by M. M. Kaye
‘Saha-gamana,’ whispered Ash without turning. ‘Suttee… The Rana is dying, and when he dies they mean to see that his wives are burnt with him. I must see the Commissioner – the Colonel – I must…’
‘Ah, chut!’ said Sarji impatiently. ‘Do not distress yourself, my friend. They will not do it. It is against the law.’
Ash jerked round to glare at him. ‘You do not know Bhithor!’ – his voice had shot up, and Gul Baz, appearing in a doorway with a tray of refreshments, froze at the sound of that hated word – ‘or the Rana. Or –’ He broke off and, turning, leapt down the verandah steps shouting for Kulu Ram to bring Dagobaz back.
A moment later he was again in the saddle and galloping down the drive like a maniac, raising a cloud of dust and grit and leaving Sarji, Gul Baz and Kulu Ram to stare after him in open-mouthed dismay.
38
‘I can only suppose that you have taken leave of your senses,’ said Colonel Pomfret austerely. ‘No, of course I cannot send any of my men into Bhithor. Such an action would be quite out of order; nor, I may say, would I do so if it were not. Matters of this nature are best left to the civil authorities or the police, and not to the army; though I would advise you against bursting in on anyone else in this unceremonious manner with some wild rumour that no one in their right minds would take seriously. I cannot understand what you are doing here, anyway. I thought you were on leave and off shooting somewhere.’
Two white patches showed on Ash's lean cheeks, but he managed to keep his voice under control and said briefly: ‘I was, sir.’
‘Then you had better go back there. No point in hanging about cantonments doing nothing. Haven't they been able to arrange your reservations on the trains yet?’
‘Yes, sir. They're for next Thursday. But –’
‘Hmm. Wouldn't have given you leave if I'd known that you'd be staying here at a loose end for all this time. Well, if you've said all you want to say, you will oblige me by leaving. I have work to do. Good-day.’
Ash withdrew, and disregarding the Colonel's advice, called on the Commissioner; only to find that the Commissioner shared Colonel Pomfret's views – particularly on the subject of junior officers who demanded to see him towards mid-day and on being told that the hour was inconvenient, and they should either come later in the day or earlier on the following one, burst into his presence with some cock-and-bull story and a demand that he, the Commissioner, should take immediate action on it.
‘Poppycock!’ snorted the Commissioner. ‘I don't believe a word of it: and if you knew these people as well as I do, you wouldn't either. It don't do to believe more than a fraction of what they tell you, as most of ‘em will always tell a lie rather than speak the truth, and trying to find out what really happened is like drawing eye-teeth or hunting for that proverbial needle in a haystack. This friend of yours – Guptar or Gobind or whatever his name is – is either pulling your leg or else he's too gullible by half. I can assure you that no one nowadays would dare to be party to such a thing as you suggest, and it's easy to see that your credulous friend has been the victim of a hoax. And you too, I fancy! Well, let me remind you that this is 1878 and that the law against suttee has been in force for over forty years. It is not likely to be flouted now.’
‘But you don't know Bhithor!’ cried Ash, as he had to both Sarji and Colonel Pomfret. ‘Bhithor doesn't belong to this century, let alone this half of it. I don't believe they have taken in that there is such a thing as the British Raj, or if they have, that it has anything whatever to do with them.’
‘Gammon,’ snapped the Commissioner, annoyed (he lunched at noon and it was already past that), ‘you exaggerate. It is obvious that –’
‘But you haven't been there,’ interrupted Ash.
‘What has that to say to anything? Bhithor is neither in my Province nor under my jurisdiction, so even were I inclined to place any credence in this ridiculous tale, which I fear I am not, I could still do nothing to help you. Your informant would have been better advised to approach the Political Officer responsible for that section of Rajputana – that is, if he really believes his own story, which I doubt.’
