Ryman, Rebecca

by Olivia

  "The hotel project is neither a hoax nor a charade, Jai!" The tremble starting in her knees made it difficult to stand. She took a step back to sit on a broken half wall. "That hotel will become a reality!"

  "Unless?"

  She hesitated, then conceded the point. "All right. Unless."

  "Ah, so it is blackmail after all!"

  "No, merely the use of a tactical advantage I happen to have over you. I call it shrewd business strategy."

  He nodded, as if accepting the distinction. "And you seriously believe I will allow myself to be coerced?" He asked the question not with anger or contempt, but merely as if he were truly curious to have an answer.

  "You have no option!"

  "Options are easily devised."

  "They weren't with the Daffodil and they won't be now."

  But he only laughed.

  Covertly, she searched his face jaundiced by the lantern. And once more she felt out of her depth. Was she missing something? Instinct told her that he prevaricated, but today the chameleon colouring tricked the eye with disquieting success. He touched the pipe tucked inside his belt, half lifted it, then shoved it back again—and Olivia's heart skipped a beat. In that small gesture there was infinitesimal but significant and uncharacteristic indecision; it spoke to her only because she did know him so well! Behind the smoke-screen of airy nonchalance, she sensed a faint smell of doubt, a frisson of uncertainty. He was suspicious, but he was not sure. And because he knew her so well, his intuition warned him that her project was a hoax, the proposed demolitions a bait. But it was her instinct that proved to be right in what he next asked.

  "All right. Would you consider selling me this property?"

  Olivia knew she had won. Almost. "No. One doesn't sell a tactical advantage that can be exploited with continuing profit," she scoffed.

  "Regardless of the consequences?" Her refusal did not disturb him. He had expected it, of course.

  "Regardless of anything you are capable of conjuring!"

  He laughed. "Still as stubborn as that old Kansas mule?"

  "No. More so."

  He finally lifted his pipe from under his belt and, holding it unlit, sauntered to the edge of the verandah and peered up at the sky. It still drizzled and in the distance was the rumble of thunder. For a while he stood in silence, surrounded by it as if insulated from everything around him. Then he turned and asked very quietly, "What is it that you want from me?"

  Only superhuman effort concealed Olivia's exhilaration. It was an unconditional surrender, but she volunteered no reaction. "You already know what I want."

  "Yes, but clarify it further for me."

  "Leave Farrowsham alone. Restore our credit and carry our cargo in your holds as before."

  In her pause he sensed more and lifted a questioning eyebrow. "And is that all?"

  "No. I would like a fresh contract drawn up between us giving us more favourable freight rates."

  "Anything else?"

  Olivia shrugged. "An undertaking, of course, that you will not harass either Farrowsham or Arthur Ransome again."

  He sucked in his underlip, nodded and looked quietly amused. "And what do I get in exchange for all these generous concessions?"

  "If you agree to make them, there will be no demolitions. If you also implement them honourably, I will gift you this property with clear title, to do with as you wish." She waited, breath held back tight in her chest, scarcely daring to expel it for fear of causing ripples, knowing that even a verbal acceptance from him would be his bond. When no response came and he remained silently lost in thought, she asked a trifle impatiently, "Well?"

  He started to light his pipe, attention concentrated entirely on the task at hand. "It seems like a fair bargain," he said finally.

  She was ecstatic! "I consider so. Then you agree?"

  He looked at her and smiled. "No."

  "What?" For a moment Olivia thought she had not heard him correctly, but then he repeated himself.

  "No, Olivia. I do not agree. I told you I tolerate neither coercion nor blackmail. I meant that. But I do commend your persistence. And your ingenuity. Those I find worthy of unqualified admiration."

  Olivia forced herself out of her shock of stunned disbelief. "But you yourself admitted that it was a fair bargain!" she cried, shaken out of her complacency.

  "True. But then, as you know, I am not a fair man."

  She started to tremble. "You reject my offer out of hand despite all this?" She waved a furious hand at the quarter outside which they stood. "You realise that I do intend to go ahead with the demolitions, don't you?"

  "I realise that you do intend to, yes."

