Devil's Wind

by Patricia Wentworth

  “Killed him, did he?”

  “Yes, got him by the shoulder, shook the breath out of him, and then trampled him to death. The governor got off with a scratch, and there wasn’t a native in the district who didn’t believe the horse was possessed by the Colonel Sahib’s own private and particular devil.”

  Richard Morton filled another pipe, pushed his tobacco pouch across to his friend, and asked: “How’re things with the regiment, George?”

  There was a little bit of a pause. Then Captain Blake said in his usual half-hesitating manner:

  “Have the native officers been up to see you, Dick?”

  “Some of them have.”

  “Not all of them?”

  “No, not all of them.”

  “Which of them didn’t come?”

  “It’s more a case of which of them did come,” said Richard Morton with no expression in his voice. His face was in shadow, and he did not look at his friend.

  “Er—yes. Which of them did come?”

  “Amanut Khan, Jowahir Lai, Dewan Ali, and Durga Ram.”

  “Not the Subadar Major?”

  “He had a bad foot.”

  “No one else?”

  “Issuree Singh, my old orderly.”

  “Is that all?”

  “That is all.”

  There was another short silence.

  Then Richard Morton took his pipe out of his mouth and said, “What does it mean, George?”

  “What should you say it meant?”

  “That they were up to something, and not too anxious to meet me.”

  Captain Blake emitted a dense cloud of smoke, and stared through it at the rafters. They looked immensely high up, and black, and far away, and the smoke rose towards them in thin wreaths that lessened and vanished.

  “Just so—not too anxious to meet you,” he said, “I suppose you know they have always believed you have the power of reading a man’s thoughts.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Fact. Ever since that business of Mir Ali’s eight years ago. And here is proof. I’d no sooner got back yesterday evening than my bearer came to me with the bazaar version of that very yarn you’ve just been spinning. It appears he comes from Koti, Aunut Singh’s village, or his brother’s second cousin’s grandmother lives there, or something—you know what natives are. Well, he says of course every soul in the place knew that Aunut Singh was in the right, but the other man had the papers, and the favour of the extra Commissioner Sahib—your friend Fatehshah Khan—and no one was going to make unpleasantness by offering an unsolicited opinion. Adamson was bamboozled, and didn’t care; as old Purun remarked, ‘Adamson Sahib is like a child. When a man swears, he believes him. He says, “Has he not sworn?” But God reads the heart, and so does Morton Sahib.’”

  “A little difficult to live up to—that,” said Richard Morton.

  His voice was rather hard. Perhaps he was thinking that this quality of his had served him but poorly in his private occasions.

  He pulled at his pipe for a moment, and then said:

  “What are they up to, George?”

  Captain Blake remained silent.

  When the silence had lasted a long time he said:

  “The Colonel is quite satisfied. So is Marsh.”

  “And you?”

  “Do a bit of your mind-reading,” said Captain Blake, with a curious laugh.

  “Well, George, you are not a brick wall. If you want me to say it, you’re damned unsatisfied.”

  “Quite so, Dick”; and another little pause ensued.

  The night was warm and still. The screens of split bamboo which usually meshed the two long windows had been rolled up to admit the air, and a strip of dark, star-sown sky could be seen between the line of the verandah roof and the tangle of rose and oleander which made an impenetrable thicket on this side of the neglected garden. In the distance there was a faint rustling sound that might be the first whisper of a coming breeze. It was far away on the extreme limit of consciousness, but it was there.

  “Well, what is it, George?” said Richard Morton at last; and Captain Blake stared at the ceiling and said:

  “You can call it the new cartridge, if you like. They are all playing the fool about that.”

  “But you’ve never got’ em here so soon? The world must be coming to an end if you have.”

  “No, of course we’ve not got them here, but d’ you think a little thing like that is going to stop them? We had half a dozen men at Umballa to learn the new drill, and since they came back at Christmas—”

  “Well?”

  Captain Blake crossed his legs.

  “Of course I had them up and talked to them like a father, and they agreed with every word I said.”

  “Beshak Sahib!” interjected Captain Morton with half a laugh.

  “Damn their Beshak,” said Captain Blake, with the hesitation gone clean out of his voice. “I believe the wildest tales have been going round. Pig’s lard, cow’s fat, anything you please, all mixed up to grease this infernal cartridge with.”

  “If they really believe that there will be big trouble,” said Richard Morton quickly.

  “Who’s to say what they really believe!”

  “Well—” Richard considered. “What about the men who went to Umballa—any of them Brahmins?”

  “Yes, four of them.”

  “How did the others receive them? Will they eat with them, and so forth?”

  “Oh, yes, that’s all right.”

  “H’m. If they really believed the new drill obliged men to bite cartridges greased with beef fat, they’d have outcasted them.”

  “Well, I hear that has happened in other places.”

  “That a fact?”

  “Enough of a fact to make the authorities give a whole batch of the Umballa men a month’s leave, and orders to rejoin at the depot—at the depot—afterwards.”

  Captain Morton whistled.

  “That’s bad.”

  “Damn bad,” said George Blake, his pensive gaze still fixed on the rafters.

