by Ruskin Bond
"Oh! do, Mr. Travers" echoed Miss Smith.
The 'munjia' noticed a thrusting dagger on the wall just inside the outer door. Travers had secured it when trying some dacoits. The 'munjia' took it off the wall, felt its point and walked into the drawing room. He bent over Mrs. Travers, as if to kiss her, but she recoiled in horror at the expression of his eyes.
"Good gracious, Colin, what is the matter with you? You look different! You have become somebody else!"
The false Colin did not answer, but deliberately drove his; thrusting dagger into her heart. The unfortunate missionary rose to flee, but the 'munjia' overtook her and killed her with a thrust in the back. He then threw the dagger on the ground, walked to the office of the superintendent of police, Alfred Dawkins and said calmly: "I have: come to give myself up for a double murder, please arrest me."
The superintendent had for several hours been trying to pen a report about: the criminal tribes in his district. He had a store of sound practical knowledge of their ways and customs and he could have told at a glance to what section any wandering beggar belonged; but his penmanship was not equal to his experience. In his efforts to cover two sheets of foolscap with material that a skilled writer could have expanded into a thick book, the unhappy superintendent: had chewed his wooden penholder almost down to the metal. He was too preoccupied to grasp what Travers had said: but delighted to escape for a moment from the intolerable drudgery of writing sonorous official phrases, he rose to his feet and said cordially: "By Jove, Travers, do come in; sit down and have a whisky and soda! Here, boy, bring in two chota pegs. I suppose you have come to speak to me about the police enquiry in that coining case? Or let me see—would it be about the murder of little Krishnabai by that up-country watchman?"
"No indeed, I have not come about either of those cases, Superintendent Sahib," said Travers, using unconsciously the Indian form of address, " I have just committed a double murder and I have come to give myself up."
"Committed a double murder? What the devil are you talking about? If you have come to pull my leg, old chap, I really have no time now and you'd better try your luck some other day; but don't go away until you've had your chota peg. It's no fun drinking alone, is it? Ha! Ha!" and the jolly policeman laughed heartily.
"No, Superintendent Sahib, I am not joking," replied Travers earnestly. "I really have committed a double murder and please come and see for yourself."
After a quarter of an hour Dawkins, clad in white uniform and followed by four constables, joined Travers.
"Now come along and show me this mare's nest of yours."
Travers did not reply and the two walked together in silence during the ten minutes needed to go from the superintendent's house to that of the assistant judge. On reaching it, they were met by a mob of excited servants, who shouted: "The Sahib has killed his Memsahib and the doctor Memsahib! The Sahib has killed his Memsahib and the doctor Memsahib!"
The superintendent began at last to think that there was something in Travers' story and entering the assistant judge's bungalow became certain of its truth.
Turning to one of the constables, Dawkins told him to fetch the deputy superintendent of police, Khan Sahib Mahmud Khan, and instruct him to hold an inquest. With two constables behind them he and Travers walked to the Khan Bahadur's house. The latter, a retired Parsi Deputy Collector, nearly fell over backwards when he was asked to record Travers' confession.
"The fact was," stated Travers, " I was both tired of my wife and jealous of her. I wanted to get rid of her; I also wished to punish her for the way she flirted with....with (the 'munjia' did not know the names of any of the regimental officers, so he finished lamely) with certain military gentlemen. Coming home I saw her sitting in the drawing room, so I decided to kill her. I took a dacoit's dagger from off the wall and going up to her, I stabbed her. Then that foolish woman, Miss Smith began to talk, you know how these medical missionaries jabber—so I killed her too."
The confession was carefully recorded. Travers was placed in the lockup for the night; and next morning he was taken before the first class assistant collector, to whom the superintendent had telegraphed. He recorded the Crown evidence as briefly as possible; and when Travers pleaded guilty to the two charges of murder and admitted the correctness of his confession, the magistrate committed the accused to take his trial in the High Court of Bombay.
On the morning of Travers' trial there was great excitement in the Presidency town. The sessions hall of the High Court of Judicature was packed to overflowing; indeed hundreds of would-be spectators were turned away. Travers' trial was the first on the list of criminal trials. The judge to whom the sessions had been allotted sat in state in his red robes under the sword of justice. On either side sat the Sheriff and the Chief Presidency Magistrate. As Travers was English, the jury of nine selected to find on his guilt or innocence were also English. He had refused to engage a barrister, so one of the European members of the Bar, who knew him personally, undertook voluntarily his defence. It was impossible for his counsel to do much, because Travers from the beginning insisted on pleading guilty; the medical evidence, too, confirmed the accused's protest that he was absolutely sane. The barrister for the defence could only rely on the passage in Travers' confession that he was jealous and attempted to reduce, the charge from one of murder to one of culpable homicide; but as the Advocate-General pointed out, Travers' jealousy of his wife was no excuse for the assassination of Miss Smith. The judge summed up shortly and the jury after an absence of barely ten minutes brought in a verdict that Travers was guilty of murder, but added to their verdict a strong recommendation for mercy. Why they did so, they would probably have found it hard to explain. Their real reason, no doubt, was that in their belief no sane man could have behaved like Travers. If Travers was sane, then all the facts had not been put before the court.
