An Ensuing Evil and Others

by Peter Tremayne

  Lord Chetwynd Miller cleared his throat. “Gentlemen…,” he began hesitantly. “Gentlemen, you are right. I have kept you in suspense long enough. I have, indeed, invited you here, not only because I appreciate your company, but I want you to see the fabled Eye of Shiva before it is taken on board the SS Caledonia tomorrow morning for transportation to London.”

  They sat back, expectantly watching their host.

  Lord Chetwynd Miller nodded to Tompkins, who clapped his hands as a signal.

  The dining room door opened, and Devi Bhadra, Chetwynd Millers majordomo, entered, pausing on the threshold to gaze inquiringly at the lieutenant.

  “Bring it in now, Devi Bhadra,” instructed the ADC.

  Devi Bhadra bowed slightly, no more than a slight gesture of the head, and withdrew.

  A moment later he returned carrying before him an ornate tray on which was a box of red Indian gold with tiny glass panels in it. Through these panels everyone could see clearly a white velvet cushion on which was balanced a large red stone.

  There was a silence while Devi Bhadra solemnly placed it on the table in front of the Resident and then withdrew in silence.

  As the door shut behind him, almost on a signal, the company leaned toward the ornate box with gasps of surprise and envy at the perfection of the ruby that nestled tantalizingly on its cushion.

  Father Cassian, who was nearest, pursed his lips and gave forth an unpriestly-like whistle. “Amazing, my dear sir. Absolutely!”

  James Gregg blinked; otherwise, his stoic face showed no expression. “So this is the famous Eye of Shiva, eh? I’ll wager it has a whole history behind it?”

  Royston snorted. “Damned right, Gregg. Many a person has died for that little stone there.”

  “The stone, so it is said, is cursed.”

  They swung round to look at the quiet Bengali. Jayram was smiling slightly. He had approved the Resident’s suggestion that if one of his guests was going to make an attempt on the jewel, it were better that the jewel be placed where everyone could see it so that such theft would be rendered virtually impossible.

  “What d’you mean, eh?” snapped Sir Rupert Harvey irritably. It had become obvious during the evening that Harvey was one of those men who disliked mixing with “the natives” except on express matters of business. He was apparently not used to meeting Indians as his social equals and showed it.

  It was Major Foran who answered. “The inspector-” Did he emphasize the Bengali’s rank just a little? “The inspector is absolutely right. There is a curse that goes with the stone, isn’t that right, Chetwynd?”

  Lord Chetwynd Miller grinned and spread his hands. “Therein is the romance of the stone, my friends. Well, how can you have a famous stone without a history, or without a curse?”

  “I believe I sense a story here,” drawled Gregg, reaching for his brandy, sniffing it before sipping gently.

  “Will you tell it, sir?” encouraged Royston.

  Lord Chetwynd Miller’s features bespoke that he would delight in nothing better than to tell them the story of his famous ruby-the Eye of Shiva.

  “You all know that the stone is going to London as a private gift from Savaji Rao III to Her Majesty? Yesterday the stone was officially handed into my safekeeping as representative of Her Majesty. I have made the arrangements for it to be placed on the SS Caledonia tomorrow to be transported to London.”

  “We all read the Times of India,” muttered Sir Rupert, but his sarcasm was ignored.

  “Quite so,” Lord Chetwynd Miller said dryly. “The stone has a remarkable history. It constituted one of a pair of rubies which were the eyes of a statue of the Hindu god Shiva-”

  “A god of reproduction,” chimed in Father Cassian, almost to himself. “Both benign and terrible, the male generative force of Vedic religion.”

  “It is said,” went on the Resident, “that the statue stood in the ancient temple of Vira-bhadra in Betul country. It was supposedly of gold, encrusted with jewels, and its eyes were the two rubies. The story goes that during the suppression of the ‘Mutiny,’ a soldier named Colonel Vickers was sent to Betul to punish those who had taken part. He had a reputation for ruthlessness. I think he was involved with the massacre at Allahabad-”

  “What was that?” demanded Gregg. “I know nothing of the history here.”

  “Six thousand people, regardless of sex or age, were slaughtered at Allahabad by British troops as a reprisal,” explained Father Cassian in a quiet tone.

