скачать книгу бесплатно
‘I think so. I just hope Major Savanna is safe. He’s –’
‘I heard. I’ve been standing up here listening.’
‘Well, there’s nothing we can do till morning.’
‘If he hasn’t returned by then, you might ask the Ranee where he is. I was down in the hall this evening when she arrived. I heard her tell him that if he wasn’t gone by this morning, he would have her to answer to.’
3
Savanna had not returned by morning. Farnol borrowed two horses from the Lodge stables and he and Karim rode along one of the lower roads to the Barracks. Simla was the summer capital of the Government of India and for eight months of the year the sub-continent was ruled from the over-crowded, stacks-on-the-mill town clinging to its narrow-spined ridge. In late October the government departments moved back to Calcutta where the commercial population, swallowing its sourness at having been deprived of all the summer trade, welcomed them with over-stocked stores and inflated prices, a state of business affairs that lasted only a few days, after which both resentment and prices fell. Next year the government would be moving to Delhi for those months when it was not at Simla and the merchants of Calcutta were ready to start their own Mutiny for being thus deserted.
Simla had a year-round British population and all the government departments kept on skeleton staffs there during the winter months. The main part of the army battalions went back to the plains with the government, but a company was always kept on duty in the big Barracks.
Captain Weyman, red-faced and red-eyed, pickled in gin and sour cynicism, was the company commander. ‘No, I haven’t seen Major Savanna in the week he’s been up here. He’s one of those Lodge blighters, can’t see down his nose as far as us barracks-wallahs. Are you a friend of his?’
‘No. I’m with Farnol’s Horse.’
‘Your name’s Farnol, too? Oh yes, I’ve heard of you. One of the club, eh?’
Farnol recognized the type: a British Army officer who had come out to India hoping to transfer to one of the posh Indian Army regiments and had not been accepted. He knew the snobbery attached to such acceptance and did not accept it but he had never made an issue of it. One either lived with it or one got out of the regiment; of course he had been accepted because he had been born into Farnol’s Horse. But, though he would not have admitted it to anyone, he had partly turned his back on the system by becoming a political agent.
‘If you like. Then Major Savanna didn’t come down here during the night and ask for an escort?’
‘Blighter’s missing, eh? You want me to send out a search party?’ But Weyman showed he had no real concern for the safety of the missing Savanna, the Lodge snob.
‘Never mind. Thanks for the offer.’
Weyman smiled at the sarcasm. ‘Always glad to help you Indians.’
As they rode away Karim Singh said, ‘Why do they dislike us Indians so much, sahib?’
Farnol smiled at the Sikh’s implied designation of Indians: he meant the Indian Army, of which he was a proud member. ‘Because we are the fortunate ones.’
‘You think so?’ Karim pondered while he rode; then he nodded. ‘I suppose so. We are the best of all, aren’t we?’
Perhaps, thought Farnol; but he wondered if all the circles of British life in India rode in their own small circle of mirrors. The lady he was going to see, though not British, spent her life looking in mirrors, cracked though some of them might be.
The Ranee of Serog’s small domain began on the first ridge south of the Simla ridge and ran almost down to Kalka, the rail junction at the foot of the ranges. She had a palace somewhere in her territory, but neither Farnol nor anyone else from Simla had ever been invited there; she also owned one of the largest houses in Simla itself. She had never become like her neighbour, the Nawab of Kalanpur, more British than the British; but she liked the social life of this very social town and the unattached men that it offered. It had more appeal than living in the palace with her half-mad brother.
Once the servant who had announced him had left the room, Farnol was greeted by slim arms that wrapped themselves round his neck and a mouth that smothered him with a kiss that had nothing to do with caste or class. ‘Darling Clive! You hardly looked at me last night! I wondered if those Tibetan lamas had got to you, converted you to celibacy or something.’
They had been lovers a year ago, but he had thought that was all past history. The Ranee collected lovers as she collected gems; she had once told him that she graded her men as she did her diamonds. She had classified him as a perfect blue-white, which he had thought must be the ultimate till he had found himself superseded by an Italian Consul who was evidently a superior gem in bed, the Ranee’s preferred setting. He wondered where the Italian was now, whether he, too, had been replaced by someone even closer to perfection.
Farnol withdrew from her arms and the musky smell of her perfume. She wore no other jewellery this morning than a double-strand necklace of pearls and a heavy gold bracelet that looked like a more expensive class of shackle.
‘Come and have breakfast with me like we used to! You are lucky to find me out of bed so early. But I have to catch that train this afternoon and there is so much one has to do!’