  After a time he looked down, and observed:

  “Ever seen chupattis passed round, Dick?”

  “Passed round?”

  “Passed from hand to hand, and from village to village, all over the country.”

  “I’ve heard the talk, of course. Has it been going on here?”

  Captain Blake nodded.

  “And at Cawnpore,” he said, “and round Agra. Everywhere else for all I know.”

  “When?”

  “Just before you came.”

  “What do the natives say?”

  “They don’t say anything. There have been lotus leaves passed round in the lines too.”

  Captain Morton put down his pipe.

  “Lotus leaves?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s queer. I never heard of them.”

  “Did you ever hear of chupattis going round—before this, I mean?”

  “Yes, I did, when I was a child. We were at Mahumdee at the time, and there was a lot of talk. The servants all talked, and of course I took it all in.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They wondered what was going to happen. Apparently they at once expected something to happen—something calamitous. But they didn’t know what.”

  “Did anything happen?”

  “Yes, a very bad smallpox epidemic.”

  “But how, in Heaven’s name?”

  “Yes, I know, but it did happen, and every one believed the chupatti had been a warning.”

  Captain Blake looked at his watch.

  “We had better get vaccinated in the morning,” he observed, “and meanwhile we had better go to bed; I’ve got an early parade.”

  CHAPTER VIII

&n
bsp; HOW MISS MONSON PAID A CALL

  Have you heard the Piper calling?

  Have you heard the echoes falling?

  Have you heard the Piper calling,

  The Piper on the hill?

  For if you have heard the Piper play

  You must follow by night, you must follow by day,

  Though it’s over the hills and far away,

  You must follow the Piper still.

  Helen Wilmot lay in bed and watched the light creep lower and lower upon the whitewashed wall. The verandah shaded the doors which opened upon it, but a dusty shaft of sunshine slanted through a small oblong window set high up under the rafters. As the light shifted slowly downwards it was reflected in faint rose and violet tints upon the white expanse above the long glass doors. The doors themselves stood wide, and a delicious freshness came through the screens of split bamboo which filled the open spaces.

  A chattering of birds, a murmur of voices from the servants’ houses—little mud huts clustering at the edge of the compound,—and the far-away droning of a Persian wheel made up a most soothing, drowsy noise, and Helen, though she had been awake for an hour, felt lazy, and by no means inclined to get up. She closed her eyes, and listened to the sparrows fighting under the eaves. Perhaps she even dozed.

  Suddenly she was roused by a little fidgeting sound, and in a moment she turned and was aware of a small person, who was standing just inside the nearer of the two long windows. It was a quaint small person in a white frock and starched white pantalets. In one hand she held a broad-brimmed grey felt hat that obviously belonged to some one several sizes larger than herself. The other hand rested on the chick behind her, as if to secure her line of retreat. When she saw Helen’s eyes open, she stared into them with a pair of very round brown ones, and then said in a particularly clear and emphatic manner:

  “I have come to pay a call.”

  “Dear me,” said Miss Wilmot. “How rude of me not to be up!”

  “I like you in bed. I like paying calls. I did forget to bring a card, but my name is Miss Margaret Elizabeth Monson.”

  “Oh,” said Helen, much impressed. “Must I call you all that?”

  “It would be polite.”

  Miss Monson advanced into the room with a slow and stately step. With her left hand she retained her hold of the hat, and held up an already sufficiently abbreviated skirt. Her right hand she offered to Helen, who had an instant recollection of Mrs. Elliot’s languid manner of shaking hands.

  “How do you do, Miss Wilmot?” she said in the accents of polite society. “I hope you are well. I hope you are quite well.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  The conversation languished a little. Miss Monson suddenly dropped the grey felt hat, and put her hand on Helen’s arm.

  “I am bored of being polite. Are you bored of being polite? I am very bored of it. I am bored of calling you Miss Wilmot. I would much rather call you Helen lady. You are the Helen one, aren’t you? And I am bored of being Miss Margaret Elizabeth Monson. If you like you can call me Megsie Lizzie, like my papa does.”

  Helen received the permission with gravity.

  “And what does your mamma call you?” she inquired.

  Megsie Lizzie was climbing on to the foot of the bed.

  “‘My lamb,’” she answered in matter-of-fact tones. “She calls me ‘my lamb’ and ‘my precious,’ and ‘my own lovey darling,’ but you couldn’t call me all those things.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I’m five. It’s rather old for India, isn’t it?” Again there was a reminiscence of some older person. “But if I went away from my mamma, her heart would break—right across in two pieces.”

  “Oh, dear!”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Megsie Lizzie, screwing up her button of a mouth, and nodding with an uncanny air of wisdom.

  A distant, unhappy cry of “Missee Baba!” became audible. After a moment it was repeated. Megsie Lizzie frowned.

  “Is that some one calling you?” asked Helen.

  Megsie Lizzie’s frown deepened.

  “It is Mooniah. She is a most iggerant woman. I suppose I have told her three million times that I will not be called ‘Missee Baba.’”

  “Missee Baba—a—a!” wailed the voice, shrilly nasal on the high note at the end.

