Danger at Dahlkari

by Jennifer Wilde

  I couldn’t go on. The tears came in spite of all my efforts to hold them back. Reggie looked horrified, then embarrassed, and then he hurried around the desk and folded me into his arms.

  “There now,” he crooned, “there. Don’t you cry, darlin’. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal, but it’s over now. Everything’s all right. Buck up now, you hear? Do. Here, take this handkerchief.”

  “Bully!” Sally hissed.

  I dabbed at my eyes, humiliated to have given way like that, particularly in front of a stranger. The tall, handsome lieutenant looked awkward and embarrassed, clearly at a loss. Reggie released me and gave Sally a thunderous look and told her she’d better show some respect. Sally gazed at him haughtily, not deigning to reply.

  “Well now,” Reggie said, moving back behind his desk.

  “I suspect we’d better get all the details, sir,” Lieutenant Stephens said. “We’ll want to send some men—”

  “Think I don’t know my job, Stephens! I was putting down rebellious natives while you were still spitting out your baby food! These Thugs are a bothersome lot, but we’ll soon see the last of ’em! Damn that Gordon! I wonder where he was? Uppity young ruffian! Imagine them sending him to Dahlkari, putting him in charge of rounding up the Thugs. Lot of good he’s done, I must say. Fellow’s never even around!”

  “I believe he’s on another of his secret missions, sir,” Lieutenant Stephens said. “He left a week or so ago.”

  “I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all! Fellow’s sent here with a set of official papers giving him complete authority—he doesn’t have to take orders from anyone, but he can give ’em to everyone. The papers don’t even give the bounder’s rank.”

  I wondered who this mysterious Gordon might be. Just thinking about him was plainly causing Reggie to work himself into another rage. Lieutenant Stephen cleared his throat and drew himself up, looking very official and grave.

  “The young ladies are exhausted, sir. Perhaps if you intend to question them—”

  Reggie glared at his aide with flashing eyes, his leathery cheeks beginning to flush. Lieutenant Stephens was utterly unperturbed in the face of his superior’s obvious wrath. Stephens, I suspected, knew exactly how to handle him. After a moment Reggie gave a deep sigh and shook his head, a martyr, terribly misused and put-upon.

  “Perhaps you’d better tell me all about it, Lauren,” he said quietly. “We’ll want to get after those villains as soon as possible. Just relax and start at the beginning.”

  I tried to give him a calm, detailed account of all that had happened, but Sally kept interrupting with highly dramatic, colorful embellishments. Both Reggie and the lieutenant looked alarmed when we told them about the native who had come to our rescue, asking for a full description, asking why he hadn’t brought us on in to Dahlkari. It was clear they both considered him almost as menacing as the Thugs. Lieutenant Stephens took careful notes on everything we told them, and when we were finished he asked me to draw a map of the campsite where the attack had taken place. I had hardly begun when the door burst open and Dollie flew into the room, plump cheeks flushed, black ringlets bobbing.

  “Reggie McAllister!” she cried. “How dare you not inform me that the girls had arrived! I don’t believe it! I happened to pass Kulloo in the hall upstairs and happened, just happened to ask him if someone had come. I said I thought I’d heard someone come in and he said, yes, Missy, the tall lieutenant and two English girls. Two English girls! And you’ve kept them in this office all this time and—”

  “Steady, luv,” he said patiently. “No need to get in an uproar.”

  “Don’t you try to humor me! It’s inexcusable. Inexcusable! Lauren, oh, you dear child, at last—and this is Sally, isn’t it? We weren’t expecting you for—” Noticing our tattered condition for the first time, she gasped, taking a step backward, hand clutched dramatically to her breast. “My word! What’s happened? You both look like you’ve been in a brawl!”

  “We were attacked by Thugs,” Sally said calmly.

  “Thugs!”

  “They wiped out the whole caravan. Miss Lauren and I were the only two survivors, and we probably would have died of thirst if this fierce-looking native hadn’t come along and—”

  Dollie listened with horrified fascination as Sally gave her a rousing account of our ordeal, and when she had finished Dollie patted her girlish black ringlets and frowned and said it was horrible, just horrible, much too horrible to dwell on. She gave both of us a hug and said we were wonderfully brave, genuine heroines, and it must have been dreadful, dreadful, but we were here now and now we must forget it all and have larks and laughter and captivate every man in sight.

