by Ruskin Bond
"Belladonna?" I suggested.
"That's right, huzoor. Introduced in the whisky-soda, they put him to sleep for ever."
"She was quite humane in her way."
"Oh, very humane, sir. She hated to see anyone suffer. One sahib, I don't know his name, drowned in the tank behind the house, where the water-lilies grew. But she made sure he was half-dead before he fell in. She had large, powerful hands, they said."
"Why did she bother to marry them? Couldn't she just have had men friends?"
"Not in those days, dear sir. Respectable society would not have tolerated it. Neither in India nor in the West would it have been permitted."
"She was born out of her time," I remarked.
"True, sir. And remember, most of them were fortune-hunters. So, we need not waste too much pity on them."
"She did not waste any."
"She was without pity. Especially when she found out what they were really after. The snakes had a better chance of survival."
"How did the other husbands take their leave of this world?"
"Well, the Colonel-sahib shot himself while cleaning his rifle. Purely an accident, huzoor. Although some say she had loaded his gun without his knowledge. Such was her reputation by now that she was suspected even when innocent. But she bought her way out of trouble. It was easy enough, if you were wealthy."
"And, the fourth husband?"
"Oh, he died a natural death. There was a cholera epidemic that year, and he was carried off by the haija. Although, again, there were some who said that a good dose of arsenic produced the same symptoms! Anyway, it was cholera on the death certificate. And, the doctor who signed it was the next to marry her."
"Being a doctor, he was probably quite careful about what he ate and drank.
"He lasted about a year."
"What happened?"
"He was bitten by a cobra."
"Well, that was just bad luck, wasn't it? You could hardly blame it on Susanna."
"No, huzoor, but the cobra was in his bedroom. It was coiled around the bed-post. And, when he undressed for the night, it struck! He was dead when Susanna came into the room an hour later. She had a way with snakes. She did not harm them and they never attacked her."
"And, there were no antidotes in those days. Exit the doctor. Who was the sixth husband?"
"A handsome man. An indigo planter. He had gone bankrupt when the indigo trade came to an end. He was hoping to recover his fortune with the good lady's help. But our Susanna-mem, she did not believe in sharing her fortune with anyone."
"How did she remove the indigo planter?"
"It was said that she lavished strong drink upon him, and when he lay helpless, she assisted him on the road we all have to take by pouring molten lead in his ears."
"A painless death, I'm told."
"But a terrible price to pay huzoor, simply because one is no longer needed…."
We walked along the dusty highway, enjoying the evening breeze, and some time later we entered the Roshanara Gardens, in those days Delhi's most popular and fashionable meeting place.
"You have told me how six of her husbands died, Naushad. I thought there were seven?"
"Ah, a gallant young magistrate, who perished right here, huzoor. They were driving through the park after dark when the lady's carriage was attacked by brigands. In defending her, the gallant young man received a fatal sword wound."
"Not the lady's fault, Naushad."
"No, my friend. But he was a magistrate, remember, and the assailants, one of whose relatives had been convicted by him, were out for revenge. Oddly enough, though, two of the men were given employment by the lady Susanna at a later date. You may draw your own conclusions."
"And, were there others?"
"Not husbands. But an adventurer, a soldier of fortune came along. He found her treasure, they say. He lies buried with it, in the cellars of the ruined house. His bones lie scattered there, among gold and silver and precious jewels. The cobras guard them still! But how he perished was a mystery, and remains so till this day."
"What happened to Susanna?"
"She lived to a good old age, as you know. If she paid for her crimes, it wasn't in this life! As you know, she had no children. But she started an orphanage and gave generously to the poor and to various schools and institutions, including a home for widows. She died peacefully in her sleep."
"A merry widow,' I remarked. "The Black Widow spider!"