  "Intend to and will! I warn you, Jai—"

  "Don't threaten me, Olivia." There was a chill edge to his tone. "That I would tolerate least of all."

  "Nevertheless I do warn you . . .," choking with disappointment and a bitter, bitter sense of failure, she sprang to her feet, ". . . first thing tomorrow morning all this starts to come down! Every stone, every termite-riddled, rotten beam, every stinking rat hole—by evening there'll be nothing left of this miserable hovel and those memories that you pretend to cherish. Wiped out will be all that remains tangible of your mother's last wretched, drug-ridden years, her degradations and desperations, of her very being—as will be every trace of the birth-place where your own damned life began." She now shook so violently that she had to sit down again, her legs suddenly like jelly. "Take a good look, Jai," she taunted, insane with frustration, "like your broken mother, these mute walls too will merge with the earth tomorrow. Drink in your fill of memories now. There will be no more opportunities."

  Seemingly hewn out of stone, he had listened with all intentness but without having given her the reward of even one responsive flicker. "I think you will find that you are mistaken," he remarked composedly. "Every stone that is here now will also be here tomorrow. Not one will be moved."

  Olivia laughed in his face. "You can't really believe that, can you? You know you can't stop me!" Behind the corrosive laugh, hot tears threatened but she willed them not to fall. She was beside herself with rage.

  He sighed. "Ah, but you see, Olivia, I can stop you."

  "How? By resorting to old tactics? Vandalism? Sabotage? Terrorism and intimidation?" His continued calm infuriated her, in some way made her feel humiliated even more. She forced her mind into submission, her spasmodic body into stillness. "You will again start to destroy because that is all you know? Because you couldn't bear to be a second-time loser?" She burned with spite, but somehow she manufactured a smile. "I have beaten you once, Jai. I will do so again."

  He did not reply. Instead, his stare became long and deep, his maddeningly placid eyes shadowed with strangeness. Olivia stared back, anger throbbing like a pain in every part of her body. She strove to say more but her throat was blocked; she could not raise a voice.

  And then, all at once, he was gone.

  She was left alone with the shades of night into which he had melted with such suddenness. Her startled eyes followed the invisible path of his departure, her energies too depleted to regroup immediately. She had failed in her ploy; her calculations had been wrong, her instincts fraudulent. Still paralysed with disbelief, her mind simply could not accept defeat. Not at the moment, not yet. For the moment it was that look of strangeness that seemed to fill all her mental horizons, for she had recognised it for what it was and she could not accept that either. That even less than her failure! It was a look of pity. And Olivia was outraged by it. She had tolerated much from Jai Raventhorne, and had now laid herself open to tolerate more.

  What she was not prepared to suffer at any price was his pity! It was his worst insult to her yet, but that he would soon learn for himself.

  Even before the cock crowed the next morning, Olivia sent for Willie Donaldson.

  A long night's intense cerebration convinced Olivia that she had not been wrong in her calculations. Her instincts had not lied to her, nor had her knowled
ge of the man in all his variations let her down. It was merely a new game that he played, one she had not foreseen. If she had miscalculated anything at all, it was the dimensions of Raventhorne's abhorrence of defeat. It would come, of course, but it would come more slowly than she had anticipated.

  "Those mercenaries that we have on our payroll—how many do they number at the moment?" Like many affluent business houses, Farrowsham too maintained its private security forces.

  "Aboot two hundred." Donaldson answered Olivia's question evenly. "Why?"

  "And Raventhorne?" She ignored his question.

  "I canna say for certain, but I reck'n more."

  "How many on duty at our warehouses?"

  "Enough. For current requirements, that is."

  "I see. Well, perhaps we should double the watch round the warehouses and at our office premises. Also, we should start taking some precautions at our properties in Dharamtala, Circular Road, Portuguese Church Street, Chowringhee and Garden Reach. The Bow Bazaar shops and houses all have Indian tenants. They will not be disturbed. But where we—"

  "Na disturbed by whom?" Donaldson leaned forward to ask. "And why?"

