Shadow of the Moon

by M. M. Kaye

  But one night there had been other whispers.

  It had been early in the new year and Winter had awakened feeling cold. She slept alone in the wide bed, for Conway had taken to sleeping in his old room once more and seldom visited her. Rain had fallen during the day, but towards sunset the sky had cleared and now the moon rode high and shone into the windows of her room. Winter sat up and reached for the quilt that normally lay folded at the foot of her bed, but it was not there and she remembered that she had taken it into the dressing-room earlier that evening.

  She slipped out of bed, shivering, and pulling a light Cashmere shawl about her shoulders, crossed the room and pushed open the door of the dressing-room. She had left the quilt on the couch by the bathroom door and her hand was upon it when she became aware of the whispers, and stood still, listening: thinking for a moment that it was once again those ghostly, half-heard voices that she had imagined so often before.

  The sibilant sound held something of the faint, hollow clarity of an echo and seemed to come from the bathroom, the door into which had been left open. Winter stood clutching the quilt, shivering and a little frightened, until quite suddenly she realized that the voices were speaking in Hindustani and that the ghostly echoing quality was accounted for by the wide stone sluice pipe that carried off the bath water. Someone was squatting on the far side of the bathroom wall, safely out of sight and hearing of anyone within the house, but unaware of the fact that the exit of the sluice was acting as a speaking tube so that it seemed as though a soft, echoing voice whispered under the curved roof of the bathroom.

  Winter heard the bubbling sound of a hookah, and supposed that it must be Dunde Khan, the night-watchman, whiling away the long hours with a wakeful friend from the servants’ quarters. She had a sudden childish impulse - the first young or gay impulse she had experienced in three months - to creep into the bathroom and wail down the sluice pipe. The windowless wall would be in black shadow, and such a sound, coming out of nothingness, would startle old Dunde Khan considerably. She dismissed it reluctantly, visualizing the household aroused by a piercing yell of panic, and was turning away when the soft, disembodied voice whispered again in the silence:

  ‘He will be riding Chytuc or Shalini, for the Eagle has cast a shoe. And either one will show up far against the crops—’

  Winter stood still, her attention suddenly arrested. Those were Captain Randall’s horses. Was it Alex Randall whom the men in the darkness by the blind wall were speaking of? She waited, listening intently, and then a second voice spoke, less distinct this time but still audible:

  ‘But what of Niaz Mohammed Khan? It is seldom that Randall Sahib rides without him.’

  ‘That has been arranged. By now I think he will be suffering from a little sickness. Only a little - it would be unwise to arouse suspicions - but enough to keep him to his bed tomorrow. And the syce has a poisoned hand. I think the Sahib will ride alone.’

  Yet another voice spoke, but this time the speaker must have been further away, for Winter could not catch the whispered words. She found that she was shivering again, but not with cold, and she crept forward into the darkness, feeling for each step and with a hand outstretched before her. The window shutters were closed and there was no gleam of light in the dead blackness of the bathroom. The matting whispered under her bare feet, and then her foot touched the raised rim that surrounded the space where the bath stood and from where the sluice led out. She crouched down so that her head was nearer the level of the pipe, and started as a voice appeared to speak almost in her ear:

  ‘And what if he does not ride by way of Chunwar?’

  ‘He will. There is a report that the canal bank has been breached by Mohammed Afzal for his fields, and sitting by the office door I heard him tell the Commissioner Sahib that he would go on the morrow, when he rides at dawn, to see if the report be true. And as all know, to ride to Chunwar he must cross the nullah near the dhâk trees. There is no other way for a horseman. It will be thought an accident.’

  ‘But - but if I should fail—’ The voice had a shiver in it, either from cold or fear.

  ‘Thou wilt not fail. A child could not. Remember, there will be Mehan Lal also. And afterwards there will be witnesses to tell that the Sahib’s horse took fright, which all will believe, for did not he fall from his horse not three months agone and lie sick with a cracked head? When a man has been dragged by a foot that is caught in the stirrup of a bolting horse it is difficult to tell which injury caused his death. I have seen one such in my time.’

  Another voice growled: ‘Why not a gun or a knife, and be done? There are two score times a day when a man might bring him down with either.’

  ‘And be caught! No. Besides, we want no open killing. If he be killed openly it might be that word would go out that Lunjore is a place of trouble, and then, who knows, an Angrezi regiment might be sent here, and that we do not want. He must not be killed unless it be made to look an accident. That is the order that has been given.’

  There was a pause in which the hookah bubbled again, and a faint scent of tobacco smoke drifted into the cold blackness of the bathroom. Winter heard a man clear his throat and spit, and then the voice with the shiver in it said: ‘Why is this necessary? It is but one sahib, and there are many.’

  ‘There be many fools to one wise man,’ grunted the first speaker. ‘Up by Peshawar way they say that there are many sahibs - but only one Nikal Seyn (Nicholson). It is the same everywhere and with all men. If those who see where others are blind be removed from the path, the matter is thereby made easier.’