‘But sir, I have told you that he cannot get any message out of Bhithor,’ persisted Ash desperately. ‘There is no telegraph or post office, and though they may allow his servant to come here to buy medicines and drugs, they would never permit him to go anywhere else. If you would only send a telegram to the Political Agent –’
‘I shall do no such thing,’ said the Commissioner testily, and rose to his feet to show that the interview was at an end. ‘It has never been the policy of my Department to interfere with the administration of other provinces or to instruct those in charge of them, who are, believe me, more than able to deal competently with their own affairs.’
Ash said slowly: ‘Then… you will not do anything?’
‘It is not a question of “will not”, but “cannot”. And now, if you will excuse me –’
Ash ignored the request and stayed where he was, arguing, pleading and explaining for a further five minutes. But to no avail, for the Commissioner had merely lost his temper, and having informed him tersely that he was meddling in matters that he did not understand (and that were, in any case, no concern of his) had ended by ordering him to leave immediately or be forcibly removed by the guard.
Ash left, realizing that he had wasted the best part of two hours and that if he had had his wits about him he would have sent off a telegram before attempting to talk to anyone.
The Telegraph Office was closed to the public during the time of the mid-day meal and afternoon siesta, but he routed out an indignant clerk and induced him to send off four urgent telegrams: one to Kaka-ji, another to Jhoti, the third to that same Political Officer who had been so unhelpful in the matter of the Rana's chicanery over the marriage contracts, and finally (in case that obstinate official proved to be as useless now as he had been on that occasion) a fourth to the Honourable the Agent to the Governor-General, Rajputana – familiarly known as the A.G.G. – in Ajmer: an afterthought that was to prove disastrous, though it had seemed an excellent idea at the time. But then Ash had no idea who the present incumbent was, and had not taken the trouble to find out.
It had not been at all easy to cajole the Eurasian telegraph clerk into transmitting these telegrams. The contents of all four had alarmed him, and he had protested strongly against ‘such high matters' being sent in clear. Messages of this kind ought, in his opinion, to be sent in code or not at all. ‘I am telling you, sir, that telegrams, they are not secret things. By no means. They are getting sent on from one tar-khana to another, and veree many cheeky fellows are seeing them by the way – peons and such-like too – and they will be chitter-chattering about them to one and all.’
‘Good,’ said Ash shortly, ‘I'm delighted to hear it. The more talk the better.’
‘But sir -!’ wailed the clerk, ‘there will be much unfortunate gossip and scandal. And what if this Rana-Sahib should not after all die, and you are finding yourself in loads of trouble for misrepresentation and libels and such things? And me too, because I am sending out these accusations? I may be blamed for this and get into hot waters, and if I am losing my job -’
It had taken fifteen minutes and fifty rupees to overcome the clerk's scruples, and the telegrams had been sent. After which Ash had gone to the bungalow of Mr Pettigrew, District Superintendent of Police, in the hope (a faint one by now) that the police might prove more helpful than the military or the civil arm.
Mr Pettigrew had certainly been less sceptical than either Colonel Pomfret or the Commissioner, but he too had pointed out that this was a matter for the authorities in Rajputana, adding that they probably knew a good deal more about what went on there than Lieutenant Pelham-Martyn would seem to think. However he had at least promised to send a personal telegram to a colleague in Ajmer – one Carnaby, who was a personal friend of his.
‘Nothing official, you understand,’ said Pettigrew. �
��One doesn't want to stick one's neck out and sound like a meddling nosey-parker. And to be honest, I can't say that I take this pigeon-post message of yours all that seriously. You'll probably find it's all a hum. On the other hand, it's just possible that there might be something in it, so there's no harm in dropping a hint to Tim Carnaby – just to be on the safe side. He's not the type of fellow who prefers to let sleeping dogs lie, and he'll certainly see that it's looked into. I'll get a wire sent off to him at once, and you can be sure that if anything needs to be done he'll do it.’
Ash thanked him with a good deal of fervour and rode away feeling much easier in his mind. After the agonizing frustration of the morning, it was reassuring to find someone who did not dismiss Gobind's warning as pure nonsense, and was actually prepared to do something about it – even though that something was no more than an unofficial hint to a personal friend.