  “You will, too,” she promised. “I have such plans. Do you realize there are over two hundred bachelors at the garrison? And not a single unmarried girl around—oh dear, I forgot Prunella Dobson. I’m always forgetting Prunella. She’s Captain Dobson’s girl—thin as a maypole and just as stiff. Prays a lot, poor thing. Wears spectacles. You two girls are going to start a riot.”

  Dollie was just as I remembered her, small, plump, fussy, wearing an outlandish pink taffeta dress festooned with ruffles and much too young for her. With her preposterous black ringlets, her bright brown eyes and pouting cherry-red lips, she looked like a rotund, animated doll, a flighty creature no one would dream of taking seriously. Aflutter with gaiety and gossip, she seemed to breeze through life on wings of frivolity, but I knew full well that her frivolity concealed a deep reservoir of strength and wisdom. It was Dollie who was responsible for her husband’s success, Dollie who kept her head during any kind of crisis and calmly took over while others panicked. A veteran of over thirty years of rugged military life under primitive and frequently dangerous conditions, she had seen her share of crises and had come through them all with merriment undiminished.

  “You’re both about to drop, poor dears. Interrogating them like that! Have you no sense of decency? Sometimes I wonder about you, Reggie, and you, too, Michael Stephens! Food, that’s what they need. Hot food, and hot baths, too, as soon as possible. You men go ahead and file your reports and round up your suspects or do whatever you do. We’re going upstairs now. High time, too!”

  “There are—uh—one or two more questions—” Reggie began, but his wife rounded on him like a hen whose chicks have been threatened.

  “Not another word from you, Reggie McAllister! The very idea of treating these poor girls this way. I’ll have something more to say about that later on, Sir, you can count on it! Come, girls. Your trunks arrived days ago. Everything’s all unpacked, your rooms prepared. Thank goodness for that. I must say, Lauren, you brought enough books! I do hope, dear, you don’t plan to read them. A girl your age? All those deep, dreary things? It can’t be healthy. I never was happy about sending you off to that wretched school.…”

  It was after one o’clock in the afternoon when the timid young Indian girl tapped on my door and came in with a tray. The comfortable, undeniably English room was a nest of blue-gray shadows, heavy furniture barely visible, large mirror a murky silver blur, and then the girl opened the shutters and dazzling silvery-yellow rays streamed in, gleaming on dark mahogany, making pools on the worn gray carpet with its pink and blue patterns. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. Dark, lovely, extremely shy, the girl smiled and indicated the tray she had placed on the bedside table, and then she slipped quietly out of the room, her apricot silk sari rustling softly.

  I could hear a bird warbling throatily in the back garden and, in the distance, the sound of soldiers drilling. I yawned and stretched, feeling gloriously young and healthy and strong. It was like awakening after a bad dream, everything that had happened receding into a dream haze, barely recalled. I ate the breakfast, and it was delicious, and I performed my ablutions and sat at the dressing table brushing my long chestnut hair until it gleamed. What luxury to linger before the mirror, studying my reflection, noting the faint pink flush on my cheekbones, the lazy contentment in my
blue eyes, and what luxury to open the door of the enormous mahogany wardrobe and find all the dresses I had purchased in Bath, to select one at leisure, a beige muslin with narrow bronze stripes, soft cloth clinging snugly to bosom and waist, full skirt billowing over ruffled petticoats. The square-cut neckline was modestly low, the puffed sleeves just off the shoulder.

  In the mirror I saw a very attractive young girl in a very becoming frock, her long hair gleaming, a pensive smile on her soft pink lips, utterly unlike the tattered, begrimed creature who had arrived at the garrison the night before. I thought about the handsome blond lieutenant, and I was glad I was attractive, pleased that the frock was so becoming. Would I see him today? I felt a curious glow, a mild elation, and I realized it was anticipation.

  Anticipation? What could it possibly matter whether I saw him or not? I had hardly noticed him last night. Well, yes, I had, too. I had noticed that cleft chin, that full, mobile mouth, the Roman nose and wide cheekbones and those deep blue eyes, dark brown brows arching above them. I had noticed the heavy wave of dark blond hair that kept spilling over his forehead. Tall, terribly tall, with the lean, muscular physique of an athlete, he was almost indecently good-looking and so very stern and impressive in his uniform. The girls back at school would have carried on like a flock of silly geese, tittering and pretending to swoon, but I was much too sensible. I wasn’t at all interested, I told myself, and I promptly and forcibly put Lieutenant Michael Stephens out of my mind, irritated at myself for having thought about him in the first place.