The judge was glad of an excuse not to pass sentence of death on a man whom he knew personally and whom he had until recently always esteemed; so much to Travers' obvious disgust, he passed a sentence of penal servitude for life. The accused was led away and the judge called the next case.
Travers was sent to jail and from the first was an object of special interest to the superintendent, Captain Jameson of the Indian Medical Service. Jameson had never met Travers before, but he felt that there must be some terrible secret underlying his conduct. The prison staff took their cue from the superintendent, Travers responded to kindness and the jail officials all thought he was the nicest as well as the most intelligent prisoner, whom they had ever had at Euroda. It was however, only the lull before the storm. The 'munjia' had not the slightest intention of remaining imprisoned in Travers' body a moment longer than he could help. If two murders did not suffice to procure a death sentence, then he would commit three. The third would certainly bring him release, for murder by a life convict can, under the Indian Penal Code, only be punished by death. One day Travers asked if he might have a pair of Indian clubs for morning exercise, as, so he said, his health was suffering from lack of it. He had always been accustomed to swing them for half an hour every morning. Jameson was delighted to grant this trifling indulgence and as he had a spare pair in his bungalow, he brought them over the same evening and gave them to Travers.
Travers broke into profuse thanks, so as to disarm any possible fears on the superintendent's part. Picking up the clubs, he swung them once over his shoulder and then brought down with all his force the right hand club on the top of Jameson's head. The unfortunate officer fell with a broken skull; and a second blow, as he lay on the hard stone flagged courtyard shattered it to pieces.
"Now," thought the 'munjia' in triumph, "I am bound to be hanged."
No one, however, came forward to arrest him. The guards were all too bewildered to take any action. Then the joy of battle inherited from Travers' Norse ancestors acted physically on Mahadev's soul. "After all why await trial? Why not go on killing until death comes of itself?" With a club in each hand Travers fell
on the unfortunate Maratha guard, who scattered in every direction. Running after them at great speed, Travers overtook several and with mighty blows clubbed them to death. The Indian convicts locked into their cells were in an ecstasy of delight. They applauded each murderous blow with yells of:
"Shabash Sahib! Maro Sahib!" (Bravo Sahib! Hit them Sahib)!
After Travers had killed half a dozen sepoys, those on duty at the outer gate ran up the staircase into the central tower, whence they commanded all the open spaces of the great prison. From this vantage point, they took careful aim with their rifles and fired deliberately at Travers. It was not easy to kill him, because he was moving about and also because in his berserk rage, he did not seem to be affected by the bullet wounds. At last he collapsed suddenly from loss of blood. As he lay motionless the guards fired a volley at him. He gave a convulsive movement, tried to rise and fell back dead.
At last the 'munjia' had won the desired release. Mahadev's soul left Travers' body and took its place in the line of Hindu souls waiting for reincarnation.
All the Englishmen who had known Travers were deeply shocked at his crimes and death.
"Such a terrible end to a most promising career," they said. "Travers might have risen to anything. He must have been mad but it was a dreadful end."
Yes, they were quite right; it was a dreadful end, a terrible end. Yet what happened to Travers might have happened to anyone— to you or to me.
From Indian Christmas Stories (1936)
The Pool
by John Eyton
OME THREE HUNDRED YEARS AGO A LITTLE WHILE TEMPLE nestled in a fold of the hills, like a mushroom in a green dell. It stood on the bank of a dark pool; wooded hills towered over it to the west, and barren hills rolled away to the east. It was a very holy place; men believed that the foot of God had touched earth here and had made a valley. So from time immemorial it had been a place of pilgrimage. Men journeyed to the hills to see it, and the steps leading down to the pool were often thronged with travellers in white garments, women in saris of red and blue, sadhus in orange and in yellow.
The water was dark—born of a deep-laid spring, which was never dry, and whose overflow ran away in a little tinkling rill into the deep woods. It was believed that the pool was bottomless— for what could resist the foot of God?
Animals came to drink quite near the temple with out fear— dark, great-eyed Sambar stags—little barking deer of the colour of autumn leaves—mottled leopards. There were bright birds too about it—proud pheasants, and jays of vivid blue; big butterflies of dark green and blue, with swallow tails; and red dragon-flies haunted the reedy edges.
It was ever a place of great silence and of rest. A very holy man watched over the temple, sitting all day long, legs crossed, arms folded. He was said to be a hundred years old. His face was wizened and shrivelled and puckered in a thousand wrinkles. His head was shaven, and his forehead bore three upright lines of yellow paint. He wore but a single blanket of faded orange.
Such were the temple and the pool, and the priest of the pool.
