The Laughing Skull

by Ruskin Bond

  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 hospitalised 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 the victims.

  Mr Jones and Mrs Browning were arrested and charged with murder.

  ▪

  ‘Is Uncle Bill really a murderer?’ I asked from the drawing room sofa in my grandmother’s house in Dehra. (It’s time that I told you that William Jones was my uncle, my mother’s half-brother.)

  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 were asking me the same question—‘Is your uncle a murderer?’ They say he poisoned both his wives.’

  ‘He had only one wife,’ snapped Aunt Mabel.

  ‘Did he poison her?’

  ‘No, of course not. How can you say such a thing!’

  ‘Then why is Uncle Bill in gaol?’

  ‘Who says he’s in gaol?’

  ‘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 Mabel 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 Mabel glanced surreptitiously at me.

  ‘Committed suicide,’ I filled in. ‘There were still some powders with her.’

  Aunt Mabel’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 stepson, but she did have a soft spot for him. Aunt Mabel, 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 wasn’t hanged. White people in India seldom got the death sentence, although the hangman was pretty busy disposing off 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 gaol to find that the British were leaving, either for England or the remaining colonies. Grandmother was dead. Aunt Mabel and her husband had settled in South Africa. Uncle Bill realised that there was little future for him in India and followed his sister out to Johannesburg. I was then in my last year at boarding school. After my father’s death, my mother had married an Indian, and now my future lay in India.

  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, fifteen years were to pass before he came back, and by then I was in my early thirties, the author of a book that had become something of a bestseller. The previous fifteen 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 the hill-station of Fosterganj, working on another book, when I received an unexpected visitor.

  He was a thin, stooping, 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 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 Mabel 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.�
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  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 gaol 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 fifteen years, apparently for purely sentimental reasons. But I had just 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 Mabel 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 Fosterganj.’

  ‘Ah, that must be it,’ he said, and doubled up as a fresh spasm of pain and nausea swept over 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. The climate of Fosterganj 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 whinnying 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.

  A Job Well Done

  Dhuki, the gardener, was clearing up the weeds that grew in profusion around the old disused well. He was an old man, skinny and bent and spindly-legged; but he had always been like that; his strength lay in his wrists and in his long, tendril-like fingers. He looked as frail as a petunia, but he had the tenacity of a vine.

  ‘Are you going to cover the well?’ I asked. I was eight, a great favourite of Dhuki. He had been the gardener long before my birth; had worked for my father, until my father died, and now worked for my mother and stepfather.

  ‘I must cover it, I suppose,’ said Dhuki. ‘That’s what the ‘Major sahib’ wants. He’ll be back any day, and if he finds the well still uncovered, he’ll get into one of his raging fits and I’ll be looking for another job!’

  The ‘Major sahib’ was my stepfather, Major Summerskill. A tall, hearty, back-slapping man, who liked polo and pig-sticking. He was quite unlike my father. My father had always given me books to read. The Major said I would become a dreamer if I read too much, and took the books away. I hated him and did not think much of my mother for marrying him.

  ‘The boy’s too soft,’ I heard him tell my mother. ‘I must see that he gets riding lessons.’

  But before the riding lessons could be arranged, the Major’s regiment was ordered to Peshawar. Trouble was expected from some of the frontier tribes. He was away for about two months. Before leaving, he had left strict instructions for Dhuki to cover up the old well.

  ‘Too damned dangerous having an open well in the middle of the garden,’ my stepfather had said. ‘Make sure that it’s completely covered by the time I get back.’

  Dhuki was loath to cover up the old well. It had been there for over fifty years, long before the house had been built. In its walls lived a colony of pigeons. Their soft cooing filled the garden with a lovely sound. And during the hot, dry, summer months, when taps ran dry, the well was always a dependable source of water. The bhisti still used it, filling his goatskin bag with the cool clear water and sprinkling the paths around the house to keep the dust down.

  Dhuki pleaded with my mother to let him leave the well uncovered.

  ‘What will happen to the pigeons?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, surely they can find another well,’ said my mother. ‘Do close it up soon, Dhuki. I don’t want the Sahib to come back and find that you haven’t done anything about it.’

  My mother seemed just a little bit afraid of the Major. How can we be afraid of those we love? It was a question that puzzled me then, and puzzles me still.

  The Major’s absence made life pleasant again. I returned to my books, spent long hours in my favourite banyan tree, ate buckets of mangoes, and dawdled in the garden talking to Dhuki.

  Neither he nor I were looking forward to the Major’s return. Dhuki had stayed on after my mother’s second marriage only out of loyalty to her and affection for me; he had really been my father’s man. But my mother had always appeared deceptively frail and helpless, and most men, Major Summerskill included, felt protective towards her. She liked people who did things for her.

  ‘Your father liked this well,’ said Dhuki. ‘He would often sit here in the evenings, with a book in which he made drawings of birds and flowers and insects.’

  I remembered those drawings, an
d I remembered how they had all been thrown away by the Major when he had moved into the house. Dhuki knew about it, too. I didn’t keep much from him.

  ‘It’s a sad business closing this well,’ said Dhuki again. ‘Only a fool or a drunkard is likely to fall into it.’

  But he had made his preparations. Planks of sal wood, bricks and cement were neatly piled up around the well.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Dhuki. ‘Tomorrow I will do it. Not today. Let the birds remain for one more day. In the morning, Baba, you can help me drive the birds from the well.

  On the day my stepfather was expected back, my mother hired a tonga and went to the bazaar to do some shopping. Only a few people had cars in those days. Even colonels went about in tongas. Now, a clerk finds it beneath his dignity to sit in one.

  As the Major was not expected before evening, I decided I would make full use of my last free morning. I took all my favourite books and stored them away in an outhouse where I could come for them from time to time. Then, my pockets bursting with mangoes, I climbed into the banyan tree. It was the darkest and coolest place on a hot day in June.

  From behind the screen of leaves that concealed me, I could see Dhuki moving about near the well. He appeared to be most unwilling to get on with the job of covering it up.

  ‘Baba!’ he called, several times; but I did not feel like stirring from the banyan tree. Dhuki grasped a long plank of wood and placed it across one end of the well. He started hammering. From my vantage point in the banyan tree, he looked very bent and old.

  A jingle of tonga bells and the squeak of unoiled wheels told me that a tonga was coming in at the gate. It was too early for my mother to be back. I peered through the thick, waxy leaves of the tree, and nearly fell off my branch in surprise. It was my stepfather, the Major! He had arrived earlier than expected.

  I did not come down from the tree. I had no intention of confronting my stepfather until my mother returned.