Don't go looking for Susanna's tomb. It vanished some years ago, along with the ruins of her mansion. A smart new housing estate came up on the site, but not after several workmen and a contractor succumbed to snake bite! Occasionally, residents complain of a malignant ghost in their midst, who is given to flagging down cars, especially those driven by single men. There have been one or two mysterious disappearances. Ask anyone living along this stretch of the Delhi Ridge, and they'll tell you that's it's true.
And, after dusk, an old-fashioned horse and carriage can sometimes be seen driving through the Roshanara Gardens. Ignore it, my friend. Don't stop to answer any questions from the beautiful fair lady who smiles at you from behind lace curtains. She's still looking for her a suitable husband.
When Glister Walked
By Oscar Cook
Dennis, district officer of the Labuk district in British North Borneo, had been spending a few days' "local leave" on Tingling Estate, for, Walkely, the manger, and he were great friends. The night before his departure the two men had sat together in the latter's mosquito-room, fitted up like a "den", and with pipes well lit had roamed in desultory manner over many fields of conversation.
For the last ten minutes or so there had been silence between them—the silence of friends in complete accord. Dennis broke it.
"Throw me a match, Walley," he said.
Walkely moved as though to comply, then stopped as his "boy" entered, carrying a tray containing whisky and soda, which he placed on a table near his master. He was about to depart when Walkely spoke.
"The Tuan is leaving to-morrow before breakfast, Amat. Tell Cookie to make some sandwiches and see the thermos flask is filled with hot tea."
"Tuan."
"And, hand these to the Tuan." Walkely pointed to the matches.
Amat obeyed and went out.
Walkely rose from his long chair, mixed the drinks and held out a glass to Dennis.
"To our next meeting," he said, and raised his glass. Dennis followed suit.
Then, yawning, Dennis rose, and stretching his arms well above his head, looked sleepily in the direction of his bedroom.
Walkely nodded assent and held open the mosquito-door.
A few minutes later the house was in darkness, save for the lights that shone through the open windows of the two bedrooms.
The rooms were on either side of a large dining-room, which in turn opened out from the main verandah, off one side of which was built the mosquito-room. At the far end of the dining-room were two folding doors that led to a passage and pantry, and thence down some steps to the kitchen and "boys'" quarters at the rear of the house.
As Dennis undressed he sleepily hummed the latest foxtrot record received from England. Then, dimming the light, he got into bed.
From where he lay he could hear Walkely moving about his room, and could see the reflection his light cast on the exposed attap roof of the house. As he idly watched, speculating dreamily on Walley's success as a manager, Walkely's lamp in turn was lowered. Followed the creaking noise of a body turning on a spring mattress—then silence.
Dennis rolled from his left to right side preparatory to sleep.
"Nighty-night, Old Thing," he grunted.
"Night," came back the sleepy reply.
Then, all was quiet save for the gentle rustling of the rubber trees and the occasional hoot of an owl.
Presently, Dennis awoke to full alertness. He was not strung up; no sound nor fear nor nightmare had aroused him. He was simply and quietly awake. Turning on his side
he looked at his watch. The hands pointed to 2 a.m. He closed his eyes, but sleep would not be wooed.
For a long time Dennis lay in the nearly darkened room, watching the waving branch of a rubber tree outside the window, that moved gently to the sighing of the breeze.
Suddenly, he heard the sound of feet ascending the steps that led from garden to verandah doors.
But half-awake, he listened.
Slowly, the footsteps mounted the stairs; then came the lifting of the latch that fastened the low wooden gates, and the creaking of moving hinges. The footsteps entered, continued the full length of the verandah, to pass into the dining-room beyond. Here, for a moment they halted. Then they moved again, shuffling uncertainly—forward, backward, sideways—as those of a person trying to locate something in the dark.
Again, they moved with steady tread and reached the intervening doors that shut off the passage.
Dennis listened and waited. What the devil is old Walley doing? he sleepily wondered.
A sudden rush of cool air struck on him over the top of the bedroom wall, billowing out his mosquito net.
