A Division of the Spoils

by Paul Scott

  The same Merrick? The three-quarter profile photograph did not itself confirm so. Perron scanned quickly down to the smaller print where the names of the chief mourners might be found.

  ‘Supporting the widow were members and close friends of the family, Colonel John Layton, Mrs F. Grace, Captain Nigel Rowan (AAGG) and Mrs Rowan. Among the representatives of the cantonment were the station commander and his wife, Colonel and Mrs Rossiter and the Misses Rossiter; Brigadier and Mrs Thorpe, Colonel and Mrs S. K. Srinivasan, Major Thwaite and Miss Drusilla Thwaite, Major and Mrs Peabody, Captain and Mrs P. L. Mehta.’

  So, then, yes. Merrick. But who was Mrs Rowan? Sarah? She wasn’t otherwise named. And what were they all doing in Mirat? AAGG meant assistant to the agent to the Governor-General. Was Rowan political agent in Mirat? He went back to the larger print.

  ‘Referring briefly to Colonel Merrick’s skilful handling of the far from easy task entrusted to him some months ago, the chaplain pointed out that the man whom they had gathered together to mourn and honour was one who had a disability that would probably have persuaded many men to feel that the period of their useful active employment and service had ended. “Ronnie,” he said, “never felt this. Some of you have seen, many of us have heard, how this gallant officer who had taught himself to ride again, led his detachment of States Police during times of trouble, patiently and humanely but firmly restoring order and securing the peace of the state in whose service he was for all too short a time.”

  ‘ “Today,” he continued, “our hearts and prayers should be offered to Colonel Merrick’s widow, in thanksgiving for a life so well lived, so abruptly ended, so sadly lost.”

  ‘After the singing of the hymn “Abide with Me” there was a moment’s silence and then from outside the church came the clear sombre notes of the Last Post, sounded off by a bugler of the Mirat Artillery. An equally moving last touch to the simple service was made when the Chief Minister of State in Mirat, the Count Bronowsky, stepped forward and assisted the widow from the church.

  ‘A few days earlier a post-mortem confirmed that Colonel Merrick died as a result of injuries sustained in a riding accident. The funeral was delayed to enable the widow and other members of the family to attend. The remains were cremated.’

  *

  ‘Sahib?’

  The bearer had brought the tray of fresh coffee. He was asking Perron whether he wanted it at the breakfast table or at the verandah table where Perron was leaning against the balustrade. Perron nodded at the verandah table and then read the report again. And now the muddy photograph began to take on a sinister likeness to the Merrick he had known. He sat down, poured more coffee, and continued to study both the photograph and the report.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ a woman’s voice said, ‘that the local rag could be so absorbing.’

  Startled, he looked up. The woman in the sunglasses had come back and was sitting two tables away. Her voice was low-keyed, a bit hoarse, but attractive. He smiled, put the paper away and said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.’

  ‘That’s what I mean. You are Guy Perron, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes –?’

  ‘You’ve been expected. So I did wonder when I saw you arrive. I’ve been nosey and had a look at the book you signed. No, please don’t move.’ She got up herself and came to join him. She took the sunglasses off, revealing rather pale eyes, blue-grey with a tinge of violet. A tiny scar, about an inch long, white, showed clearly beneath the left one. In spite of this blemish she was in a sad, rather exhausted way, beautiful.

  ‘You won’t recognize me. But you might remember me as Laura Elliott. At least Nigel told me you did.’

  After a few seconds Perron said, ‘Yes. Laura Elliott.’ He offered his hand. Hers was rather clammy. He said, ‘The coffee’s fresh. Let me ask the bearer for another cup.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She sat down. He rang the handbell. When the old man came out he saw at once what was wanted and went back in. Perron sat. She was gazing steadily at him.

  ‘I think I remember you,’ she said. ‘I mean I know I remember you but think I recognize you.’

  ‘And I you.’

  ‘No. I shouldn’t think so.’

  She had a directness that wasn’t unpleasant, but having made this denial there was a hint of confusion in the way she replaced the sunglasses. He thought it possible that Nigel might also have said to her: Guy called you that stunning girl. She was stunning no longer.