But as matters turned out he might have saved himself the visit, for the D.S.P's efforts on his behalf came to nothing. The friend had gone on leave three days before the telegram was dispatched, and owing to Pettigrew's anxiety to avoid any suggestion of interfering with another man's work, the information it contained had been presented in such casual and chatty terms that it. failed to convey any suggestion of urgency. The officer deputizing for the absent Tim Carnaby had, in consequence, not thought it worthwhile to send it on and had thrust it into a drawer with other letters that he could read on his return.
The effects of Ash's own telegrams had been equally abortive. Jhoti, with Kaka-ji's approval, had sent one of his own to the A.G.G. Rajputana, on receipt of which the A.G.G. had in turn wired the British Resident in Karidkote, whose reply had been non-committal. It was, he said, well known that the Rana's health was not of the best, but this was the first anyone in Karidkote had heard that he might be dying, and he had reason to believe that the source of this information was not entirely trustworthy. Anything emanating from that particular quarter should be treated with reserve, as the officer in question not only appeared to have too much influence over the young Maharajah, but was by reputation both eccentric and undisciplined.
Unfortunately, these observations had arrived in Ajmer only hours before a letter from the Political Officer; and taken together the two communications had effectively destroyed Ash's credibility – and with it any chance that his warnings would be taken seriously. For by an unkind quirk of fate the newly appointed Agent to the Governor-General, who had taken office only a few weeks previously, happened to be that same Ambrose Podmore-Smyth – now Sir Ambrose – who six years earlier had married Belinda Harlowe. And what with Belinda and her father and the gossips of the Peshawar Club, everything he had heard of young Pelham-Martyn had inspired him with a dislike for his wife's former suitor that time had done nothing to eradicate.
Sir Ambrose strongly disapproved of Englishmen who ‘went native’, and his wife's garbled account of her ex-admirer's early history (it was perhaps fortunate that Belinda could not recall the name of the state in which Ash had lived – and very little else either) had scandalized her husband. No wonder the fellow lacked steadiness and a proper sense of moral values, and had brought disgrace upon his race and his regiment by absconding into tribal territory with a handful of dismissed sepoys. One could only hope that he would meet a speedy and merciful death there and no more would be heard of him.
Sir Ambrose had been unpleasantly surprised to find that a telegram from Ahmadabad, sent in clear and containing startling allegations, was from someone signing himself Pelham-Martyn. He could not believe it was the same Pelham-Martyn, but as the name was an uncommon one it might be worthwhile to check, and he had directed his Personal Assistant to do so immediately; and also to see that a copy of the telegram was sent to the Political Officer whose area included Bhithor, inviting his comments. After which, conscious of having done all that could be expected of him, he had retired to his wife's drawing-room for a pre-tiffin drink, where he happened to mention the odd coincidence of that name from the past.
‘You mean Ashton?’ cried Belinda (a Belinda, alas, whom Ash would barely have recognized). ‘Then he did get back safely after all! Well I must say, I never thought he would. Nor did anyone else. Papa said it was good riddance of bad rubbish. But I don't think Ashton was bad, only rather wild. Just fancy his turning up again.’
‘He has not “turned up”,’ said Sir Ambrose tartly. ‘There is no reason to believe it's the same fellow. Might be a relative: though I doubt it. Probably no connection at all, and we shall find –’
‘Oh fiddlesticks!’ interrupted his wife. ‘Of course it's Ashton – it's so like him. He was always getting mixed up with things that were none of his business; and with natives, too. Now here he is doing it again. It must be him. It couldn't be anyone else. I wonder what on earth he's doing in this part of the world? Do you suppose he's still…’ She broke off, and leaning back in her chair, surveyed her lord and master with a dissatisfied eye.
Time and the climate of India had not been kind to Sir Ambrose. They had changed him from a portly, self-satisfied man into an obese, bald and insufferably pompous one, and Belinda, studying that purple countenance with its fringe of grey whiskers and plethora of chins, caught herself wondering if it had been worth it. She was Lady Podmore-Smyth, the wife of a tolerably rich and important man, and mother of two healthy children (both girls, which was not her fault though Ambrose seemed to think otherwise) and yet she was not happy.