Creak—creak—creak—the doors were opening. The footsteps went along the passage and came to a standstill at the end.
"Boy!"
The call was clear and decisive, but Dennis failed to quite recognise the voice, though he realised it was a European's.
There came no answer.
"Boy!"
This time the call was sharper, and impatience was in its tone. Still, no reply.
In the silence Dennis, wondering greatly, waited, for he was still uncertain whether the voice was Walkely's or another's.
The footsteps sounded again as they descended the stairs that led to the servants' quarters. On the bottom step they halted.
"Boy!"
The call was long, loud, and angry. Yet still, no answer came.
Up the stairs the footsteps returned. They strode along the passage, paused as the doors were closed and the latch clicked, then swiftly moved through the dining-room out on to the wide verandah. Here, for a moment they rested.
Sounded the fumbling for a latch, the squeak of a faulty hinge, and from the sharp banging of a door Dennis knew the footsteps had entered the mosquito-room.
He sprang out of bed, and, sitting on its edge, hurriedly pushed his feet into slippers. Then, as he was about to move, the lamp in the room went out.
"Damn!" he muttered, and fumbled for his matches, but before he found them he was listening to the opening and shutting of drawers.
He struck a match, and by its light crossed to the lamp, the wick of which, however, refused to burn, though he wasted many matches upon it.
In the gathering darkness, for the moon was setting, he moved toward the door, but, with his hand upon the knob, stood still, for the footsteps were shuffling again and the sharp banging to of the mosquito-door made him jump.
Through the verandah the footsteps went, gaining sureness with every stride. The gates creaked and the latch fell to. Down the stairs the footsteps clumped, the sound growing fainter till it became lost in the night.
Three deep-toned notes from the officer gong boomed on the air. Dennis shivered, kicked off his slippers and returned to bed. The air was cold, so he drew his blanket well around him.
"Old Walley's walking in his sleep or else indulging in a midnight prowl," he muttered. Half a minute later, he was sound asleep.
As Dennis's eyes opened to the beauties of a tropic dawn, the clink of silver spoons against china reached his ears and the scent of a cigarette crept into the room. He plunged his head into a basin of cold water, brushed his hair, and still in his sarong and kabaiab, went out on to the verandah, where Walkely paused in the act of conveying a cup to his mouth.
" 'Morning, Dennis," he grunted, and continued drinking his tea.
He was never very talkative the first thing in the morning.
Dennis answered and busied himself with the teapot. Then, under cover of meticulously choosing a piece of toast, he studied Walkely, who showed no signs of having spent a sleepless night.
Suddenly, Walkely looked up and caught Dennis's eye upon him.
"Well," he asked, "What is it?"
"Nothing," Dennis curtly replied.
"Then, why look at me like that?"
"Sorry, Old Thing," Dennis stammered. "I was only wondering——"
"Yes?"
"What the devil were you up to last night—walking all over the house and shouting for your boy?"
"Then you heard it, too?" Walkely asked the question with relief.
"It! What's it?" Dennis retorted. "Didn't I hear you come up the verandah steps, open the gates and walk to the back? You called 'Boy' three times, but got no answer. Then, you walked back through the house and down the steps. What was wrong, Walley?"
Walkely looked Dennis full in the eyes as he slowly answered:
"Nothing! Nothing was wrong, and I never moved from my room till this morning."
"But—then who the——?"
"I never moved," Walkely repeated. "What you heard was Glister."
"Glister! What on earth do you mean? Who's Glister?"
"You know. The chap who was manager here before Bellamy. He shot himself. Died in your room—on your bed. He's buried in the garden at the foot of the hill below your window. Great pity, but—drink and a native woman—nice chap, too."
Walkely ceased as the light of recollection shone on Dennis's face.
"Yes, I remember," he spoke almost to himself. "I met him once at a Jesselton Race Meeting. A tall, good-looking fellow?"