  “The extreme ferocity with which the uprising was suppressed was born of fear,” explained Major Foran.

  “Only way to treat damned rebels!” snapped Royston. “Hang a few, and the people will soon fall into line, eh?”

  “In that particular case,” observed the Resident, screwing his face up in distaste, “the Sepoys who had taken part in the insurrection were strapped against the muzzles of cannons and blown apart as a lesson to others.”

  “Military necessity,” snapped Major Foran, irritated by the implied criticism.

  The Resident paused a moment and continued. “Well, it is said that Vickers sacked the temple of Vira-bhadra and took the rubies for himself while he ordered the rest of the statue melted down. This so enraged the local populace that they attacked Vickers and managed to reclaim the statue, taking it to a secret hiding place. Vickers was killed, and the rubies vanished. Stories permeated afterward that only one ruby was recovered by the guardians of the temple. A soldier managed to grab the other one from Vickers’s dying hand. He, in his turn, was killed, and the stone had a colorful history until it found its way into the hands of the Gaekwar of Baroda.”

  Inspector Ram Jayram coughed politely. “It should be pointed out,” he said slowly, “that the Gaekwar in question was not Savaji Rao III but the despot whom he overthrew a few years ago.”

  The Resident nodded agreement. “The jewel was found in the Gaekwar’s collection, and Savaji Rao thought it would be a courteous gesture to send the jewel to Her Majesty as a token of his friendship.”

  Gregg sat staring at the red glistening stone with pursed lips. “A history as bloody as it looks,” he muttered. “The story is that all people who claim ownership of the stone, who are not legitimate owners, meet with bad ends.”

  Sir Rupert chuckled cynically as he relit his cigar. “Could be that Savaji Rao has thought of that and wants no part of the stone? Better to pass it on quickly before the curse bites!”

  Lieutenant Tompkins flushed slightly, wondering whether Sir Rupert was implying some discourtesy to the Queen-Empress. He was youthful, and this was his first appointment in India. It was all new to him and perplexing, especially the cynicism about Empire that he found prevalent among his fellow veteran colonials.

  “The only curse, I am told, is that there are some Hindus who wish to return the stone to the statue,” Father Cassian observed.

  Sir Rupert turned to Inspector Jayram with a grin that was more a sneer. “Is that so? Do you feel that the stone should belong back in the statue? You’re a Hindu, aren’t vou?”

  Jayram returned the gaze of the businessman and smiled politely. “I am a Hindu, yes. Father Cassian refers to the wishes of a sect called the Vira-bhadra, whose temple the stone was taken from. They are worshippers of Shiva in his role of the wrathful avenger and herdsman of souls. For them he wears a necklace of skulls and a garland of snakes. He is the malevolent destroyer. I am not part of their sect.”

  Sir Rupert snorted as if in cynical disbelief. “A Hindu is a Hindu,” he sneered.

  “Ah, so?” Inspector Jayram did not appear in the least put out by the obvious insult. “I presume that you are a Christian, Sir Rupert?”

  “Of course!” snapped the man. “What has that to do with anything?”

  “Then, doubtless, you pay allegiance to the Bishop of Rome as Holy Father of the Universal Church?”

  “Of course not… I am an Anglican,” growled Sir Rupert.

  Jayram continued to smile blandly. “But a Ch
ristian is a Christian. Is this not so, Sir Rupert?”

  Sir Rupert reddened as Father Cassian exploded in laughter. “He has you there,” he chuckled as his mirth subsided a little.

  Jayram turned with an appreciative smile. “I believe that it was one of your fourth-century saints and martyrs of Rome, Pelagius, who said that labels are devices for saving people the trouble of thinking. Pelagius was the great friend of Augustine of Hippo, wasn’t he?”

  Father Cassian smiled brightly and inclined his head. “You have a wide knowledge, Inspector.”

  Sir Rupert growled angrily and was about to speak when Lord Chetwynd Miller interrupted. “It is true that the story of the curse emanated from the priests of the sect of Vira-bhadra, who continue to hunt for the stone.”

  Royston lit a fresh cheroot. He preferred them to the cigars provided by their host.