Life as a Resident's lady had not been nearly as amusing as she had imagined: she missed the gaiety of a military station in British India, disliked the whole tedious and painful business of child-bearing, found her husband dull and existence in a native state boring beyond words. ‘I wonder,’ mused Belinda aloud, ‘what he looks like now? He used to be very handsome… and so madly in love with me.’
She preened herself complacently, sublimely unaware that the years had been even more unkind to her than they had to her elderly husband, and that she was no longer the slim slip of a girl who had once been the belle of Peshawar, but a stout matron with faded blond hair, an acid tongue and a discontented expression. ‘Of course, that was why he did it – ran away from his regiment I mean. I've always known that he did it because of me and that he went in search of death; or to forget. Poor Ashton… I have often thought that if only I had been a little kinder –’
‘Rubbish,’ snorted Sir Ambrose. ‘If you have given so much as one moment's thought to him from that day to this, I confess I should be exceedingly surprised. As for his being madly in love with you… Now, now, Belinda, there's no need to make a scene about it; I'm sorry I mentioned the fellow. I should have known better… I am not shouting –!’
He stamped out of the room in a fury, banging the door behind him, and was not best pleased when his Personal Assistant's inquiries disclosed that the author of that impertinent telegram was indeed none other than the Ashton Pelham-Martyn who had once aspired to his wife's hand and subsequently caused a great deal of talk by behaving in a manner that could only be described as unbalanced. Nor was his temper improved when later on the Political Officer's reply to his request for comments on the contents of the telegram arrived.
Ash's chickens were coming home to roost with a vengeance, for Major Spiller, the Political Officer (who had never forgiven what he had taken to be a rude and insufferably high-handed letter, sent from Bhithor over two years ago), began by saying that he himself had received a similar telegram from the same source, and went on to comment at length – and forcibly.
He had already, wrote Spiller, had some experience of Captain, now Lieutenant, Pelham-Martyn in the past, and considered him to be an officious trouble-maker bent on creating a scandal and causing dissension. A few years ago the fellow had done his utmost to disrupt relations between the Government of India and the State of Bhithor (which until then had always been cordial in the extreme) and had it not been for his, Spiller's, firmness, he might well have succeeded in doing so. Now, once again, for rea
sons best known to himself, he was endeavouring to stir up trouble. However, as no reliance could be placed on anything he said, Major Spiller for one intended to treat these wild allegations with the contempt they deserved: particularly in view of the fact that those whose business it was to know what went on in Bhithor had assured him that the Rana's illness was no more than a slight recurrence of the malarial fever with which he had been plagued at intervals during the past few years, and there was not the least danger of his succumbing to it. The whole thing was a mare's nest, and it might be as well if Lieutenant Pelham-Martyn was given a sufficiently strong reprimand to discourage him from any further meddling in matters that were no concern of his; and it was inexcusable that…
Sir Ambrose had not bothered to read further, since the writer's opinion merely confirmed his own: Belinda had been right and that insufferable young blackguard was at his old tricks again. Sir Ambrose threw the entire correspondence into the waste-paper basket, and having dictated a soothing reply to His Highness the Maharajah of Karidkote, assuring him that there was no need for anxiety, sent a frosty letter to Army Headquarters, complaining of Lieutenant Pelham-Martyn's ‘subversive activities’ and suggesting that it might be as well if his present interests and past history were investigated with a view to his being deported as an Undesirable British Subject.
At about the same time as his telegram (together with Jhoti's, and the Resident's and the Political Officer's comments) was being consigned to the Honourable the Agent to the Governor-Genera's waste-paper basket, Ash was greeting a tired and dusty traveller who had arrived that morning from Bhithor.
Manilal had set out for Ahmadabad less than twenty minutes after Gobind had released the second pigeon. But while the pigeon had covered the distance in a few hours, Manilal had taken the best part of a week, for his horse had strained a tendon and thereafter he had been forced to go slowly, the roads being rutted by cart-wheels and deep in dust, which did not make for easy going at the best of times.