by Ruskin Bond
‘How should I know?’ said the man. ‘She was nothing to me.’
I paced up and down the platform and stared over the railings at the station yard. All I saw was a mango tree and a dusty road leading into the jungle. Where did the road go? The train was moving out of the station and I had to run up the platform and jump for the door of my compartment. Then, as the train gathered speed and rushed through the forests, I sat brooding in front of the window.
What could I do about finding a girl I had seen only twice (that too, long back), who had hardly spoken to me, and about whom I knew nothing—absolutely nothing—but for whom I felt a tenderness and responsibility that I had felt before only for Madhu? My poor Madhu; I’d lost her to death, and now I’d lost this girl as well. I felt restless and ill at ease.
One day I would have to break journey there, spend a day in the town, make enquiries, and find the girl who had stolen my heart with nothing but a look from her dark, impatient eyes.
Since then I have passed through Deoli many times and I always look out of the carriage window half expecting to see the same unchanged face smiling up at me. But, I’ve never been able to bring myself to break journey at Deoli and spend a day there. (If it was all fiction or a film, I reflected, I would have got down and cleaned up the mystery and reached a suitable ending for the whole thing). I think I was afraid to do this. I was afraid of discovering what really happened to the girl. Perhaps she was no longer in Deoli, perhaps she was married, perhaps she had fallen ill . . . I wonder what happens in Deoli, behind the station walls. But I will never break my journey there. It may spoil my game. I prefer to keep hoping and dreaming and looking out of the window up and down that lonely platform, waiting for the girl with the baskets.
I never break my journey at Deoli but I pass through as often as I can.
He Said It with Arsenic
IS THERE SUCH a person as a born murderer—in the sense that there are born writers and musicians, born winners and losers? One can’t be sure. The urge to do away with troublesome people is common to most of us but only a few succumb to it.
If ever there was a born murderer, he must surely have been William Jones. The thing came so naturally to him. No extreme violence, no messy shootings or hacking or throttling. Just the right amount of poison, administered with skill and discretion.
A gentle, civilized sort of person was Mr Jones. He collected butterflies and arranged them systematically in glass cases. His ether bottle was quick and painless. He never stuck pins into the beautiful creatures.
Ever heard of the Agra Double Murder? It happened, of course, a great many years ago, when Agra was a far-flung outpost of the British Empire. In those days, William Jones was a male nurse in one of the city’s hospitals. The patients—especially terminal cases—spoke highly of the care and consideration he showed them. While most nurses, both male and female, preferred to attend to the more hopeful cases, Nurse William was always prepared to stand duty over a dying patient.
He felt a certain empathy for the dying. He liked to see them on their way. It was just his good nature, of course.
On a visit to nearby Meerut, he met and fell in love with Mrs Browning, the wife of the local stationmaster. Impassioned love letters were soon putting a strain on the Agra-Meerut postal service. The envelopes grew heavier—not so much because the letters were growing longer but because they contained little packets of a powdery white substance, accompanied by detailed instructions as to its correct administration.
Mr Browning, an unassuming and trustful man—one of the world’s born losers, in fact—was not the sort to read his wife’s correspondence. Even when he was seized by frequent attacks of colic, he put them down to an impure water supply. He recovered from one bout of vomitting and diarrhoea only to be racked by another.
He was hospitalized on a diagnosis of gastroenteritis. And, thus freed from his wife’s ministrations, soon got better. But on returning home and drinking a glass of nimbu-pani brought to him by the solicitous Mrs Browning, he had a relapse from which he did not recover.
Those were the days when deaths from cholera and related diseases were only too common in India and death certificates were easier to obtain than dog licences.
After a short interval of mourning (it was the hot weather and you couldn’t wear black for long) Mrs Browning moved to Agra where she rented a house next door to William Jones.
I forgot to mention that Mr Jones was also married. His wife was an insignificant creature, no match for a genius like William. Before the hot weather was over, the dreaded cholera had taken her too. The way was clear for the lovers to unite in holy matrimony.
