Shadow of the Moon

by M. M. Kaye

  They stopped in the full moonlight and spoke together in undertones, their voices pitched so low that despite the silence of the night Winter could hear only an occasional word. They were speaking in English, but there was something in the almost inaudible voices that was entirely un-English and suggested that they only spoke in that tongue from necessity, because it chanced to be the only language they had in common.

  A single sentence separated itself from the murmur of speech. A strange sentence to hear on an island in the Mediterranean:

  ‘… as before the rising of the Mahrattas. Only then it was millet. This time it shall be bread and bakri.’

  One of the men laughed; a cold clear little chuckle.

  ‘Bakri,’ thought Winter, remembering the flock of goats who had pattered across the silent square behind her. Who was it who spoke of the Mahratta invasion and used the Hindustani word for ‘goat’?

  One of the men was smoking a cigar and the scent of the tobacco came clearly across the garden. He was a tall man, bearded and powerfully built, and he dwarfed his two companions; one of whom, a small stout gentleman who wore a long tight-fitting coat and what appeared to be a round cap, barely came up to his chest. The third man was slim and of medium height, and Winter presumed that it was he who had climbed the wall, for he wore a dark cloak: moreover the big man was too large and the fat man too small to have been the night prowler.

  She became aware of the first twinges of cramp, but she did not move. She was not afraid, since it did not occur to her that there was anything to be afraid of. But she did not wish to be caught in the embarrassing position of a trespasser upon private property (though whether a seat on the top of a wall constituted trespass was a matter of doubt), for the stealth and caution of the man who had climbed the fig tree convinced her that he had made his entry into the garden by this unorthodox route because he wished his visit to be secret. Therefore, it followed that she was in the awkward position of eavesdropping on some more than usually private conference, and that being so her presence had better remain undiscovered.

  The tall man said something in a voice that was no longer an undertone, and which sounded like ‘Kogo zakhochet Bog pogubit, togo sperva lishit razuma.’ But the words made no sense to Winter, and she did not recognize the language in which they were spoken. She saw the three men turn and move across the open lawn, and thought for a moment that they had seen her, because they walked directly towards her, their figures dark against the white expanse of lawn and their black shadows preceding them, grotesquely elongated on the sun-dried turf. But they stopped not half a dozen yards from where she sat, and it was only then that she realized that there was a door in the wall, the far side of which must have been concealed by the shadow of the buttress.

  She heard a key turn and the rasp of a bolt being drawn, and then hinges creaked as the unseen door was opened. She could see the faces of two of the men quite clearly in the moonlight, but the slim man in the cloak had his back to her, and it was he who spoke in a soft voice that seemed vaguely familiar:

  ‘We shall want money,’ said the man in the cloak. ‘A great deal of money.’

  The tall man laughed shortly. ‘Money - always money! It is the same tale everywhere. We, a rich country, remain poor because we pour out our wealth on others.’

  ‘In bribes, my friend,’ said the fat man softly. ‘In bribes. You cast your bread upon the waters, is it not so?’

  ‘But of course,’ said the big man with another laugh. ‘We are not fools. A year - a hundred years - two hundred years. It is all one. We are patient. We too can wait. Our bread will return to us, it may be soon - it may be late.’

  ‘But the price goes up,’ murmured the slim man. ‘Thirty pieces of silver are no longer considered sufficient. It is three hundred, and then three thousand - and then three-hundred thousand.’

  Winter saw the big man scowl, and then he laughed again and said: ‘Be content that it is paid. In four months’ time then. Do Svidānya.’

  The small fat man slipped through the gate, and as the man in the cloak sketched an oriental gesture of farewell and turned to follow him, the moonlight fell full on his face and Winter recognized a fellow-passenger from the steamship Sirius. It was Kishan Prasad.