  ‘But - but this is a good man—’ Another voice, further away and almost inaudible. ‘He knows our ways, and though at times he is hot and very angry, he is just. He righted the matter of the crop tax, and Baloo Ram has said—’

  ‘Fool!’ - the epithet echoed hollowly in the cold room - ‘it is not those who spit upon us and treat us as dogs and slaves who are of danger to us, for they do but light a fire for their own burning. It is men such as Randall Sahib, who speak our tongues as one of us, and who have many friends amongst us and are seen to do justice to all men, who are a stumbling block in the path; because many of our people will listen to their words and many more follow them to the death, taking up arms even against those of their own blood. It is these who must first be slain.’

  There was a murmur of agreement and again the purr and bubble of the hookah. Winter’s teeth began to chatter with cold but she clenched them tightly and continued to crouch in the darkness, straining her ears to listen. But something had evidently startled the group outside, for she heard sounds of hurried movements and an unintelligible mutter, and after that for a long time there was silence and she did not know whether the men had gone or were still crouching against the wall. Then there was a sound of footsteps, an asthmatic cough and the rattling of a chain from beyond the shuttered window at her back, and she realized that it was old Dunde Khan, the night-watchman, making his rounds, whom the men by the wall must have heard approaching.

  She waited for perhaps a quarter of an hour longer, huddled in her shawl and numb with cold, but she heard no more voices, though the night was so silent that she could hear the sound of her own breathing and the rustle of a mouse that scuttled across the matting in the darkness. At last she stood up stiffly and crept back to bed, closing the dressing-room door softly behind her. She had forgotten about the quilt and she did not go to sleep, but dragged the blankets up about her and sat with her chin on her knees, shivering and thinking and waiting for the dawn.

  Chunwar … That was a village to the south of the city. She had ridden out that way before, though she did not often ride in that direction, for the first mile or so was crop-land threaded by water-courses, and to walk a fresh and restless horse along the narrow paths between the crops or along the crumbling edge of irrigation channels was tedious. Beyond that there lay several miles of open dusty plain dotted with kikar and dhâk trees; rough, stony ground, full of unexpected pot
holes and dry nullahs.

  The nullah that the man had spoken of cut diagonally across the plain a mile or so short of the village which lay behind a thick belt of trees. It was more a wide, steep-sided ravine, and riding to Chunwar from the direction of the cantonments there was only one practicable place where it might be crossed; where the narrow, rutted cart-track ran. The ravine was full of trees and scrub and high grass, and someone - perhaps several men - would be waiting there for Captain Randall to pass. It would be easy enough to unhorse a man in such a place, for they would see him coming from a long way off across the plain. A rope or a wire laid across the steep path and suddenly jerked taut. A man dropping from an overhanging bough onto the shoulders of a horseman passing beneath. There would be a dozen ways. And when they had dragged him off and stunned him, his foot would be jammed into a stirrup and his horse lashed forward to drag him at a gallop across the sharp stony plain.

  Winter had a sudden vision of Alex Randall’s brown, clean-cut face torn and battered into a shapeless mass of blood and dirt, and she shuddered as she stared into the darkness. The hours crawled past and the moonlight left the window and then the verandah beyond, and the room was dark and very cold. The cold began to make her drowsy, but she dared not sleep for fear that she should awake too late and not be in time to stop Alex from riding to his death.

  At long last a hint of grey crept into the blackness, and a cock crowed from somewhere behind the servants’ quarters at the far side of the compound. Winter lit a candle and began to dress herself hurriedly; her fingers clumsy from cold and weariness and a sudden fear that perhaps after all she might be too late. The thought terrified her and she ran through the quiet house and shook awake the sheeted, corpse-like figure of one of the house servants who slept in the hall at night, and told him to tell her syce that she wished her horse brought round immediately.

  The household were by now too accustomed to her early rising for the man to feel any surprise, and he stumbled off, yawning and adjusting his puggari, to deliver the message. Yusaf must have been up already, although it was almost an hour before her usual time for riding; and barely fifteen minutes later she was cantering down the long drive in the grey, aqueous light of the early morning. She had never been to Captain Randall’s bungalow, though she had passed it almost daily. There was a light burning in one of the rooms and a groom was walking a restive horse up and down in front of the verandah. So he had not yet left! Winter restrained her mount with difficulty, for Furiante was feeling fresh and above himself and did not relish being kept to a gentle canter; but Winter had no intention of going too far ahead. She reined him in and made him walk sedately down a narrow lane under a feathery canopy of tamarisk boughs while she listened for the sound of Chytuc’s hooves behind her.

  She did not know the identity of the men who had whispered against the wall last night, and she had heard only one name - an unfamiliar one. But the men would not have been there if some at least had not been connected with the Residency. One, or all of them, must be in the Commissioner’s employ. Winter could not believe that her syce Yusaf had been one of them, but she had been too frightened by what she had heard to take any chances, and she would have left him behind except that she had never ridden out without him before, and to do so now might cause comment.