Walkely nodded, and Dennis continued:
"He was awfully keen on a beautiful native woman—a Dusun named Jebee."
"Yes. She was lured away from Glister by another man. It was a dirty thing to do."
"The swine! I only hope——"
"You needn't worry," Walkely interrupted. "He rues the day all right, I'll bet, for she's got him body and soul—doped to the eyes—and her temper is that of a fiend incarnate. She is priestess, too, of the Gusi, and he daren't call his soul his own."
"So, poor old Glister's loss was really his gain, if only he'd known!" Dennis's words were gently spoken.
"Yes. But he felt her absence, and in the loneliness that followed, the drink got him again."
For nearly a minute there was silence between the two. It was as if their memories had recalled Glister's spirit to his old home, almost as if he were sitting at the table with them, while the tinkling of Jebee's anklets sounded from an adjoining room. …
Dennis broke the silence.
"And, you mean that—that was he, last night?" he asked.
"Yes." The word seemed drawn reluctantly from Walkely's lips.
"But, good lord, man!—you don't mean?—you can't—it's preposterous."
"I know." Walkely spoke slowly. "It sounds absurd, doesn't it? But Old Bellamy went through it, saw him and spoke to him, and once even shot at him."
"Bellamy! Bellamy shot him?"
"Yes. And, there isn't much mysticism about him—he's as much imagination as a turnip."
"But——"
"All the 'buts' in the world won't alter matters. Bellamy's seen him. I've seen him, and you've heard him. He's there—and it happens, and it's always the same—only——"
"What?" The word was wrung from Dennis.
"He's never entered the mosquito-room before."
"You think——"
"I don't know! How can I? I'm only wondering why he went there—what he was searching for."
"Drink, perhaps?"
Walkely shook his head.
"No," he said. "The room wasn't built in his days. No; there's something worrying him, something that's caused this variation of his usual walk."
His eyes met Dennis's and he gave a short, half-ashamed laugh. Then:
"Get on with your tea. When you've finished we'll go and look at his grave. I always inspect it twice a month and put a coolie on cleaning it up and l
ooking after the flowers. We'll have a look to-day."
As Dennis dressed with unusual slowness his mind was full of the tragedy so strangely recalled. "Poor old Glister!" he muttered. "What an end!"
An impatient call roused Dennis from his reverie and he hastened to the verandah, to find Walkely already on the garden steps conversing with Gaga, the head mandor of many years' standing.
The three at once set off. Down well-laid cement steps, along a broad path that wound among a profusion of bright-coloured flowers they went. Overhead a flaming sun rode in an azure sky, and a faint breeze fanned their faces with its cooling breath, perfumed with the scent of dew and the fragrant, elusive blossoms of the rubber trees.
At the foot of the hill they turned and went in single file along a narrow path that followed the winding contour of the hill.
The three walked in silence, for speech was difficult along that narrow track. Suddenly the path, dipping down, turned sharply, and Walkely, who was leading, became for an instant lost to view. Dennis, humming a Dusun love song, followed close behind, but as he reached the turn the tune died abruptly on his lips and he stood stone-still.
"Good lord! What can it mean?"
The words were gasped by Walkely, who stood transfixed, staring with horror-struck eyes straight before him.
Instinctively, Walkely turned to Dennis, who, like himself, stood with gaze fixed and staring eyes.
"What can it mean?" he gasped a second time.
For, they had reached the grave, and it was open. Heaped under the railings surrounding it, which were intact, were piles of fresh-dug earth, and all round lay the scattered flowers, withered and trampled into twisted shapes.
The eyes of Dennis and Walkely met. In each there lurked a question that neither dared to ask. Each heard again the shuffling footsteps of the previous night, and the opening and shutting of the drawers in the mosquito-room.
A shadow fell across them as they stood. There came a startled cry, the quick pattering of bare feet, and Gaga flung himself upon his knees, burying his hands in the earth.