But Dame Gossip lived in Agra too and it was not long before tongues were wagging and anonymous letters were being received by the Superintendent of Police. Enquiries were instituted. Like most infatuated lovers, Mrs Browning had hung on to her beloved’s letters and billet-doux, and these soon came to light. The silly woman had kept them in a box beneath her bed.
Exhumations were ordered in both Agra and Meerut. Arsenic keeps well, even in the hottest of weather, and there was no dearth of it in the remains of both victims.
Mr Jones and Mrs Browning were arrested and charged with murder.
‘Is Uncle Bill really a murderer?’ I’d asked from the drawing-room sofa in my grandmother’s house in Dehra. (It’s time I told you that William Jones was my uncle, my father’s cousin.)
I was eight or nine at the time. Uncle Bill had spent the previous summer with us in Dehra and had stuffed me with bazaar sweets and pastries, all of which I had consumed without suffering any ill effects.
‘Who told you that about Uncle Bill?’ asked Grandmother.
‘I heard it in school. All the boys are asking me the same question—“Is your uncle a murderer?” They say he poisoned both his wives.’
‘He had only one wife,’ snapped Aunt Beryl.
‘Did he poison her?’
‘No, of course not. How can you say such a thing!’
‘Then why is Uncle Bill in jail?’
‘Who says he’s in jail?’
‘The boys at school. They heard it from their parents. Uncle Bill is to go on trial in the Agra Fort.’
There was a pregnant silence in the drawing room, then Aunt Beryl burst out: ‘It was all that awful woman’s fault.’
‘Do you mean Mrs Browning?’ asked Grandmother.
‘Yes, of course. She must have put him up to it. Bill couldn’t have thought of anything so—so diabolical!’
‘But he sent her the powders, dear. And don’t forget—Mrs Browning has since . . .’
Grandmother stopped in mid-sentence and both she and Aunt Beryl glanced surreptitiously at me.
‘Committed suicide,’ I filled in. ‘There were still some powders with her.’
Aunt Beryl’s eyes rolled heavenwards. ‘This boy is impossible. I don’t know what he will be like when he grows up.’
‘At least I won’t be like Uncle Bill,’ I said. ‘Fancy poisoning people! If I kill anyone, it will be in a fair fight. I suppose they’ll hang Uncle?’
‘Oh, I hope not!’
Grandmother was silent. Uncle Bill was her nephew and she did have a soft spot for him. Aunt Beryl, his sister, thought he was wonderful. I had always considered him to be a bit soft but had to admit that he was generous. I tried to imagine him dangling at the end of a hangman’s rope but somehow he didn’t fit the picture.
As things turned out, he didn’t hang. White people in India seldom got the death sentence, although the hangman was pretty busy disposing of dacoits and political terrorists. Uncle Bill was given a life sentence and settled down to a sedentary job in the prison library at Naini, near Allahabad. His gifts as a male nurse went unappreciated. They did not trust him in the hospital.
He was released after seven or eight years, shortly after the country became an independent republic. He came out of jail to find that the British were leaving, either for England or the remaining colonies. Grandmo
ther was dead.
My father had died when I was just eleven, and I didn’t want to stay with my mother. She had separated from my father when I was just four years old, and had left us to marry again. At the time of Uncle Bill’s release from prison I was at boarding school, under the guardianship of Mr John Harrison—another cousin of my father’s. Later, I ran away from that house and lost touch with my relatives, so I had no news of Uncle Bill. In fact, I’d forgotten all about him. The last I heard was that Aunt Beryl and her husband had settled in South Africa and Uncle Bill realized that there was little scope for him in India and followed his sister out to Johannesburg.
I did not see Uncle Bill after his release from prison and no one dreamt that he would ever turn up again in India.
In fact twenty years were to pass before he came back, and by then I was in my mid-thirties, the author of a book that had become something of a bestseller. The previous years had been a struggle—the sort of struggle that every young freelance writer experiences—but at last the hard work was paying off and the royalties were beginning to come in.