  The bearer brought another cup and another pot of coffee. She poured for them both. ‘Why have you come to the club, Mr Perron? Nigel said they were expecting you at the Izzat Bagh.’

  ‘I never got round to wiring the day and time I’d get here. After a night on the train I thought it would be a good idea at least to get some breakfast and even make sure of a bed for the night without putting people out.’

  ‘Well, and it’s nice to be on your own for a while. Before putting on one’s visiting face. Is Nigel going to be disappointed?’

  ‘Why disappointed?’

  ‘He said you’d be surprised to find him in Mirat. But you don’t seem surprised. You haven’t even asked me who I mean by Nigel. Did Dmitri give the game away after all?’

  ‘No. And I am surprised. But the edge has been knocked off by what I’ve just read in the Mirat Courier.’

  ‘Oh, have they said something about him? I never read it.’

  ‘His name’s included in a list of people who went to a funeral on Saturday. Mr Nigel Rowan, AAGG. And then the other names clinched it. The only person I don’t know about is Mrs Nigel Rowan.’

  Laura Elliott smiled. Her mouth went down with the smile. ‘That’s me, I’m afraid. Was I mentioned too? Nigel will be pleased. It worries him a bit that printed guest lists seldom refer to us both. But then how can they if I’m always making excuses or just not turning up? It’s Dmitri Bronowsky who’s expecting you really, isn’t it? Are you going to ring him up?’

  ‘The secretary said he mightn’t be in Mirat but that he could easily find out.’

  ‘In which case he’s probably looking for me. Dmitri was in Mirat yesterday. He must still be. But you needn’t ring. Nigel will either be ringing me here or arriving here some time this morning. You could go back with him. In any case I’ll let him know you’re here.’

  ‘It’s well over a year since Nigel and I were in touch. How long have you been married?’

  ‘Rather less than a year. But do you mind if we don’t talk about it? I was always very fond of Nigel and still am, but I’m afraid his marriage hasn’t been a success.’

  Perron studied Laura Elliott’s face – turned, for once, away from him as she watched the swooping crows; and thought he saw a woman who had had a bad time and was trying to pick up the pieces. She had rejected Nigel originally for a planter in Malaya. He remembered Nigel referring to a surviving Elliott parent in Darjeeling, who had only heard from Laura once, after she had ended up in a Japanese prison-camp. Presumably, unless there had been a divorce, the planter-husband hadn’t survived. He felt he couldn’t ask. He felt she would welcome a discussion about her and her first husband’s captivity as little as she welcomed discussion of her marriage to Nigel. He said:

  ‘Are you staying here at the club?’

  ‘Yes, temporarily.’ The sunglasses were redirected at him. ‘I’ve just remembered.’ She took the glasses off. ‘You had a delightful but rather dotty aunt. Is she still alive?’

  ‘She’s paying for most of the cost of this trip and she’s pulled most of the strings that make things easy when I want them easy.’

  ‘I’m glad she’s still alive. People like that deserve a long life.’

  ‘People like what?’

  ‘People who take an interest in other people, especially in young people. I felt that. I felt her reacting to me as if I were a person, not just another good-looking girl.’

  ‘I’ll tell her what you say.’

  ‘Oh, she won’t remember me.’

  ‘But
she does.’

  A moment of nakedness. Then the glasses went back on. There was the sound of a telephone ringing. Perron said, ‘Perhaps that’s Nigel now.’

  ‘We shall soon know. You’d like some more coffee?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She began to pour. Hearing footsteps, Perron looked round. It was Macpherson. He said:

  ‘Ah, there you both are. Already introduced yourselves. Good. Your husband is on the line, Mrs Rowan.’

  She thanked Macpherson, pushed the glasses hard against the bridge of her nose and got up and went without another word or a glance in Perron’s direction.

  Macpherson said, ‘It looks as if you’re in luck and I lose an overnight guest.’

  She did not come back. The clerk came ten minutes later with a message from her. A car would call for Perron at midday to take him to the Izzat Bagh. He stayed on the terrace for another half-hour or so. But still she did not return.