She had a large staff who did everything but blow her nose for her. She was the hedonist supreme and when he had been her lover he had enjoyed humouring her. It was almost six months since he had last had a woman, a young lady out on a visit from England who in private had proved to be no lady at all; looking at the Ranee now, still feeling her body against him, he was sorely tempted to forget other things for half an hour or so. But no, he told himself: he hadn’t come here to make love to her or banter with her.
‘Mala, where is Major Savanna?’
She put her spread hand to her bosom; her gestures at times could be as extravagant as her jewellery. ‘Darling, you don’t think I’ve taken him to my bed, do you?’
He sighed patiently. He hated arguing with women or interrogating them, either as lover or political agent. ‘Did I suggest that? I’m not jealous, Mala, I’m here on business. Do you know where he is?’
The Ranee was not only vain and nymphomaniacal, she was also as shrewd as any trading woman from the bazaars. She had kept her voluptuous looks and she was confident that for some years yet she would not have to do more than lift a finger to have men come to her bed; she had only contempt for any will-power that men professed to have below the navel. But she would never be subject to any of them for, with her, love was a hunger of the body and not the heart.
‘Don’t be sharp with me, Major Farnol. I don’t keep track of minor government officials.’
‘Your Highness –’ He hadn’t called her that in private since their first meeting. ‘You know Major Savanna is more than a minor government official.’
‘Oh? What is he then?’ Through the windows of the large morning-room in which they stood he could see a hawk planing on the breeze, ready to pounce: it struck him that her voice was suddenly like the hawk’s flight, lazy but alert.
‘You know he is like me, a political agent, a senior one.’ He didn’t mention the Secret Service, though that was not its official name; nothing was secret if it was talked about. ‘You were heard last night to tell him that if he wasn’t gone by this morning, he would have you to answer to. How is it that a British officer, who isn’t seconded to your service, has to answer to you?’
The hawk had dropped out of sight, fallen on some invisible prey. A monkey clambered up and sat on the window-sill and the Ranee walked towards it and snapped at it. It looked at her with its decadent child’s eyes, clicked its teeth at her, then disappeared below the sill. The Ranee leaned out of the window, as if she were actually interested in where the monkey had gone. At last she turned back into the room.
‘Whom do you have spying on me, Major? One of the servants up at the Lodge? I think His Excellency would be interested in that.’
‘You’re free to complain to him, Your Highness.’ They were now exhibiting the cold formality of ex-lovers, which has the same chill as that of diplomats about to declare war on each other.
‘I’m afraid your spy, whoever it was – Was it that beautiful Miss O’Brady? But you’d never met her, had you? And the Americans, I’m told, are such poor spies anyway. They think everything should be open and above-board. So naïve.’
‘Why not take an example from them?’
‘Ah, Major –’ She softened for a moment, but he was not yet Darling Clive again. ‘What secrets have I ever kept from you? No, your spy has a ringing in his ears, I’m afraid. All I said to Major Savanna was that I’d see him on the train this afternoon. I was just being polite. I’d rather not spend the journey with him down to Kalka and Delhi. He’s a frightful bore. I wonder what Mrs Savanna sees in him?’
‘There is no Mrs Savanna, as far as I know.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ The Ranee had only contempt for wives. She had been fortunate enough to inherit her domain, her fortune and her position direct from her father and she had never had to pay homage to any man but him. Marriage was a state of disgrace into which no woman should ever allow herself to fall.
‘Then you can’t tell me where he is?’ He did not call her a liar, as he might have a village woman he’d been interrogating. After all she was, in theory if not in practice, a sovereign ruler, even if she was at present out of her territory.
‘No, Major, not at all.’ She gazed at him blandly, her dark eyes as unrevealing as the monkey’s had been. ‘Let’s hope he is on the train when we leave at one o’clock.’
‘Let’s hope so, Mala. Otherwise I may have to come back to you.’
‘Do that, Clive. Do you still snore when you lie on your back?’
He left her on that less formal note and went out to where Karim waited for him with the horses. All up and down the road he could see gharrys and tongas being loaded with trunks and suitcases; the Durbar Train this afternoon looked as if it would be packed. Residents who had not been down to Delhi in years were making the journey; many had never been there, being only acquainted with Calcutta or Bombay or some army cantonment. But they’d have gone to Timbuctoo if His Majesty, God bless him and the Queen, had invited them. Their invitations to the receptions and levees were more carefully packed than their frocks and suits and dress uniforms.