  The hinges creaked again and a moment later the bolts were shot home and the key turned in the lock. The big man waited until the soft sound of retreating footsteps had died away on the far side of the door, and the scowl was back on his forehead. He cleared his throat and spat on the ground in a violent gesture of contempt, and then turning away strode quickly back across the lawn and vanished among the shadows of the aloes and the orange trees. A minute or two later the square of yellow light from the open doorway of the house vanished, a chain rattled briefly, and then the night was silent again.

  Winter drew a deep breath of relief and was about to move when a sound stopped her. It was a very small sound, but painfully audible in the stillness. A faint rustle of leaves and a sigh that seemed to echo her own. It came from almost immediately below her, and she realized with a sudden stab of horror that the man she had seen climb over the wall had not been Kishan Prasad - and he had not gone. He had been there all the time; standing motionless among the oleanders and so near her that she might almost have heard him breathing.

  The bushes shook as though to a breath of wind and a figure detached itself from the shadows and moved into the open. It was a man, hatless and wearing some sort of wrap flung over one shoulder, oriental fashion - an unusual piece of apparel on so hot a night, but presumably intended to disguise the wearer’s features, since a fold of the cloth had been pulled up over his chin.

  ‘If he comes back over the wall,’ thought Winter in alarm, ‘he can’t help seeing me.’ The branches and leaves and the thick trails of creeper had served to conceal her from anyone coming from the far side of the wall, but if the man intended to return by the same route he would have to jump for the coping and pull himself up facing her. Perhaps if she could manage to edge round and face the other way without noise she could jump to the ground. It was not much more than an eight-foot drop, and once down she could run across the square and be out of sight before he could reach the top of the wall.

  She moved one foot with extreme caution. But she had not calculated on the effects of cramp. An agonizing pain shot through her numbed foot, wrenching an involuntary gasp from her, and the man below her whirled like a flash and the moonlight glittered on the barrel of a pistol that was suddenly and surprisingly in his hand.

  Winter did not wait for explanations. The sight of the weapon had startled her considerably, and for the first time that night she was frightened. She struggled to her feet, clutching at her skirts with one hand and the treacherous trails of creeper with the other, but her legs were numb with cramp and she was not quick enough. The man below her took a short run, leapt and grasped her ankle. The creeper ripped in her hand, and with a gasp of terror she tumbled headlong from the wall to be caught in a savage hold and fall full length with her captor into the thicket of oleander and geranium below.

  The man twisted on top of her, holding her in a crushing grip that felt as though it must break her ribs, her face pressed hard against his shoulder so that the thick folds of cloth that wrapped him stifled her attempts to scream. She fought him frantically, writhing and twisting, but the weight of his body and the crushing clasp of his arms drove the breath from her lungs and she gave in suddenly and lay still. His grasp slacked a little and she managed to turn her head, gasping for air.

  He did not move, and she became aware that he was listening intently to the small night noises. Perhaps the sound of their fall and the rustle and snap of branches had been audible in the house and the big man had returned. If she could only cry out, she might be able to attract his attention.

  Winter lay quiet, husbanding her strength, and then summoning up all her forces she opened her mouth to scream. But the sound died unuttered, for suddenly and inexplicably, and despite the fact tha
t she could not see his face, she knew who it was who held her, and she spoke his name instead, gasping and incredulous: ‘Captain - Randall!’

  She felt him start violently and he wrenched one arm free and brushed his hand swiftly over her face and the tumbled mass of her loosened hair.

  ‘Damnation!’ The expletive was barely more than a breath of sound.

  ‘Why—’

  ‘Be quiet!’ whispered Captain Randall savagely.

  There was a faint noise somewhere near them, but for a moment or two Winter could not place it because the sound of her own gasping breath was loud in the silence. Alex made no movement except to take his weight onto one elbow and lift his head a little, and Winter struggled to control her panting breath and to listen as he was listening.