There came an evil day for that peaceful place. A horde of wild Mohammedan fanatics from below swept over the hills and descended like a scourge on the pool. The little old priest ran up the path towards them, his arms outstretched, adjuring them to spare the ancient holy temple. A swarthy man of great stature lifted his sharp sword and swept off the head of the little priest; others plunged their swords into the frail body, and they threw the wreck of it into the pool. They burned the temple and destroyed the peace of the place..... Then the pestilence passed on.
Thereafter, green rushes covered the whole face of the water, save where the spring welled up in the middle. Men feared to approach the pool, where pale figures were seen at night, and where a despairing cry was sometimes heard. The peace returned; the place was left to the animals and the birds and the butterflies. But the memory of it never died.
Time passed, and the surrounding hills came into the hands of an Englishman, a retired Colonel named Brown. He was not an unkindly man, but he had a strong belief in the absolute superiority of his own race, and in the inviolability of property. He was tall, with white hair and moustache, and a face whose natural redness was enhanced by the white suits and hats which he wore. He made a pleasant estate in the hills; built a roomy bungalow; put up neat cottages; planted orchards, laid out paths everywhere; in fact, subdued the jungle with a system admirably English. Incidentally he cleaned up the pool, which lay just beyond his boundary. The villagers refused to do the work, but he imported labour, and cleared out the rushes and dredged up the mud. In the course of the work they found a number of blackened stones and rudely carved figures, which the Colonel gave to the Lucknow Museum. Evidently there had been some sort of a temple on the spot, which lent colour to the village talk. Then the spring was analysed and found to contain good water; so the supply was utilised, pipe-lines being laid on to the gardens. The villagers resented the whole proceeding, but they always did resent innovation. Colonel Brown was justly proud of his improvements.
Then the most annoying thing happened. The Colonel was walking round the estate one afternoon when he distinctly heard the mournful chant which accompanies funeral procession. It was the usual thing—a sentence endlessly repeated by two alternate groups, first in full tone, then faintly, like an echo. It came from the direction of the pool. When he had turned the corner he saw the awful truth—a little party of men walking swiftly down the path and bearing a stretcher on which lay a body swathed in white. Mourners trotted behind intoning their sad chant. They were actually going to burn a dead body near the spring-head! It was monstrous. They did it too; he saw the smoke curling up from the valley, and found logs of charred wood at the fringe of the pool the next morning.
That afternoon was the beginning of the Colonel's troubles. First he put a chowkidar on the place, and the chowkidar was beaten by day and saw bhuts by night and ran away. But the burning went on, in proportion to the mortality of the village. Then the Colonel summoned the head men, who talked nonsense about the place being holy from time immemorial. He dismissed them with a purple face and a few home truths. Next, he applied to the civil authorities, who declined to interfere, since the pool was not actually on the estate of Colonel Brown, and had certainly a reputed sanctity. Lastly, he wrote to the Pioneer—last resource of wounded pride—and complained of'the new spirit of pandering to the native, regardless of the position and rights of landlords,' and wondered what the Government was doing.
In spite of all, the burning continued. People refused to burn anywhere else. They believed that here was sanctity for their dead.
Then worse befell. One morning the Colonel observed through his field-glasses a little strip of red rag floating from a tree on the margin of the pool. This would not appear to be of importance; but the Colonel knew India. That red rag meant a priest, and a priest meant pilgrimage. Never was proud banner a surer challenge than was that little strip of red rag. The red rag affected the Colonel after the proverbial manner. He descended on the place, breathing unutterable things.
All he found was a solitary figure sitting under the tree which flaunted the red rag. It was a man of middle age, clad in a blanket of faded yellow; his head was clean-shaven, and his forehead bore three upright lines of yellow paint. He sat motionless, with set, staring eyes. The Colonel asked him his business... no answer; Then he made a sort of set speech on the rights of man... still no answer; then he began to shout, but the priest still ignored his presence. He failed to make any impression on that holy man. Angry as he felt, he knew better than to lay lands on a priest— so he marched off, speechless with rage. They would build a temple next, he knew, if they were given a chance. So he stalked home and wrote a perfect sheaf of letters and appeals on the subject.
That evening the Colonel began a nasty attack of malaria. It is possible that he had been bitten by a mosquito on the occasion of one of his numerous visits to the pool, which was still a swampy place, hot an
d stuffy. However this may be, the mosquito which bit the Colonel knew his business. He was in bed a fortnight. His wife barely managed to pull him through the attack which was unusually malignant. When he could get about again, his first walk was in the direction of the pool....
There, like a mushroom in a green dell, nestled a little new white temple.
With the reader's indulgence, the author begs leave to draw a picture dating some three hundred years hence....
Colonel Brown is long forgotten. The Englishman, and his Government, and his rights, and his laws have faded away as a ripple dies on water—as a wind stirs in the trees and is gone. But on the bank of the dark pool a little white temple still stands, and still the pilgrims come... for such is India.