  Olivia frowned at his interruption, but she knew that she would have to give him some explanation. And he would demand answers to many questions "By Raventhorne. I learn from an informant of unimpeachable integrity that he might soon be up to more of his tricks. It would be wise to take precautions. What I would like to emphasise is that it is at the Templewood bungalow that we need to concentrate the best of our resources. The area must be patrolled day and night until the demolitions are complete. The guards must have instructions to shoot if sabotage or arson is attempted, or if there is interference with the work. Hire more people if we need them, Mr. Donaldson. If we offer double wages, we can lure away the best men available from other private armies. Anything else?" She deepened her frown in thought and reflected quickly. "No, I think not. The plantation is too far away and the Seagull is already at sea on her way to Malaya. All I need are two clear days to complete the demolitions."

  But Willie Donaldson did not ask questions. Suddenly, he felt very sick indeed.

  She continued, "Should Slocum—or anyone else, for that matter—make inquiries? We should merely take precautions following those hangings yesterday."

  Recently, another minor revolt had erupted among a contingent of local native sepoys. Ordered to Burma, they had refused to sail because of official refusal to transport their cooking vessels according to the Hindu code of caste segregation. Rather than lose caste, the men had mutinied, convinced that this was yet another British trick to convert them to Christianity. The rebellion had been brutally quashed and five of the ringleaders hanged publicly. Consequently, unrest simmered in the city, with nationalist sentiments running high. British business houses and residents had been cautioned to guard against retaliatory action by bands of aroused native civilians.

  Fort William had issued the warning to the district magistrate as a matter of routine; not even Slocum had taken it very seriously. Certainly no business house had reacted to it quite as strongly as to double watches and hire extra mercenaries. Donaldson did not point all this out to Olivia; she was well aware of it already. But within himself, he started to feel even sicker.

  "One more thing." Knowing that Donaldson's pallor was no indication that he was faint hearted, because he was not, Olivia made no more excuses. "Abrahams and his men should be summoned immediately. I want the demolitions to start within the hour."

  Estelle, like Donaldson, had turned pale listening to Olivia's confident commands, watching the high red spots on her cheeks and the excitement that had produced them. Unlike him, however, she had no difficulty in locating the germ of the problem.

  "You've seen and talked to Jai, haven't you?" As soon as Donaldson had left and they were at the breakfast table, she cornered Olivia.

  "Yes." There was no reason to lie to Estelle.

  "And he refused your bargain?" She lifted a sarcastic eyebrow.

  "For the moment."

  "How do you presume that?"

  "Once the demolitions start he will change his mind soon enough!"

  "He will not change his mind!" Estelle countered emphatically. "He never does. If you truly believed that, why all these elaborate defensive measures?"

  Olivia shrugged. "It would be foolhardy to be unprepared. We both know his methods."

  Yes. They did—who better than they! It was not, however, Jai Raventhorne's methods that Estelle was concerned about at the moment, it was her cousin's. But she did not say so.

  The answer to Olivia's first urgent message was delivered to her by her personal peon soon after breakfast. Mordecai Abrahams was devastated to have to inform her that he was not available to carry out his commission at the Templewood bungalow until the following week. An even more urgent summons had come to him from elsewhere. He had been forced to accept it. Next Monday morning, however, without fail at dawn . . . Olivia did not bother with the rest. In a fury, she tore up the note and let loose her temper on the hapless messenger. Then, wasting no more time, she dispatched the peon to three more addresses of contractors from whom she had received estimates for the work. Whichever of them was available was to be brought to the Templewood house without delay, she instructed the man. About charges, he was forbidden to haggle. She would pay twice whatever they demanded.

  It was at this point in the still early morning that Olivia had a most unexpected visitor: Ram Chand Mooljee. She was greatly taken aback. Mooljee, she knew, never visited clients; it was they who went to him. In the privacy of the downstairs study where she received him with ill-concealed impatience, Mooljee touched her feet and instantly plunged into vehement self-denigrations. He was a knave, a man to be despised, the son of a moth-eaten camel, a renegade who deserved to be hung—nay, hanging was too good for the likes of him. He should be—

  "What exactly is the problem, Mr. Mooljee?" Olivia cut off his tedious self-vilifications with an exasperated gesture. "Is it any special business that brings you here this morning?"