Farnol and Karim walked their horses down to the road that ran through the bazaar. Storekeepers offered them everything from food to elixirs; the smell of curry and fried cakes thickened the thin mountain air; voices, the bleat of a goat, the piping of a musician, the chorus of a bazaar, impressed themselves on the ear. Two men, shoulder to shoulder, a four-legged beast with a two-humped back, came down the narrow street and the crowd fell back; the men carried a tree-trunk twenty feet long and two feet thick; Farnol and Karim dragged their horses into a side alley and the men went past, faces set like stone, trance-like under their massive burden. A small band of Tibetans sauntered down the road, long hair falling down to their shoulders, sheepskin jackets hanging to their knees; dirt cracked on their faces as they smiled and waved their long wooden pipes at the storekeepers, who forgave them their ragged and filthy appearance because they knew these Tibetans were truthful and honest and not thieves like some of their own kind. Two government messengers in scarlet and gold strutted down the middle of the road, self-important as bantam cocks; monkeys sat on roof-tops and mocked them. Farnol and Karim moved through the press of the crowd and as ever Farnol felt the pleasure he always did when he was in a bazaar. If you were to understand India, this was where you had to come.
Then up ahead, surrounded by beggars and storekeepers, he caught a glimpse of Miss O’Brady.
Karim shouted to the crowd to let the sahib through and began whacking about him with his lathi. The horses shied and Farnol had his attention distracted from Bridie as he tried to quieten his horse. When he looked back towards her he did not immediately see her; instead he saw the two men pushing through the crowd on the far side, one of them faintly familiar. Then he recognized the blue scarf and the sheepskin jerkin the man wore; he let go his horse and fought his way through the crowd, shouting to Bridie. His voice carried: Bridie suddenly popped up, as if she had been squatting down to look at something. And behind her the two men suddenly halted, looked across the heads of the crowd at Farnol. For just a moment he saw the dark eyes above the mask of the blue scarf on the taller of the two men; it was the man who had tried to kill him last night. Then abruptly the two men turned and bolted.
Farnol tried to thrust his way through the thick press of bodies, but one had to be as slippery as a bazaar thief to move quickly through a bazaar crowd. By the time he got as far as Bridie the men had disappeared from the far edge of the crowd, were gone down one of the steep alleys of steps to a lower level.
‘You shouldn’t have come down here!’ His voice was more curt than he intended, but he was concerned at how close she had come to being either murdered or kidnapped.
‘What’s the matter? I came down here to buy some last-minute things –’
He took her by the arm, more roughly than was necessary, pulled her behind him through the crowd as Karim, now dragging both horses, followed him. The crowd, sensing tension between the sahib and the memsahib, always glad of a free show, moved up the narrow road with them. He had always been at home with a bazaar crowd; all at once now he hated them and struck out with his free arm. The crowd fell back without resentment, or at least any show of it; they silently mocked the Europeans who always wanted space around them, as if they were some sort of holy men. When Farnol finally dragged Bridie into the clear he was more angry with himself than with the mob that had impeded him. He had once thought of himself as a champion of these people.
‘For Heaven’s sake – !’ Bridie, too, was angry with him. She straightened her hat and jerked down her sleeves. ‘What’s wrong with a little shopping? I was down here yesterday –’
‘Yesterday was yesterday,’ he said, sounding even in his own ears obvious and pedantic, as if he were talking to a child. ‘The man who tried to kill me last night was in that crowd. He was either going to harm you or kidnap you.’
The crowd now stood at a respectful distance, but still close enough to have their ears cocked. Voices were hissing for everyone to be quiet so that nothing would be missed of what the sahib and the memsahib said to each other. Farnol realized he had said too much and, once again angry at them, he turned on them and told them to clear off. Karim added his larger shout to that of his boss and the crowd reluctantly retreated.
Farnol and Bridie climbed the hill, with Karim bringing up the rear with the two horses. Bridie had regained her composure, though she was worried now rather than annoyed. ‘You really think he’d have kidnapped me? Or – ?’ She couldn’t bring herself to go on. She was not new to violence, she had reported on two murders and a strike battle; but she had always been at least one remove from it, a reporter and not a victim. She shied away from the thought of herself as a possible victim. ‘Why me?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps they wanted to trap me into coming after you.’
‘Would you?’ It was not coquetry: she suddenly felt alone and didn’t want to be. She looked back down the steep hill to the bazaar; backs were turned, the crowd was no longer interested in them, a living had to be made. But she saw the press of people, the river of bobbing heads between the banks of the ramshackle stores, and she saw the India in which one could so easily be lost.