  *

  The car slowed to pass through a sentry-guarded checkpoint marked by a notice: End of Cantonment Limits and then headed along a straight road slightly below the level of the railway. He put on his own dark glasses and took out Rowan’s note and re-read it.

  ‘My dear Guy, I’m sorry I can’t come to collect you personally. It’s one of those pressing official mornings. I’ve not had the chance yet to tell Dmitri you’ve arrived, but will. Meanwhile, the best thing is for you to come to my bungalow. It’s next to the Dewani Bhavan, Dmitri’s house, where you’ll be staying, but a lot has happened since he wired you in Bombay and you may find dossing down with me at least a good temporary solution. You’re very welcome. Laura tells me you and she met and that you’ve seen the Courier, so know something of the score. Colonel Layton went back to Pankot this morning but Susan and her aunt are still here. They’re staying at the palace guest house. Sarah’s here too, of course, and has promised to be at my bungalow to welcome you and to see you settled in. I may have to stay at the palace for lunch, but I’ve organized things for you to lunch at my place. I expect you’ll want to relax anyway. The bungalow is tucked between the Dewani Bhavan and the bungalow that was Susan’s and Ronald’s.

  ‘You’ll get a good view of the Izzat Bagh Palace and the guest house directly you fork right from the railway and the road starts to lead you round our side of the lake. Once you’ve passed the walls of the palace grounds you’re at the Dewani Bhavan (and our bungalow which overlooks the waste ground between the palace and the city). See you soon. Nigel.’

  The fork was ahead. He moved to the left-hand side of the car. Presently he saw the palace at the other end of the dazzling stretch of water: a rose-coloured structure with little towers, and on the lake-shore a white domed mosque with one slim minaret reflected. To one side, amidst trees, a palladian-style mansion. The guest house presumably.

  At this upper end of the lake there were huts and boats (beached). A detachment of armed police patrolled the area. The lake seemed to be separated almost into two by an isthmus and an area of reeds. Where the reeds began the road curved away from the bank as though everything beyond the reeds was private property. The car became cooler, shaded by banyan trees. And to the left there suddenly appeared a brick wall mercilessly topped by spears of broken bottle-glass. The palace grounds. The wall continued for half a mile. Perhaps more. But suddenly ended, at a right angle, and the road was now edged on that side by an immense stretch of open ground, broken by nullahs. The car slowed. Just ahead on the right there was a grey stucco wall, a glimpse of a substantial bungalow, the Dewani Bhavan. But his attention was taken by a more distant view, the view of what lay at the far end of the waste ground, about a mile away: the blur of the old walled and minareted city of Mirat.

  The car turned, across a culvert, into the compound of a small bungalow, a very old, squat building with square pillars to its verandah. The compound was rough and untended.

  Standing in the shadow of the deep verandah was a woman wearing a blouse and skirt. Sarah. She had her arms folded (hands, as he remembered, clasping the elbows). As the car drew up she came down the steps ahead of a servant.

  The first thing he noticed as he pushed the door open and looked up at her was a little pad of flesh beneath her chin.

  ‘Hello, Guy.’ She offered her hand. He took it and could not tell whether a warmer embrace had been expected, or would be welcome. Free, she folded her arms again and led the way on to the verandah which at this central point was deep, set out with tables and lounging chairs. There was a dusty uncared-for look about it. Whether this was Laura’s fault or one of the reasons why Laura wasn’t living here were questions whose answers might become clearer.

  The interior hall was dark, sombre. You could smell damp. Sarah moved through it unaffected, he felt, by the oppressive weight of masonry, the brooding pressure of the thick square pillars that rose from the tiled floor up, up, into a remote raftered roof. She opened a door and the scale diminished to one that was more accommodating to the human ego. But this room was long, too narrow for its length. Here, he sensed the presence of hidden fungus, a sweet heavy smell which, mixed with the light dry scent of some kind of antiseptic, immediately depressed him. A white mosquito-net shrouded a narrow little bed. The main source of light was from the open bathroom door. It was probably from the bathroom that the smell of antiseptic came.

  ‘It’s rather spartan,’ she said. ‘Nigel asked me to apologize. But I probably don’t need to. I expect Laura warned you they’ve not been here long and won’t be staying.’

