The Rose of Tibet

by Lionel Davidson

  ‘He got the nurse for you, did he?’

  ‘Sister Angelica, yes. She’s a nice woman. Her Latin’s a bit better than her English, you know,’ he said, laughing and then stopping nervously as though expecting something to come on again. He saw the packet on my knee.

  ‘Well, you’ll have read it, eh? What do you think of it?’

  ‘Very interesting. There were one or two points I wanted to raise. I don’t know if you’re quite up to it today. …’

  ‘If I can answer you.’

  There was a certain saintly calm about him as he lay on the pillow. I thought I’d better leave the business of the copyright for the moment.

  I said, ‘One of the things was the timing. I couldn’t quite follow when everything happened.’

  ‘Well, he went away in January 1950 and came back in June ’51. He was away seventeen months. Isn’t that made clear at the end?’

  ‘I haven’t read the end. You’ll remember I only took the first two notebooks. You were reading the others.’

  ‘Oh, was I? Yes. Yes. They’re giving me drugs to make me sleep, you know. It mixes you up a bit. Well, I think you’d better take them away with you. I doubt if I’ll want to read them again. … I’m not quite sure where she’s put them,’ he said, trying to sit up.

  ‘Don’t bother about it now. I’ll ask her.’

  ‘Yes. Do that. She’s a nice woman. Her Latin’s a bit better than her English, you know,’ he said.

  I perceived, with a slight sinking of spirits, that I had not picked quite the right day.

  I said, ‘Mr Oliphant, I don’t want to tire you out. I think I’d better come back again.’

  ‘Not a bit. You wanted to ask some questions.’

  ‘They’ll keep. It was about the timing of events actually in India and Tibet. It’s probably all covered in the other notebooks.’

  ‘Ah, well, no it isn’t,’ he said, struggling up again with a rather more focused look on his face. ‘I see what you mean. That gave me a bit of trouble, actually. I just wrote down what he told me, but when I read through I saw how very confusing it was. … He couldn’t account for ten days, you know – gave us an awful problem. But we were able to work most things out roughly in relation to other dates. Also I got on to a man at the Sorbonne – I think his name is Bourgès- Vallerin. You ought to get in touch with him if you’re interested.’

  ‘I wrote down Bourgès-Vallerin, Sorbonne on the envelope. ’What is he – a Tibetan specialist?’

  ‘Yes, Tibet, China. He reads all the papers and so on, a most invaluable man. He put me right on the trouble with the Chinese. Some scholars have a theory about the Chinese invasion. They went in, you know, with eight armies – an enormous force for the kind of opposition they could expect. The feeling is that they merely wanted to get the soldiers out of China for a bit.’

  ‘Houston was there, was he, during the invasion?’

  ‘Oh, my word, yes. They had posters up for him. The Duke of Ganzing had quite an interesting story about the posters. I don’t think I ever heard that from Houston,’ he said reminiscently.

  ‘How did you hear?’

  ‘He told me.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘The duke did.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. An old chap in our warehouse had suddenly gone off his head when I was there one day. I experienced the same creepy feeling.

  I got up. ‘Well, you must tell me about it when I come again. I think I’ve stayed long enough now.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. She’ll tell you when you’ve got to go,’ he said, chuckling. ‘Stay and have a cup of tea with me.’

  ‘Oh, really, I don’t think …’

  ‘Nonsense. Just tap on the door. … I think you’d better have the duke’s address, incidentally. He could tell you a great deal. He lives in Delhi now. He gave me it when he was here.’

  ‘The Duke of Ganzing was here?’

  ‘Yes, a couple of years ago. He stayed in Abingdon with a friend of his called Blake-Winter. They used to go to school together in India.’

  I tapped on the door.

  ‘He was very disappointed to find Houston away,’ the old man said. ‘He brought one of the posters with him, the ones the Chinese had put up after the murders. That was why the poor fellow had to fly home so quickly. He was in no condition to travel, of course, but the Chinese were putting pressure on the Indians to send him back for trial. Naturally, they didn’t want to do that, but he was a bit of an embarrassment to them all the same, so they simply got rid of him.’

  My head had begun to spin a bit.

  I said, ‘This is Houston, is it?’

  ‘Houston, certainly. Of course, you won’t have come to that yet.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’ve quite got it. The Chinese thought he had murdered somebody?’

  ‘Yes. Well, he did.’

  I had a swift mental image of Oliver Gooch gravely shaking his head.

  I said, ‘Was it an accident?’

  ‘An accident?’ the old man said. ‘No, it wasn’t an accident. He had quite a long time to plan it. He did it with a knife. He was quite petrified, of course. Ah, Sister – what about a nice cup of tea? Mr Davidson’s tongue is hanging out.’

  I thought it probably was.

  A few more weird items came my way over tea, none of them conducive to the book’s early publication, and when I saw an opening, I said,

  ‘There’s just one thing, Mr Oliphant – it would be quite hopeless, would it, to try and get Houston to sign this himself?’

  ‘Oh, I’m afraid so. Quite out of the question. He’s simply not interested. He doesn’t want to think about it any more.’

  ‘He would have to, rather, when the book came out, wouldn’t he? I mean, there would be a good deal of comment. Reporters would descend on him. Does he realize this?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m sure he wouldn’t say anything to them,’ Mr Oliphant said confidently.

  ‘Reporters are persistent people.’

  ‘They could be as persistent as they liked.’

  ‘And he wouldn’t mind what they wrote.’