‘Of course.’ He looked at her with sudden sympathy; and something more. ‘I say, I’m awfully sorry I was so rough with you. I tend to act a little quicker than I think.’
‘Trust to your reflexes.’ She managed a smile. ‘But I’ll know what to expect in future.’
‘How’s your head this morning?’
‘Just a small ache, not much. Have you been to see the Ranee? I asked for you at breakfast –’
They were walking along the road that led to the Lodge, under the overhang of the tall deodars. Far below he could see the train at the terminus, already being loaded for the afternoon’s journey down to Kalka. He counted eight carriages and twelve wagons; he couldn’t remember ever seeing such a long train and he wondered how it would handle the very narrow gauge track; it could be a long slow trip. Especially with the elephants, standing in the station yard, that would be later loaded on to the wagons. He guessed they would not be experienced train travellers and if the train got up too much speed, swaying on the numerous bends, they might go berserk.
‘The Ranee said she knew nothing about Major Savanna and that nobody could have heard her say that he was answerable to her.’
‘She’s a liar.’
He was not accustomed to women being so direct, not even the Ranee. ‘That’s what I think.’
‘Does she know it was me who overheard her?’
‘No, she thinks it was one of the servants. We’ll meet her again on the trip down, so watch you don’t give too much away.’
She paused and looked directly at him. ‘We’re in this together now, aren’t we?’
He hesitated, then with a mixture of apprehension and yet pleasure he said, ‘I’m afraid so, at least till we get to Delhi.’
Behind them Karim, ears as finely tuned as those of the bazaar crowd, twisted his mouth as if he had suddenly sucked on something sour. A woman’s place was not with men, they were nothing but trouble outside the bedroom or the kitchen. Was not the black deity of death a woman, Kali? He wondered if some poison had got into the sahib that he should show such weakness. He knew the sahib liked women and spent a lot of time in their bedrooms. But he looked and sounded different in his way with this American woman.
They came to the gates at the bottom of the Lodge drive. Half a dozen soldiers stood outside the guard-house, amongst them Captain Weyman, who looked distracted and angry.
‘What’s happening, you ask?’ he snapped at Farnol. ‘Everything, it seems. You tell me Major Savanna has disappeared. Now I’ve lost one of my men, just packed his kit and up and left.’
Farnol ran his eye over the soldiers, guessed who had deserted even before he asked, ‘Who’s gone?’
‘Chap named Ahearn, one of the detachment from the Connaughts. All the same, these damned Irishmen. Sorry, miss.’ He looked at Bridie twice, as if not appreciating her looks the first time.
In the background Farnol saw the soldiers, all Irishmen, look at each other as if they knew no apology would be handed to them.
‘There’s something else,’ said Weyman, peeved at the world, Irish or otherwise. ‘The telephone line and the telegraph wire down to Kalka have been cut.’
‘Cut? You mean someone actually cut the lines?’
‘Well, I don’t know if it’s actually that. Most likely a landslip somewhere has pushed some of the poles down a hill. I’ve sent a party down the lines to check. It’s a damned nuisance, though. Sorry, miss. But a day like this is enough to make any gentleman forget his manners.’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’ But Bridie could see that Farnol was troubled by more than Captain Weyman’s lapse of manners.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_09e408e9-f6a5-53b5-9eb9-b7bafaf79ab6)
1
Extract from the memoirs of Miss Bridie O’Brady:
I had never seen such a train. I had travelled on campaign trains in the United States and they have a bizarre enough air to them, like a travelling fair, with political promises being sold like snake-oil and rhetoric streaming out from the rear platform thicker than the smoke from the locomotive up ahead. The Durbar Train made any campaign caravan look like a commuters’ drab streetcar. The carriages were festooned with ribbons and flags; that made them only imitations of American campaign cars. But no Presidential candidate had ever been trailed by wagon-loads of elephants, not even the Republicans in their wildest extravaganzas. There were twelve elephants, two to each of six wagons; there were two dozen horses, four to each of six wagons. And there were three flat-cars, two of them piled high with howdahs like wrecked fancy coracles, rolls of striped tents like rock candy, and a great sheaf of flags and pennants, the silver tips of their poles and lances glimmering in the afternoon sun. The third flat-car carried the Ranee of Serog’s state coach.
The British passengers on the train were sensibly dressed for the long dusty journey; there would be plenty of time down in Delhi for them to bring out their finery. But excitement and anticipation made their faces bright and I’d never heard such a chattering amongst a group of English; they sounded like the Italians I had heard down on Mulberry Street in New York, except for the vowel sounds. Their children, usually so well-behaved (whatever happened to well-behaved children? They now appear to be an extinct species), raced up and down without restraint. I wondered what the King, who was reputed to be a notoriously strict parent, would think of this wilfulness that his coronation had brought on. If Major Farnol thought there was still too much Victorian stuffiness prevailing, the Simla residents seemed determined to leave it behind them in the hills, at least for this journey.