I was living in a small cottage on the outskirts of Dehra, working on another book, when I received an unexpected visitor.
He was a thin, stooped, grey-haired man in his late fifties with a straggling moustache and discoloured teeth. He looked feeble and harmless but for his eyes which were a pale cold blue. There was something slightly familiar about him.
‘Don’t you remember me?’ he asked. ‘Not that I really expect you to, after all these years . . .’
‘Wait a minute. Did you teach me at school?’
‘No—but you’re getting warm.’ He put his suitcase down and I glimpsed his name on the airlines label. I looked up in astonishment. ‘You’re not—you couldn’t be . . .’
‘Your Uncle Bill,’ he said with a grin and extended his hand. ‘None other!’ And he sauntered into the house.
I must admit that I had mixed feelings about his arrival. While I had never felt any dislike for him, I hadn’t exactly approved of what he had done. Poisoning, I felt, was a particularly reprehensible way of getting rid of inconvenient people. Not that I could think of any commendable ways of getting rid of them! Still, it had happened a long time ago, he’d been punished, and presumably he was a reformed character.
‘And what have you been doing all these years?’ he asked me, easing himself into the only comfortable chair in the room.
‘Oh, just writing,’ I said.
‘Yes, I heard about your last book. It’s quite a success, isn’t it?’
‘It’s doing quite well. Have you read it?’
‘I don’t do much reading.’
‘And what have you been doing all these years, Uncle Bill?’
‘Oh, knocking about here and there. Worked for a soft drink company for some time. And then with a drug firm. My knowledge of chemicals was useful.’
‘Weren’t you with Aunt Beryl in South Africa?’
‘I saw quite a lot of her until she died a couple of years ago. Didn’t you know?’
‘No. I’ve been out of touch with relatives.’ I hoped he’d take that as a hint. ‘And what about her husband?’
‘Died too, not long after. Not many of us left, my boy. That’s why, when I saw something about you in the papers, I thought—why not go and see my only nephew again?’
‘You’re welcome to stay a few days,’ I said quickly. ‘Then I have to go to Bombay.’ (This was a lie but I did not relish the prospect of looking after Uncle Bill for the rest of his days.)
‘Oh, I won’t be staying long,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a bit of money put by in Johannesburg. It’s just that—so far as I know—you’re my only living relative and I thought it would be nice to see you again.’
Feeling relieved, I set about trying to make Uncle Bill as comfortable as possible. I gave him my bedroom and turned the window-seat into a bed for myself. I was a hopeless cook but, using all my ingenuity, I scrambled some eggs for supper. He waved aside my apologies. He’d always been a frugal eater, he said. Eight years in jail had given him a cast-iron stomach.
He did not get in my way but left me to my writing and my lonely walks. He seemed content to sit in the spring sunshine and smoke his pipe.
It was during our third evening together that he said, ‘Oh, I almost forgot. There’s a bottle of sherry in my suitcase. I brought it especially for you.’
‘That was very thoughtful of you, Uncle Bill. How did you know I was fond of sherry?’
‘Just my intuition. You do like it, don’t you?’ ‘There’s nothing like a good sherry.’
He went to his bedroom and came back with an unopened bottle of South African sherry.
‘Now you just relax near the fire,’ he said agreeably. ‘I’ll open the bottle and fetch glasses.’
He went to the kitchen while I remained near the electric fire, flipping through some journals. It seemed to me that Uncle Bill was taking rather a long time. Intuition must be a family trait because it came to me quite suddenly—the thought that Uncle Bill might be intending to poison me.
After all, I thought, here he is after nearly twenty years, apparently for purely sentimental reasons. But I had published a bestseller. And I was his nearest relative. If I was to die Uncle Bill could lay claim to my estate and probably live comfortably on my royalties for the next five or six years!
What had really happened to Aunt Beryl and her husband, I wondered. And where did Uncle Bill get the money for an air ticket to India?
Before I could ask myself any more questions, he reappeared with the glasses on a tray. He set the tray on a small table that stood between us. The glasses had been filled. The sherry sparkled.