  “Well, it is an extraordinary stone. Would it be possible for me to handle it, Your Excellency?”

  The Resident smiled indulgently. “It will be the last chance. When it gets to London, it will doubtless be locked away in the royal collection.”

  He took a small key from his waistcoat pocket and bent forward, turning the tiny lock that secured the box and raising the lid so that the stone sparkled brightly on its pale bed of velvet.

  He reached forward and took out the stone with an exaggerated air of carelessness and handed it to the eager Royston.

  Royston held the stone up to the light between his thumb and forefinger and whistled appreciatively. “I’ve seen a few stones in my time, but this one is really awe inspiring. A perfect cut, too.”

  “You know something about these things, Royston?” inquired Sir Rupert, interested.

  Royston shrugged. “I don’t wish to give the impression that I am an expert, but I’ve traded a few stones in my time. My opinion is probably as good as the next mans.”

  He passed the ruby to Father Cassian, who was seated next to him. The priest took the stone and held it to the light. His hand trembled slightly, but he assumed a calm voice. “It’s nice,” he conceded. “But the value, as I see it, is in the entire statue of the god. I place no value on solitary stones, but only in an overall work of art, in man’s endeavor to create something of beauty.”

  Sir Rupert snorted as an indication of his disagreement with this philosophy and reached out a hand.

  Father Cassian hesitated, still staring at the red stone.

  At that moment there came the sound of an altercation outside. The abruptness of the noise caused everyone to pause. Lieutenant Tompkins sprang to his feet and strode to the door. As he opened it, Lady Chetwynd Miller, a small but determined woman in her mid-fifties, stood framed in the doorway.

  “Forgive me interrupting, gentlemen,” she said with studied calm. Then looking toward her husband, she said quietly, “My dear, Devi Bhadra says the servants have caught a thief attempting to leave your study.”

  Lord Chetwynd Miller gave a startled glance toward Inspector Jayram, then rose and made his way to the door. Tompldns stood aside as the Resident laid a reassuring hand on Lady Chetwynd Millers arm.

  “Now then, dear, nothing to worry about. You go back to your ladies in the drawing room, and we’ll see to this.”

  Lady Chetwynd Miller seemed reluctant but smiled briefly at the company before withdrawing. The Resident said to his ADC: “Ask Devi Bhadra to bring the rascal here into the dining room.”

  He turned back with a thin smile toward Inspector Jayram. “It seems as if your intelligence was right. We have a prisoner for you to take away, Inspector.”

  Jayram raised his hands in a curiously helpless gesture. “This is technically British soil, Excellency. But if you wish me to take charge?… Let us have a look at this man.”

  At that moment, Lieutenant Tompkins returned with Devi Bhadra together with a burly Sepoy from Foran’s Eighth Bombay Infantry. They frog-marched a man into the dining room. The man was thin, wearing a dhoti, a dirty loincloth affected by Hindus, an equally dirty turban, and a loose robe open at the front. He wore a cheap jeweled pendant hung on a leather thong around his neck.

  The Resident went back to his seat and gazed up with a hardened scowl. “Bring the man into the light and let us see him.”

  The man was young, handsome, but his face was disfigured in a sullen expression. His head hung forward. Devi Bhadra prodded the man forward so that the light from the lanterns reflected on his face.

  “I have searched him thoroughly, sahib. He has no weapons.”

  “Do you speak English?” demanded Lord Chetwynd Miller.

  The man did not reply.

  The British Resident nodded to Devi Bhadra, who repeated the question in Gujarati, a language of the country. There was no response.

  “Forgive me,” Inspector Jayram interrupted. “I believe the man might respond to Hindi.”

  Devi Bhadra repeated his question, but there was no reply.

  “Looks like your guess was wrong,” observed Royston.

  Inspector Jayram rose leisurely and came to stand by the man. His eyes narrowed as he looked at the pendant. Then he broke into a staccato to which the captive jerked up his head and nodded sullenly.

  Jayram turned to the Resident with an apologetic smile. “The man speaks a minor dialect called Munda. I have some knowledge of it. He is, therefore, from the Betul district.”