  The large rambling house was silent as I went downstairs. I wondered were Sally was. Her room had been empty when I had looked in. Reggie would be at his office at regimental headquarters, of course, but surely Dollie hadn’t left the house. I heard no merry chatter, no tinkling laughter. I wandered through the friendly, cluttered rooms downstairs: heavy plush sofas and marble-topped tables, brass andirons and lace doilies and potted ferns. Cool, shadowy, mote-filled rays of sunlight stealing through the louvers of the closed shutters, it might have been a comfortable middle-class dwelling in the English suburbs, only an occasional Oriental ornament to indicate we were in India.

  I met Kulloo, the houseboy-butler, in the front hall. Wearing a turban, a tailored yellow jacket and loose white trousers, he nodded gravely and, when I inquired about Dollie, informed me that she was in the back garden. He pointed to the door at the far end of the hall and then slipped quietly into the drawing room. As I reached the back of the house I could hear a noisy clatter from the kitchen and smell delicious, spicy smells as something cooked. A large, overweight Indian woman with steel gray hair and a belligerent expression opened the door to peer out at me, her blue cotton smock dusted with flour, a butcher knife clutched in her hand. For a moment I thought she was going to attack me with the knife, so fierce was her expression, but she merely jabbered something in her native dialect and then slammed the door with vicious force. All native servants obviously weren’t calm and inscrutable, I reflected, smiling to myself as I stepped out onto the rear veranda.

  The back lawn was spread with moving patterns of sunlight and shadow as the sun streamed through the leafy shade trees. The flower beds were decidedly untidy, tall purple hollyhocks vying with pink daisies and blue larkspurs. Several gigantic gray banyan trees grew at the foot of the property, their exposed roots like arthritic fingers. In wide-brimmed yellow straw hat, soiled white gloves and a lilac-colored dress adorned with purple frills, Dollie was on her knees, clipping at the grass edging one of the flowerbeds. Spying a weed, she gave a little cry, uprooted it violently and tossed it over her shoulder. I moved down the steps and, seeing me, she waved gaily and climbed to her feet.

  “There you are!” she called, brushing at her skirt. “I was afraid you’d sleep all day, so I sent Blossom in with a tray. Sleep well? I must say you look it—you’re a picture of blooming health, dear, and so well developed! Oh, for a figure like that again, not that I ever had one.” Dollie’s conversation was invariably scattered with excursions, scraps of light chatter sprinkled with apparently unrelated observations, “Of course it didn’t really matter,” she continued. “I had flair, and that’s so much more important.”

  “You still have it, Dollie,” I assured her.

  “Oh, dear, do you really think so? I worry, you see. Being the wife of the commanding officer is such a responsibility, and I’m afraid I’m not serious enough. I should be haughty and imperious and make everyone kowtow to me—that’s the way it’s done, you see—but I’d much rather gossip and have a good time.”

  “I’m sure everyone adores you.”

  “They think I’m a foolish, flighty creature without an ounce of sense, but I must say I keep things organized. Social life is always in danger of deterioration out here—it’s not easy being so far away from home, even in a comfortable garrison like this. A number of the army wives tend to lose their perspective—it’s hard on their nerves, you see, particularly the younger ones. Some of them fall apart, have to be shipped home. Some of them take to drink, and some—well, some amuse themselves with men who are not their husbands. I could tell you tales, dear. Such a responsibility,” she repeated. “I try to keep things jolly, keep the petty feuds and rivalries at a minimum. One must try to be a credit to Queen and Country.”

  Dollie peeled off the soiled gloves and removed her straw hat, reaching up to pat the foolish ringlets that framed either side of her face. She led me over to a white table under the shade of one of the trees, matching chairs around it. “Let’s sit and chat for a while, dear. I told Blossom to bring out some iced lemonade—oh, here she comes!”