I stared at the glass nearest me, trying to make out if the liquid in it was cloudier than that in the other glass. But there appeared to be no difference.
I decided I would not take any chances. It was a round tray, made of smooth Kashmiri walnut wood. I turned it round with my index finger, so that the glasses changed places.
‘Why did you do that?’ asked Uncle Bill.
‘It’s a custom in these parts. You turn the tray with the sun, a complete revolution. It brings good luck.’
Uncle Bill looked thoughtful for a few moments, then said, ‘Well, let’s have some more luck,’ and turned the tray around again.
‘Now you’ve spoilt it,’ I said. ‘You’re not supposed to keep revolving it! That’s bad luck. I’ll have to turn it about again to cancel out the bad luck.’
The tray swung round once more and Uncle Bill had the glass that was meant for me.
‘Cheers!’ I said and drank from my glass.
It was good sherry.
Uncle Bill hesitated. Then he shrugged, said ‘Cheers’ and drained his glass quickly.
But he did not offer to fill the glasses again.
Early next morning he was taken violently ill. I heard him retching in his room and I got up and went to see if there was anything I could do. He was groaning, his head hanging over the side of the bed. I brought him a basin and a jug of water.
‘Would you like me to fetch a doctor?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘No, I’ll be all right. It must be something I ate.’
‘It’s probably the water. It’s not too good at this time of the year. Many people come down with gastric trouble during their first few days in Dehra.’
‘Ah, that must be it,’ he said and doubled up as a fresh spasm of pain and nausea swept through him.
He was better by evening—whatever had gone into the glass must have been by way of the preliminary dose and a day later he was well enough to pack his suitcase and announce his departure. Dehra’s climate did not agree with him, he told me.
Just before he left, I said: ‘Tell me, Uncle, why did you drink it?’
‘Drink what? The water?’
‘No, the glass of sherry into which you’d slipped one of your famous powders.’
He gaped at me, then gave a nervous whinnyin
g laugh. ‘You will have your little joke, won’t you?’
‘No, I mean it,’ I said. ‘Why did you drink the stuff? It was meant for me, of course.’
He looked down at his shoes, then gave a little shrug and turned away.
‘In the circumstances,’ he said, ‘it seemed the only decent thing to do.’
I’ll say this for Uncle Bill: he was always the perfect gentleman.
Binya Passes By
WHILE I WAS walking home one day, along the path through the pines, I heard a girl singing.
It was summer in the hills, and the trees were in new leaf. The walnuts and cherries were just beginning to form between the leaves.
The wind was still and the trees were hushed, and the song came to me clearly; but it was not the words—which I could not follow—or the rise and fall of the melody which held me in thrall, but the voice itself, which was a young and tender voice.
I left the path and scrambled down the slope, slipping on fallen pine needles. But when I came to the bottom of the slope the singing had stopped and there was no one there. ‘I’m sure I heard someone singing,’ I said to myself and then thought I might have been wrong. In the hills it is always possible to be wrong.
So I walked on home, and presently I heard another song, but this time it was the whistling thrush rendering a broken melody, singing a dark, sweet secret in the depths of the forest.
I had little to sing about myself. The electricity bill hadn’t been paid, and there was nothing in the bank, and my latest novel had just been turned down by another publisher. Still, it was summer and men and animals were drowsy, and so too were my creditors. The distant mountains loomed purple in the shimmering dust-haze.
I walked through the pines again, but I did not hear the singing. And then for a week I did not leave the cottage, as the novel had to be rewritten, and I worked hard at it, pausing only to eat and sleep and take note of the leaves turning a darker green.
The window opened on to the forest. Trees reached up to the window. Oak, maple, walnut. Higher up the hill, the pines started, and further on, armies of deodars marched over the mountains. And the mountains rose higher, and the trees grew stunted until they finally disappeared and only the black spirit-haunted rocks rose up to meet the everlasting snows. Those peaks cradled the sky. I could not see them from my windows. But on clear mornings they could be seen from the pass on the Tehri Road.