  “Betul?” The Residents eyes widened as he caught the significance of the name.

  Jayram indicated the pendant. “He wears the symbol of the cult of Vira-bhadra.”

  “Does he? The beggar!” breathed Lord Chetwynd Miller.

  “Well,” drawled Gregg. “If he were after this little item, he was out of luck. We had it here with us.”

  He held up the ruby.

  The captive saw it and gave a sharp intake of breath, moving as if to lunge forward but was held back by the powerful grip of Devi Bhadra and the Sepoy.

  “So that’s it?” snapped Major Foran. “The beggar was coming to steal the stone?”

  “Or return it to its rightful owners,” interposed Father Cassian calmly. “It depends on how you look at it.”

  “How did you catch him, Devi Bhadra?” asked Foran, ignoring the priest.

  “One of the maids heard a noise in your study, sahib,” said the man. “She called me, and I went to see if anything was amiss. The safe was open, and this man was climbing out of the window. I caught hold of him and yelled until a Sepoy outside came to help me.”

  “Was anything missing from the safe?”

  “The man had nothing on him, sahib.”

  “So it was the stone that he was after?” concluded Gregg in some satisfaction. “Quite an evenings entertainment that you’ve provided, Your Excellency.”

  The captive burst into a torrent of words, with Jayram nodding from time to time as he tried to follow.

  “The man says that the Eye of Shiva was stolen and should be returned to the temple of Vira-bhadra. He is no thief but the right hand of his god seeking the return of his property.”

  The Resident sniffed. “That’s as may be! To me he is a thief, who will be handed over to the Baroda authorities and punished. As Gregg said, it was lucky we were examining the stone while he was trying to open the safe.”

  Major Foran had been inspecting the stone, which he had taken from Gregg, and he now turned to the prisoner. “Would you like to examine the prize that you missed?” he jeered.

  They were unprepared for what happened next. Both the Sepoy and Devi Bhadra were momentarily distracted by the bright, shining object that Foran held out. Not so their prisoner. In the excitement of the moment, they had slackened their grip to the extent that the muscular young man seized his chance. With a great wrench, he had shaken free of his captors, grabbed the stone from the hand of the astonished major, and bounded across the room as agilely as a mountain lion. Before anyone could recover from their surprise, he had flung himself against the shuttered windows.

  The wood splintered ope
n as the man crashed through onto the veranda outside.

  The dinner company was momentarily immobile in surprise at the unexpected abruptness of the man’s action.

  A second passed. On the verandah outside, the Betulese jumped to his feet and began to run into the evening blackness and the driving rain.

  It was the ADC, Lieutenant Tompkins, who first recovered from his surprise. He turned and seized the Sepoy’s Lee Enfield rifle. Then he raised it to his shoulder. There was a crack of an explosion which brought the company to life.

  Foran was through the door onto the veranda in a minute. Lord Chetwynd Miller was only a split second behind, but he slipped and collided with Sir Rupert, who was just getting to his feet. The impact was so hard that Sir Rupert was knocked to the floor. The Resident went down on his knees beside him. Father Cassian was the first to spring from his chair, with an expression of concern, to help them up. The Resident was holding on to Cassians arm when he slipped again and, with a muttered expression of apology, climbed unsteadily to his feet. By then it was all over.

  The young man in the dhoti was lying sprawled facedown. There was a red, telltale stain on his white dirty robe that not even the torrent of rain was dispersing. Foran had reached his side and bent down, feeling for a pulse and then, with a sigh, he stood up and shook his head.

  He came back into the dining room, his dress uniform soaked by the monsoon skies. As he did so, the dining room door burst open, and Lady Chetwynd Miller stood on the threshold again, the other ladies of her party crowding behind her.

  The Resident turned and hurried to the door, using his body to prevent the ladies spilling into the room.

  “My dear, take your guests back into the drawing room. Immediately!” he snapped, as his wife began to open her mouth in protest. “Please!” His unusually harsh voice caused her to blink and stare at him in astonishment. He forced a smile and modulated his tone. “Please,” he said again. “We won’t be long. Don’t worry, none of us have come to any harm.” He closed the door behind them and turned back, his face ashen.