  Dollie plopped down in one of the chairs, and I sat facing her. The timid Indian girl in the apricot sari moved gracefully across the grass bearing a silver tray with two glasses and a frosted pitcher of lemonade, ice tinkling. She set the tray down, made a lovely half bow and moved back toward the veranda with the poise of a young fawn.

  “She’s a treasure,” Dollie confided. “Just fourteen years old, a local girl. Her brothers and sisters come to help out when we have parties. Charming children, efficient, too.”

  “Speaking of servants, I think I somehow upset your cook. She glared at me as I came out.”

  “Olana? That woman! She’s a gem, a real gem, but so temperamental! You’d think she ran the entire household. She’s put out because there are two more people to cook for. She’ll calm down. Been with us for years, ever since Bombay. So has Kulloo. He’s not temperamental, but I fear he’s a dreadful snob, very conscious of Reggie’s position. Here, let me pour this lemonade. You have no idea how difficult it is to get ice.”

  “I wonder where Sally is,” I remarked. “I looked into her room before I came down, but she wasn’t there.”

  “That one!” Dollie exclaimed. “She was up bright and early, bustling about like a young colt! Chattered all through breakfast—ate enough for three people. I’ve never seen Reggie take to anyone so quickly. Teased her dreadfully, and she came right back—such cheek! She said she was interested in meeting some of the men, and I’ll be bound if Reggie didn’t take her off to headquarters with him.”

  “That’s Sally,” I said.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what to make of her, Lauren. I’ve rarely encountered a lass more engaging, but this interest in men.” Dollie shook her head, her large brown eyes bewildered. “Of course, there are plenty of them about.”

  “Sally came along as my maid, Dollie, but—actually she’s more friend than maid. I—I couldn’t have done without her.”

  “I understand perfectly, dear, and she’ll be treated as an equal in this household, never you fear. I rather imagine, though, we’ll have to find her a husband rather quickly.”

  “I don’t fancy she’ll need much help. If I know Sally she already has half a dozen swains trailing after her, eating out of her hand.”

  Dollie looked rather alarmed, and then she smiled, obviously delighted by the girl but feeling she must show at least a token disa
pproval. Taking a sip of lemonade, she set her glass down and sighed. “If you only knew how lovely it is to have you girls here. It’s going to be such fun! Things have been dull, dull, dull of late what with all these futile expeditions against the Thugs.”

  Dollie looked up at me, alarmed, afraid she’d said something wrong. I gave her a reassuring smile and reached across to squeeze her hand.

  “It happened,” I said. “There’s no use trying to pretend it didn’t. We—we survived, and it’s over now. I—I’ll never be able to forget the things I saw, but—I’m made of pretty strong stuff, Dollie. I’m not one of your wilting Victorian maidens. You needn’t be afraid to mention Thugs around me. I imagine I shall be hearing quite a lot about them.”

  “You’re a brave, brave girl.”

  “I’m sensible,” I said quietly. “Swooning and having hysterics aren’t going to erase anything that happened. I—I’m not unfeeling, please don’t think that. I just know I have to—to go on in spite of it.”

  “Of course you do, dear. These dreadful Thugs—” Dollie stared across the garden, not really seeing it, her bright red mouth a tight line. She finally turned back to me with serious brown eyes.

  “This is their last stronghold, you see. The secret society of Thuggee was thriving all over India. It’s been pretty well broken up everywhere else—Captain Sleeman and his men have done such a tremendous job of bringing those awful assassins to justice—but it’s still thriving in this area. No one’s been able to break their cover. Someone very powerful is behind them—some say it might even be a white man who’s in league with them and helping to provide cover for a share of the spoils. Poor Reggie has done all he could, but he’s had no luck. That’s why they sent that terrible Robert Gordon out here.”

  “Gordon? I think Reggie mentioned him last night.”

  Dollie puffed up like an angry robin, eyes snapping.

  “That man’s a thorn in all our sides!” she exclaimed. “So arrogant and aloof, so independent! He’s on Sleeman’s staff, and he’s sent out here with special papers giving him full authority to handle the Thuggee situation. He doesn’t have to take orders from anyone, is free to do exactly as he pleases! He disappears for long periods of time, Gordon does, and heaven only knows what he’s up to while he’s away. Secret missions, ‘undercover work,’ he calls it. He doesn’t confide in anyone, not even Reggie. It’s scandalous!”