The Ranee of Serog and the Nawab of Kalanpur, with their entourages, had arrived at the same moment, coming down opposite roads to meet at the junction just above the station in a traffic jam of rickshaws, tongas and doolies, those swaying contraptions carried by two or four bearers in which the passenger swung and bounced as on bumpy currents of air. Doolie passengers knew turbulence long before jet planes were invented. There were shouts and screams of argument between the drivers and bearers, then some British soldiers, who would be travelling on the train as an escort, rushed up and sorted out the jam, prodding beasts and humans alike with their bayonets. The colourful procession flowed like a slow rainbow-shot waterfall down the final incline to the station.
The Nawab, dressed for travelling but still looking like a peacock beside the sober English turkeys, came up to me, all charm and a mile-wide smile. ‘Where do you travel, Miss O’Brady, in which carriage?’
‘I don’t know. Wherever I can manage a seat, I suppose.’
‘Miss O’Brady! Don’t you know the precedence here in India? I am at the top, of course, being a prince. But the English have so many classes. Where will you fit in amongst them, a stranger and an American? Will you be with the pukka Brahmins of the ICS, the Indian Civil Service? Don’t you know Simla is known as the Heaven of the Little Tin Gods? Or will you be lower down the scale, with someone from the army perhaps? Or even further down, down there amongst the bally commercials, the bank managers and other low life? Travel with me in my carriage, Miss O’Brady. You need not sit with my wives but can keep me company. We’ll be jolly good company for each other.’
‘Your wives? Plural? You look like a bachelor if ever I saw one, Your Highness.’
He waved at his zenana of half a dozen wives. ‘What better way of being a bachelor than having more wives than one? I have more freedom than any bachelor who keeps a mistress. One woman is one too many, half a dozen is not enough. I should like several dozen, but the blighters cost money.’
He was laughable, a joke really; but something about him told me it would be dangerous to laugh at him. Perhaps he really did want to be English, but I found it hard to believe; he enjoyed being a prince too, even if only an Indian one. He would believe in precedence as much as any of the English he had just been maligning. Don’t we all? Hollywood didn’t invent the star system, it just followed historical custom.
Then there was a commotion some distance away and Lady Westbrook came sweeping down on to the platform. She was followed by a single servant toting a trunk and a suitcase, but she gave the impression that she was trailed by a whole retinue of bearers. She also gave the impression that she had decided to wear everything she hadn’t been able to pack into the trunk and suitcase. She was wearing two large-brimmed hats, one felt and the other straw, a tweed suit over which she had pulled on a long cardigan and an Inverness cape; over one arm she carried two more cardigans and round her neck was thrown a thick cashmere scarf. Nothing she wore matched anything else; she was a dazzling clash of colours. Everything about her suggested she had just come from a better sort of English bazaar. But she was a true eccentric, as distinct from today’s exhibitionists who try to pass as eccentric, and one knew she really had no idea how she looked nor did she care.
‘I am not sitting in there!’ she trumpeted at the station-master as he tried to usher her into the carriage immediately behind the engine. ‘You know blasted well where I’m entitled to sit! Give me my proper accommodation!’
The station-master, a mixed blood, a chee-chee as the English called them, was harassed and out of his depth. He tried to squeeze his painfully thin face in behind his toothbrush moustache. ‘Memsahib, all the other carriages are full –’
‘Then some people have seats to which they’re not entitled! Look at all those children! They should have been left at home with the cats and dogs – Ah, Bertie!’ She had sighted the Nawab, came barging along the platform like a runaway junk stall. ‘Do you have a spare seat in your carriage? Of course you must with all those wives. They can sit on each other’s laps. In there!’ She waved a hand to her servant and he struggled into the Nawab’s carriage with her trunk and suitcase. ‘Is Miss O’Brady travelling with us, Bertie?’
To my surprise the Nawab did not seem annoyed at Lady Westbrook’s intrusion. Instead he laughed and shook his head at me. ‘Ah, do you not love the English? They walk all over us and expect us to love them.’
‘Wrong, Bertie,’ said Lady Westbrook, taking out a cheroot and fitting it into her ivory holder. ‘We never look for love, that’s not an English need. What about you Americans, m’dear – do you look for love?’
‘All the time.’