  Indeed it was, very special business. "I am ashamed to have to say it, honourable memsahib," Mooljee moaned. "I should have my tongue amputated, my hide flogged." He sighed as if about to cry, took out her satin-covered box from the folds of his voluminous apparel and laid it on the table. "I regret that I can no longer retain your collateral."

  "Why ever not?" She was even more surprised.

  Remorse forgotten, Mooljee's face went bland. "With no warning, I find myself in a situation of dire financial embarrassment. It is a family matter. I cannot disclose it. But I am in a dilemma, a grave crisis. My wife and children are distraught with worry. I myself—"

  "Well, I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Mooljee," again she diverted the tiresome flow, "but in what way can I help you?"

  "The help the compassionate memsahib can give me is to return my loan." His jowls drooped in mournful folds. "Were it not for unspeakable family dishonour whereby my community will spit on me—"

  "The loan? But of course I will return your loan, Mr. Mooljee! As I have already assured you, the moment my funds from Lloyd's of London—"

  "Alas, my need cannot wait, worthy lady!" He wrung his fat hands in abject despair. "I must have the money today itself."

  "Today?" Olivia was outraged. "That is absolutely impossible! You know very well that I have already paid in full for the property." Not only was she peeved, she was openly sceptical. Ram Chand Mooljee in dire financial straits? He, the richest Hindu merchant in town? "I'm sorry, Mr. Mooljee," she said frigidly, making no secret of her acute displeasure, "but there is no way I can return your loan today. If you insist on immediate repayment, I permit you to sell my tiara. As you know very well, it is worth far in excess of what is owed you."

  But this too, he said, he could not accept. To go to the market himself would be to reveal his family circumstances, to lose face and reputation. There would be ruinous gossip, his wife would die of shame, hi
s children would drown themselves, his—

  "Well, what do you expect me to do about the matter?" Olivia demanded angrily. "Sell it myself and give you the money?"

  This suggestion he accepted with alacrity. In fact, he suddenly beamed. "That would be very fine, very fine, generous lady! Such benevolence to salvage the self-respect of this wretched villain! I am overwhelmed." Delicately he dabbed each eye with a corner of his pleated dhoti.

  "Very well then." Livid, she picked up the jewellery box and rose. "I will see what can be done by tomorrow. We will exchange receipts when you send for the money." He accepted her decision with due humility.

  Olivia did not, of course, believe a word of Mooljee's story. Moreover, he had wasted her precious time, and far more would be wasted in arranging the quite unnecessary sale of the tiara. Still in a temper, Olivia sent to the office for Bimal Babu and entrusted the job to him. An austere, elderly Bengali who had been with the Agency since its inception, Bimal Babu was someone she knew she could trust implicitly.

  As Bimal Babu left with the tiara, Olivia's peon returned. It appeared that none of the contractors she had suggested was free to take on her work in this particular week. Two others he had located were similarly engaged elsewhere and a third said he was too sick to leave his bed.

  "Did you offer them double wages?" Olivia asked in increasing frustration. "Or did you haggle?"

  "I know the work is urgent, lady memsahib. I did not haggle. I took the liberty of offering even more than double, but they would not budge."

  "Did you get the impression that their excuses were genuine?"

  The peon lowered his eyes and slowly shook his head.

  The suspicion forming in Olivia's mind strengthened. With the return of Bimal Babu and the news that he brought, the suspicion turned into a certainty. He had shown the tiara, he said, to the town's four leading gem merchants, one of whom was his distant relation. Their answers had all been remarkably similar. The tiara was exquisite, and the lady memsahib's credentials were unquestionable. No disrespect was intended, but such a priceless piece would need to be re-evaluated. The formality— which is all that it was—could take up to a fortnight. Could they then offer a loan against the jewellery, Bimal Babu had taken it upon himself to ask? Oh, certainly, but to raise such a large sum of cash would take at least a week. Soon after Bimal Babu's return, a curt note arrived from Willie Donaldson. All at once, it seemed, there was not a mercenary available for hire in the city. Half of those Farrowsham had on its payroll had disappeared overnight. Of the rest, many had reported sick or claimed bereavements. It was astonishing how many grandmothers had died all at once.