  Mooniah was a good deal nearer.

  “Megsie Lizzie,” said Helen, “I’m afraid you’ve run away.”

  Megsie Lizzie tossed her head; seven brown ringlets tossed too.

  “She is a stupid thing. Let us talk’ bout something else.”

  “Very well, what shall we talk about?”

  “Shall I tell you a story?”

  “That would be very nice.”

  “Well, once upon a time there was a man, and his name was Gideon and “Megsie Lizzie stopped abruptly.

  “I forgot—it’s a Sunday story,” she explained.

  “Never mind—do go on.”

  “But this is a Wednesday. You can’t tell Sunday stories on a Wednesday day.”

  “Why not?”

  Megsie Lizzie looked doubtful. Then she said firmly:

  “Because Sunday days is different from Wednesday days. They are quite different. They are a different colour.”

  Helen looked at the earnestly frowning little face, and did not smile. Instead she said in a soft, lazy voice:

  “What colour is Sunday?”

  “White,” said Megsie Lizzie, screwing up her eyes as if she were trying to see something. “A very shiny white, and up at the top there are some little goldy speckles. And Wednesday is green, so of course you couldn’t mix them, without getting the Sunday colour all spoilt.”

  Helen thought for a moment.

  “Supposing we were to pretend it was Sunday,” she suggested.

  “Are you a good pretender?” inquired the child.

  “Very good, and I am sure you are. Let us both pretend very hard.”

  Megsie Lizzie put both hands over the damp little forehead, and pressed them so tightly that the knuckles stood up white on her plump, brown hands.

  There was a pause. Then she sat up very straight.

  “Have you pretended? I have. Now it is Sunday, and I have said my prayers, and had my breakfast, and so have you, and you are my fifth daughter, and I am going to tell you a Sunday story. A real proper one, so you must attend.”

  “Missee Baba—a—a—a!” called the afflicted Mooniah in tones of despair.

  Helen could see her now, standing at the edge of the verandah where an abandoned doll betrayed its mistress’s passage.

  Megsie Lizzie turned her head, and saw too.

  “Mooniah—chup—be silent,” she cried, and Mooniah fidgeted from one bare foot to the other, and called again:

  “Ai Missee Baba! Very narty Missee Baba.”

  “There isn’t any Missee Baba here ’t all,” retorted Miss Monson hotly. “There is only a Miss Sahib, a big Miss Sahib. I am paying a call. I am with Wilmot Miss Sahib. I also am a Miss Sahib. Mooniah, daughter of an owl, am I a Miss Sahib, or am I not?”

  “God knows,” snuffled Mooniah.

  “I know,” said Miss Monson with decision. “Thou also knowest. Sit down and wait till I come, and be silent. The Miss Sahib and I are talking.”

  Mooniah collapsed into a despondent heap, and Megsie Lizzie abandoned the vernacular.

  “Now I will begin,” she said. “That is a most inrupting woman—inrupting and iggerant. Well, there was a man called Gideon, and he rolled a cake into a tent. No, that’s not the beginning. First of all he made a lot of soldiers come, and they didn’t want to come, and they lapped water out of their hands, and God was angry with them. And do you know why He was angry with them?” she demanded impressively.

  Helen experienced a slight confusion of mind
in face of this rapid presentment of the Scriptural tale.

  “Do you know why?” she inquired.

  “Because they hadn’t any faith, not even the mustard-seed sort,” said Megsie Lizzie. Then she relaxed the intensity of her expression, and said calmly:

  “Of course it would have been all right if there hadn’t been any God.”

  Helen gasped.

  “Megsie Lizzie, what do you mean?”

  “Well, it would, because if there wasn’t any God they wouldn’t have been wicked about not having faith. But of course there is, so they were.”

  “Yes, of course,” murmured Helen, feeling a little incoherent

  “Yes,” said Megsie Lizzie, nodding wisely. “And what I think about it is this. If there wasn’t any God, where do the trees come from, and the flowers, and the little weeny teeny tiny seeds what the trees come out of, because there was seeds before there was any trees, wasn’t there, and if God didn’t make them, who did?”

  Helen was speechless. When she came to know Megsie Lizzie a little better, she recognised the fact that argument with that young lady invariably reduced the grown-up participant to speechlessness.

  Miss Monson now gave a little sigh, and arose.

  “I s’pose I must go,” she said, with regret. “Mooniah! Mooniah! Get up. I am coming. Do you like tea-parties, Helen lady?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Would you like a tea-party with me?”

  “I should love it.”

  Helen smiled as she spoke, but the round, brown eyes which were fixed on hers remained preternaturally grave.

  “Oh,” said Megsie Lizzie. Then briskly: “Shall we have a tea-party to-day? Shall we have it here, in your house, in the verandah? It is a nicer verandah than our verandah. And I pour out the tea? And you pretend I’m a lady what has come all the way from England to pay a call?”

  “How tired you will be!”

  “Yes, I shall want lots of tea. My name will be Mrs. Brown Jones. Yes, Mooniah, I am coming. It’s very rude to inrupt ladies what is saying good-bye in a polite way.”