  Perron let that go. He said, ‘What date do you think? 1830? 1850?’

  ‘I don’t know. Shut up too long anyway. Watch out for scorpions. And I don’t want to alarm you but there was a snake not long ago, on the verandah at the back. They had a good hunt after it was killed so I don’t think you need worry, in any case Nigel says snakes are very misunderstood creatures and that the thing to do if you meet one is bow politely and ask it to go its way in peace.’

  ‘I shall probably just yell the place down.’

  She laughed, standing there, in front of him, arms still folded. He moved forward, put one arm lightly round her. She didn’t move but in a moment briefly leant her head so that her hair brushed his chin.

  ‘It’s nice to see you again, Guy. You always made me laugh.’

  She moved away. The servants were bringing in his suitcase and holdall. She said, ‘I don’t think Nigel will be back for lunch, but it’s all organized for you to have directly you want it. So let’s have a drink. Then I’ll leave you to settle in.’

  ‘Do you have to leave?’

  ‘Yes. But I’ve got time for a drink.’

  They returned to the verandah. She called out to the driver that she’d be ready in fifteen minutes. He went away, round the side of the bungalow. A servant had already placed a tray and bottles and glasses on a side-table. She told him to go and then asked Perron what he’d have.

  ‘Out here I still like the gin.’

  She poured, added ice and fizz and brought the glasses over. She said, ‘I’d ask you to lunch at the guest house in ordinary circumstances but today I think you’d be happier eating here alone.’

  ‘If you think so.’

  He offered her a cigarette. She hesitated then took one. ‘I’ve been trying to cut down, which means I’ve joined that boring gang of cadging non-smokers who never have their own. Thank you.’ Bending forward to give her a light he noticed that the hand holding the cigarette was a bit unsteady; and that her hair, once so smooth and gleaming, looked less well cared-for. He felt this suited her rather better. She seemed more marked by experience. He said, ‘I’ve come at rather a bad moment, haven’t I?’

  ‘Up to a week ago we’d certainly thought of your arrival rather differently.’

  ‘How differently?’

  ‘Nigel and I and Ahmed were going to meet you at the station. It was Dmitri’s idea. I expect he’d have come too, because he likes surprising people. That’s why when he got your let
ter from home he didn’t answer but waited until there was just time to send you a welcoming telegram in Bombay. He thought he couldn’t very well write a letter without mentioning the fact that Nigel and I were here. And Ronald of course.’

  ‘You were here when my letter arrived then? I thought you’d probably come down just now. From Pankot.’

  ‘No, I’ve been here for quite a time. It was Susan who had to come down. With father and Aunt Fenny. Father went back this morning. Did you come in on the night train?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you must have been on the station at roughly the same time as father.’

  ‘There was quite a crowd. Were you there, seeing him off?’

  ‘No, but Aunt Fenny was. He has to get back to Pankot to go on handing over his command at the depot. He wanted us to go with him but at the last moment Susan wouldn’t. So Fenny felt she had to stay too.’

  ‘What about your mother?’

  ‘Oh, mother went home last month to start house-hunting.’

  ‘So no retirement to Rose Cottage?’

  ‘No. Actually we moved down to Commandant House quite a while ago and rented the cottage to people called Smalley. We can’t sell it, except to the army, but that’s what will happen now. I expect the Smalleys will stay there a while because they’re staying on under contract with the Indian Government. At least for a year or two. He’s a bit too young to retire. A bit too old to fancy his chances at home. Father of course would have retired next year anyway. Neither of them wants to stay out here, though.’

  ‘So back home for you too?’

  ‘I don’t know about me. Aunt Fenny and I went back for a month or two last year, after Uncle Arthur died. You never met them, did you?’

  ‘No, but I know about Colonel Grace dying. I called at Queen’s Road the other day and saw Mr Hapgood.’

  ‘Hapgood?’

  ‘The people upstairs. Captain Purvis’s billet.’

  ‘Oh.’ She leant back, shutting her eyes. ‘How long ago all that seems.’

  ‘You never got in touch with me.’