  And then she heard it. A faint pattering sound. So faint that it was less a sound than a vibration of the stillness, and quieter far than the beat of her own heart. She felt Alex’s body stiffen and heard him draw his breath in between his teeth. The pattering sound seemed nearer, and she remembered the chink of that chain and realized suddenly that there was an animal in the garden. The big man with the beard had obviously released a watchdog and it must be its paws on the dry ground that pattered to and fro in the moonlight.

  Presently she heard it snuff loudly and give vent to a small, excited whimper, and then all at once the silence was rent by a spitting feline yowl, a crash among the bushes and a hurricane of barks that retreated across the garden.

  Almost in the same second Alex was on his feet and had swung Winter up in his arms and flung her up onto the wall. He did not waste breath on words - the situation did not call for any - and she grasped at an overhanging bough of the fig tree with one hand and the coping with the other, kicked violently, heard a smothered expletive behind her, and scrambled to safety.

  10

  Winter turned to see Alex back away, take a run at the wall and leap for the coping; and then she had grasped his shoulders and was pulling with all her strength. Half a minute later they had dropped to the ground on the far side, and Alex had gripped her arm and they were running swiftly, keeping to the shadow of the wall.

  He dragged her across the square and dived down a narrow alleyway between two tall houses, and turning sharply to the right, came out on a smaller paved square that was dominated by the wide stone steps and ornately carved façade of a church. Here Winter’s skirts escaped her frantic clutch at last and tangled about her feet, and she tripped and would have fallen but for Alex’s hand on her arm.

  He jerked her upright, and she put one hand to her side, painfully aware of the constriction of whale-boned stays that reduced her small waist to a bare eighteen inches, and said pantingly: ‘It’s no good - I can’t run another step—’ Pulling away from his grasp she walked unsteadily to the steps before the church and sank down upon the warm stone, her back to the carved balustrade.

  Alex followed and stood above her, frowning down at her, and she looked up at him for a full minute with her mouth wide, drawing air into her lungs in deep gasps. Then suddenly and unexpectedly, she laughed.

  It was a joyous sound, gay, courageous, and full of the magic of youth and moonlight. And hearing it, Alex was conscious of a swift flash of admiration. He had expected tears or hysteria and possibly both, but not laughter. It took him completely by surprise, and for a long moment he stared down at her incredulously. Then suddenly he was sitting down on the wide step below her and laughing too.

  They sat there and laughed together, and the sleepy, secretive stonework threw back a chuckling echo of their mirth …

  It was Alex who stopped first. The laughter died out of his eyes and he said abruptly: ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘Looking at the moon,’ said Winter.

  Alex reached up and his fingers closed about her wrist in a hard grasp. ‘I want the truth, please.’

  ‘But it is the truth,’ protested Winter, still laughing. ‘It was the ship, I think - and sharing that cramped little cabin with Lottie. It was so lovely to be on land again and smell the dust and the trees. And - and it was such a beautiful night. I couldn’t just go to bed. I wanted to go out, so I played truant. That wall was easy to climb because of the tree, and I only meant to sit there and look at the moon and smell the flowers. But then you came along, and at first I thought you were a burglar, and then I thought you were one of those three men.’

  Alex’s fingers tightened about her wrist and he looked at her long and intently, his face unexpectedly harsh in the white moonlight, and presently he said slowly: ‘Is that really all?’

  ‘Yes. I meant to run away when I saw you, but I got cramp. That’s why you caught me.’

  Alex released her wrist and the rigid lines of his face relaxed. He looked away from her and across at the black shadows of the houses that faced the church, and seeing that he was frowning again, she said curiously: ‘Why were you there? Were you watching Kishan Prasad?’

  Alex made no perceptible movement, but she was aware of an indefinable change in him, and he was silent for so long that she thought he did not mean to answer the question. But at last he turned his head and looked up at her, and said: ‘Yes. I wanted to know who he had gone to meet. And now I know.’

  Winter said: ‘Who were they? What were they doing - those men?’

  ‘Plotting devilry. One is a Russian and another is a Persian: the third is a man I have known for three years.’