  If it were the servants in Conway’s house - she did not think of it as hers - who plotted to murder Captain Randall, it would be just as well if it did not appear that she had warned him, for were it known that she had done so, it must follow that she had overheard them or that one of their number had betrayed them to her. She had no idea how to deal with that problem. Alex would know, but in the meantime she must avoid any appearance of deliberately turning him back from Chunwar, and must make it look as though she had met him by chance.

  The lane came out upon an open stretch of ground beyond which lay a mango-tope and a deep belt of crop-lands. To the right lay the city and the river while half a mile to the left lay the maidan (parade-ground) and the rifle-range. Winter drew rein a little beyond the mouth of the lane as though undecided which way to turn. She heard Shiraz, the horse Yusaf rode, fidgeting behind her, and then the sound that she had been waiting for, and turned; swinging Furiante so that Alex had no choice but to stop. He pulled up, and Winter saw that he was alone. So they had been right in that at least.

  She said on a note of surprise, and for the benefit of Yusaf: ‘Captain Randall! How fortunate that I should have met you. I have been wishing to see you. May I ride with you?’

  It was the first time that she had met or spoken to him since the night of his arrival in Lunjore almost three months previously, but if Alex was in any way surprised at being thus accosted he gave no sign of it. He bowed slightly and said in his most expressionless voice: ‘Certainly, Mrs Barton, if you wish. But I am riding to Chunwar this morning and I am afraid that you would not find it very amusing. The going is rather rough.’

  ‘Then perhaps you will ride with me to the maidan instead,’ said Winter, turning her horse’s head. ‘You can ride to Chunwar some other morning.’

  ‘I am sorry to sound disobliging,’ began Alex, ‘but—’

  Winter looked over her shoulder at him with raised brows, letting the reins lie loose, and under cover of her long habit used her spur on Furiante. Furiante needed no second invitation. He had been sidling and snorting and seething with impatience for the past quarter of an hour, and he responded to the spur with all the outraged velocity of an exploding rocket.

  Winter screamed once for Captain Randall’s benefit, and thereafter concentrated on remaining in the saddle without making the smallest attempt to arrest Furiante’s headlong flight. She was not, if the truth be known, in the least sure that she could do so if she wished, for Furiante had the bit between his teeth and was galloping as though he were pursued by seven devils.

  Mercifully the ground was level, and once they were through the trees the vast stretch of the maidan lay ahead. The path through the trees was a narrow one and branches whipped at Winter’s skirt; her hat fell off and her hair streamed out behind her like a black silk flag, and then they were racing across the open maidan. She could hear Chytuc’s hooves behind her and Alex’s voice shouting ‘Left! - pull left!’ and only then remembered the wide ditch that bounded the far side of the ground. She pulled on the near-side rein with all her strength, but she could not turn the maddened horse. And then Alex was gaining on her and she saw Chytuc’s black head and laid-back ears draw level with her, and Alex had caught her bridle and turned Furiante - still galloping at full stretch but tiring at last - away from the ditch and towards the open country. Two minutes later he had brought them to a stop.

  Winter bowed over Furiante’s neck in sudden weakness and felt Alex’s hard fingers grip her shoulder and heard him say: ‘Are you all right?’

  She lifted her head and looked at him - and saw the sudden comprehension in his face as he met that look. His hand dropped and he said incredulously: ‘Did you do that on purpose?’

  Winter straightened up and drew a deep breath to steady herself. ‘I - I had to. I’m sorry. But I had to talk to you. I had to! Tell Yusaf to keep behind.’

  Alex looked at her for a long moment. His eyes were black with anger and his mouth had closed in a hard, unpleasant line. He threw a curt word of command over his shoulder and touched Chytuc with his heel, and the two horses moved forward at a sober pace, Yusaf falling back out of earshot and following at a discreet distance.

  Alex said curtly: ‘You had better do something about your hair. Give me the reins.’

  He leant across and took them from her, and watched her as she attempted to gather up and re-roll the shining mass into some sort of order. The anger went out of his face and he smiled a little crookedly:

  ‘You might almost be one of the Spartans “combing their long hair for death” in the pass of Thermopylae. Don’t look so tragic. What is it?’

  Winter said: ‘I - I’m sorry about - about that, but I had to st
op you from going to Chunwar.’ Her voice was all at once small and unsteady and she glanced at him and saw that his brows had drawn together and his eyes held a look that was hard to read. She said abruptly: ‘Why did you ride alone today? Doesn’t your orderly usually ride with you?’

  ‘He is ill,’ said Alex briefly. ‘Why do you ask?’

  Winter drew a little gasping breath. ‘Because - because that means it is true. I didn’t imagine it all.’

  Alex looked at her, frowning. ‘What is true? What is all this?’

  ‘They were going to kill you,’ said Winter. ‘In the ravine on the road to Chunwar. I heard them talking last night, and I had to stop you. But - but I did not want them to know that I knew, so when you would not come with me I had to do something to make you. That is why I made Furiante bolt, and pretended that I was being run away with, so that you—’

  Alex said: ‘Wait a minute. Do you mind saying that all over again, and slowly? I must be singularly slow-witted this morning.’