my fault,’ he had said miserably again and again. ‘I am guard.’
‘Not all night as well as all day.’ Auntie Sanni had tried to comfort him. ‘Besides, Browne Sahib was headstrong.’
The villagers, too, had gone back to the village – those who had not gone to Ghandara to vote or had come back. A drum was beating but mournfully, though, as usual, smoke from the cooking fires had begun to go up. ‘Life has to go on,’ said Auntie Sanni.
At Patna Hall the cookhouse was already lit; Samuel, in the dining room, was beginning his ritual. ‘They must have dinner,’ though who would come he did not know. Not, of course, Dr Coomaraswamy or Mr Srinivasan – Samuel had not thought it respectful to switch on the news. Not, he was glad to think, Mr Menzies. Mrs Manning, perhaps. Sir John and Lady Fisher. Miss Sanni, Colonel Sahib – that evening the Hall was closed to outsiders. ‘Attend to the bar,’ he told Ganga, ‘that good-for-nothing will not come down.’
Auntie Sanni herself had bathed and changed; Colonel McIndoe had dressed and, as usual walking together, they went up to the knoll where they sat on the bench. Every now and then Colonel McIndoe’s hand patted Auntie Sanni’s knee.
‘It looks all just the same,’ she said at last. Patna Hall and its domain, its private beach where the net was up and locked; today no one had wanted to go swimming. The palm trees in the village stirred quietly in the breeze, the hills behind were darkening; the grove was still darker. ‘But I think they will light the lamps at the shrines tonight,’ said Auntie Sanni. There was a little break in her voice; Colonel McIndoe patted her knee.
Suddenly she stiffened, stood up, shading her eyes from the rays of the setting sun as she looked.
‘Aie!’ said Auntie Sanni. ‘Aie! Look, Colonel. Look.’
A lone figure was coming down the beach. Straining her eyes, Auntie Sanni saw the height and size, its blue-blackness.
‘Krishnan,’ she whispered. ‘It’s Krishnan.’
As they watched he dived into the sea.
‘Mary. Mary, dear. You must wake up.’ Lady Fisher, usually so gentle, was shaking her firmly. Mary sat up, dazed. ‘Here, put on your dress.’ Hannah had put one ready and Lady Fisher brought it. ‘Wash your face.’ She led Mary to the washbasin, splashed cold water, dried her, brushed her hair. ‘You’re needed downstairs.’
Lady Fisher was grave, portentous. She took Mary’s hand. ‘You know, dear, that Blaise is dead.’
‘Worse than dead.’ The shudder came back.
‘No,’ said Lady Fisher, ‘Krishnan has brought him.’
‘Krishnan?’
‘Yes, brought his body,’ and, as Mary did not move, ‘It’s not frightening, Mary. It’s touching. Come and see.’
It was in the courtyard. There was no sign of Krishnan – Of course, he has to be at Ghandara, thought Mary. The servants had respectfully kept out of the way but Samuel and Hannah, as privileged, moved to stand protectively by her.
Thambi, Moses and Somu were with a circle of fishermen and villagers. They had made a bier. ‘It was the only way they could carry him,’ said Sir John who stood beside it as it lay where they had put it down on the courtyard ground. It was a simple Indian bier of bamboo poles, laced together like a hammock with coconut fibre string, a bier the fishermen would have used for themselves though – as probably they would not have done for themselves – it was garlanded with leaves and flowers, hibiscus, marigolds, a tribute to Auntie Sanni: Blaise had been her guest.
His body was covered with a clean white sheet but Indian fashion his head, left bare, rested on the flowers. His hair had dried and looked strangely fair against their brilliance; his eyes were shut as if he were asleep. The healthy sunburn of his skin had gone: it had a blue tinge as did the lips; there were dark bruises, too, but the face was peaceful. Blaise was handsome even in death.
‘He was a wonderful swimmer,’ said Sir John. ‘Instinctively he must have dived deep down and the currents wedged him between two rocks. There are caves down there but it’s a miracle the sharks left him and that Krishnan found him.’
‘Krishnan is his father’s and mother’s son,’ said Lady Fisher. ‘He risked his life going into that sea.’
‘He always does,’ Mary said it almost absently. ‘He and Thambi have been swimming there since they were little boys. I’ve been in that sea with
him.’
‘With Krishnan?’ Sir John and Lady Fisher looked at one another.
‘With him it was quite safe,’ explained Mary. ‘He knows the currents and crevices and the sharks don’t touch him but Blaise . . .’ Shudders shook her again.
‘He went in without a helmet,’ said Sir John. ‘They were all locked up. Thambi thinks he would have been at least half stunned by the waves – mercifully.’
There was the sound of frantic cries. Kuku rushed into the courtyard, her sari dragging, her hair half over her eyes. She cast herself down by the bier, tears flooding as she pulled the cloth back to kiss Blaise’s feet. When she saw them mangled, her shrieks filled the courtyard.
‘Kuku! Stop that.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘How dare you interfere?’
‘You should show more respect.’
Hannah, Samuel, even Sir John were trying to drag her away. ‘Come away at once,’ Lady Fisher commanded but Kuku took no notice, only clung.
‘I loved him. You never did,’ she flung at Mary. ‘I loved him.’
‘Mary, don’t speak to her.’
Kuku crouched over the bier, her sobbing went on. ‘I loved him.’
‘I’m glad you did,’ said Mary and put her hand on Kuku’s shoulder. ‘I’m glad.’ She looked at the others. ‘Help her, please, please,’ and Auntie Sanni came, lifted Kuku gently and led her away.
Mary bent down, touched the flowers, not Blaise. She stood up and, ‘Thank you,’ she said to the men. ‘It’s beautiful.’ As Thambi translated, she made them a namaskar.
They, too, turned away.
‘Bumble,’ Mary whispered as she stood looking down at the bier. ‘Blaise. The sad thing is’, she whispered, ‘that you would so much rather have had a proper coffin. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’
Saturday
Blaise was buried early in the morning next day. ‘There is nothing else to be done in this heat,’ Sir John had said on the telephone to Mr and Mrs Browne. ‘Even if you flew out tonight, you couldn’t be in time.’
It was so early that, as Mary had seen the morning before – Only yesterday, she thought – the waves breaking on the beach were pink, the sands rosy, too, in the first light. Auntie Sanni had suggested that the burial should be in Patna Hall’s own small private cemetery set behind the knoll and securely walled against jackals and roving animals. In its centre was a gūl-mohr tree, now in blossom, a riot of orange and yellow. ‘My grandfather, grandmother, father and mother are all buried here,’ said Auntie Sanni, ‘as Colonel McIndoe and I shall be in our turn.’ She did not mention a little grave, with an even smaller cross that had only a name, ‘Mary McIndoe’, the daughter who had lived only one day. ‘We will put Blaise here,’ Auntie Sanni had said to this second Mary. ‘They can move him later if they like.’