  ‘Who is he? Tell me about him.’

  ‘Kishan Prasad? He is a member of one of the great families of Rohilkhand; an exceedingly clever man and an embittered one, which is always a dangerous combination. He went to one of the better India Colleges and took top honours in all English subjects. He studied engineering for the Company’s service, and passed out as the senior student of his year with higher marks than any European there. But because he was not a European he was only nominated to the rank of jemadar, where he was actually subordinate to a European sergeant - a man who was his inferior in every way and was at the same time arrogant, insolent and stupid, and lost no chance to insult him. The Hindus have been civilized for over a thousand years - they were writing books when we in Europe were living in caves. And Kishan Prasad is a proud man and a descendant of princes. He found the position intolerable, and resigned from the Company’s service. We lost a good man when we allowed that to happen; and gained a dangerous enemy …

  ‘A year ago he went on a tour of Europe, which was a strange thing for a man of his position to have done, for he will have to pay his priests very heavily to regain the caste that he will have lost by doing so. I saw him last in the Crimea, where he saw us fail in the assault on the Redan at Sebastopol, and met Russian agents … and now he is returning to his own country. We should never have allowed any Indian to see the British Army in the Crimea. Or, having seen it, to return and tell of what he had seen—’ Alex appeared to be talking to himself more than to Winter, for his voice had dropped as he spoke until it was almost inaudible.

  A wandering breath of wind blew in from the sea and drove a little whirling cloud of dust across the square. It tugged at Winter’s lace shawl and ruffled her hair, and she shivered. But it was not the warm wind that made her shiver, but the recollection of the weapon she had seen in Alex Randall’s hand. She said with a catch in her voice: ‘Were you - did you mean to kill him?’

  ‘Kill him?’ Alex laughed shortly. ‘No. Unfortunately, assassination is alien to the British temperament - which must on occasion be a matter for regret.’

  ‘Regret? But one cannot do murder!’

  ‘Are you speaking as a Christian?’ inquired Alex, ‘or a humanitarian?’

  ‘Surely they are the same thing?’

  Alex shook his head. ‘Oh, no, they are not. The sixth Commandment says, “Thou shalt not kill.” But what if by obeying it one dooms to death a hundred or a thousand innocent people?’

  ‘I don’t think I understand,’ said Winter slowly.

  ‘Don’t you? I have
seen men - there are many in India and there were many in the Crimea - whose crass stupidity was only exceeded by their overweening conceit, but who had reached a position of power and authority owing to an accident of birth or the possession of wealth, or to a mere matter of seniority in years and service entirely unconnected with personal merit. The abysmal blunders of such men cannot only doom thousands to death, but pile up legacies of hatred and bitterness that will bear poisonous fruit for generations to come. If you saw a lunatic in possession of a lighted brand, and knew that he intended to set fire to a building containing a hundred helpless women and children, all of whom would inevitably be burnt to death, and if the only possible method of preventing it was to kill the lunatic, would you consider that murder, or humanity?’

  Winter said slowly: ‘You cannot justify murder.’

  ‘I’m not. But whose murder are you talking about? The lunatic’s or that of the people in the building?’

  Alex looked up into Winter’s troubled face and laughed. ‘There is no answer to that one, is there? Possibly heaven has one, but we do not appear to have found a satisfactory one on earth: which is why I am at times inclined to regret that the British consider assassination to be socially indefensible.’

  His mouth twisted a little wryly and he said with a note of surprise in his voice: ‘I don’t know why I should be talking to you like this - unless it is because I feel the need to justify an inability to commit murder.’

  He came to his feet, and as he did so Winter saw the moonlight glint on the butt of the long-barrelled pistol that he carried tucked into the folds of a wide silk waistband. ‘It is quite time you got back to the hotel,’ said Alex. ‘Miss Lottie has probably already raised the alarm, and I can see that I shall have some very complicated explaining to do to your chaperon.’