  ‘Not a bit. All he’s got to say he’s said here. And he relies on me to publish a true version.’

  ‘In that case why shouldn’t he sign this version? You see, what’s bothering us is that there is a great deal of actionable material here. There’s the question of the money – and now these murders. It’s all a little bit illegal, isn’t it?’

  Mr Oliphant began to grow slightly restive.

  He said, ‘Look, Mr Davidson, it seems to me this book should be worth quite a sum of money. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life quibbling about it. … I’d like to get out of this flat. It’s damp here, you know. She’s turned on all the electric fires. I hate to think what the bill will be. …’

  I could hear Sister Angelica making warning noises in the next room. The time seemed to be now or never.

  I said, ‘Mr Oliphant – did Houston ever sign a statement to the effect that you could publish the material in these notebooks?’

  ‘Sign a statement? Of course he didn’t. There has never been anything like that between us. Certainly not.’

  ‘In the course of a letter, say –’

  ‘We are the best of friends,’ the old man said. He had become quite pink in the face and his breath had started to whistle a bit. ‘You don’t surely expect friends to go about signing statements to each other?’

  Sister Angelica came in.

  I said, hurriedly, ‘Perhaps in one of his letters to you. You might have referred to it in some way, and he might have confirmed –’

  ‘Now then,’ Sister Angelica said. ‘Didn’t you promise me you wouldn’t let him talk too much? And just look at you, you poor silly old man. You’ll be breathless directly.’

  ‘I’m going now,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. You are. This very minute.’

  ‘Just a tick,’ Oliphant said. ‘You know, I believe you’re right. He did write
something to me –’

  ‘Well, you can tell him another time. He’s going now.’

  ‘I’ll look it out for you.’

  ‘Thank you. Thanks very much. Get well.’

  Sister Angelica found the other two exercise books, and came to the door with me.

  ‘You know,’ she said, ‘that wasn’t very clever. I told you he wasn’t to talk.’

  ‘I’m sorry. There were things that only he could tell me. It might mean a good bit of money for him.’

  ‘He won’t need it if he goes on like this. Still – it might help pay the electric bill, eh,’ she said, winking very slightly.

  ‘It might,’ I said. ‘Good-bye, Nurse Jellicoe.’

  That seemed to clear the account with the young man from the printer’s, at least.

  3

  I saw Mr Oliphant three or four times more before Christmas. The letter from Houston, which he managed to turn up, didn’t answer all problems, but it showed we could produce a certain kind of book, a rather abbreviated kind of book, based on the notes. I was keen enough, in a modified way, to do so. T.L. was also keen, in an even more modified way. Rosenthal Brown were not keen at all. It became necessary to do a job of research.

  A young man called Underwood, an editorial assistant, was put on to this, but for a number of points the only source of information proved to be Mr Oliphant himself. I undertook to handle these.

  At the beginning of December, after discussing one of them with him, I found a small, bright-eyed priest waiting for me in the hall.

  He said, ‘Ah, Mr Davidson. I’m Father Harris. Sister Angelica telephoned me that you were here. I particularly wanted to have a word with you.’

  ‘Of course. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  ‘Yes. Just come in here a moment, will you?’

  We went into the living-room, chill and dismal in the darkening afternoon. The priest switched on a little table lamp, evidently quite at home in Houston’s old flat.

  He said, ‘Well, he isn’t getting any better, is he?’

  ‘No, he isn’t.’

  ‘And he can’t have Sister Angelica much longer. He should be in hospital, you know, but it’s quite hopeless. They don’t want old chronic cases. There simply aren’t the beds.’

  ‘Can’t his professional body do anything for him?’

  ‘I’m trying, naturally. I would very much like him to go to a nursing home. We have one, a Catholic one, at Worplesdon in Surrey. It’s a beautiful place, very well run. I visit there. I think I could get him in. Don’t you think that would be a very desirable thing, Mr Davidson?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I think it would be,’ I said, suddenly seeing what was coming and thrown off balance by it.

  ‘It would cost eighteen guineas a week,’ the priest said.

  ‘Have you tried his friend Houston in the West Indies?’

  ‘Yes. That’s why I made up my mind to see you as soon as I could. Nobody seems to know where this Mr Houston has got to. My letter came back from the Barbados stamped “Gone Away – Return to Sender”.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘He has no other relations, you know.’

  ‘Hasn’t he?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Very unfortunate.’

  ‘Yes,’ the priest said, and see-sawed on his heels and coughed a little. ‘I wondered if you were prepared to help, Mr Davidson. I wondered if you felt able to make an offer for this book of his.’

  ‘I’m afraid there are complications.’

  I told him some of them.

  ‘H’m. But if all went well the book could make quite a lot of money?’

  ‘If all went well. No publisher dare touch it at the moment. It’s far too dangerous.’

  Father Harris stopped see-sawing. He put his hand on my shoulder. He said very earnestly, ‘Don’t you think, Mr Davidson, that there’s a case here for a sporting offer? After all, it’s a very special one.’

  ‘All publishing is made up of special cases, Father. A lot of authors are hard up.’

  ‘They’re not all at death’s door.’

  ‘No. No.’

  ‘It would lighten my heart a great deal if I felt I could rely on you to do your best.’

  I said uneasily, ‘Well, you can certainly do that. Of course. Naturally. But you’ve got to –’

  ‘And may God bless you for it,’ said the priest, shaking me very warmly by the hand.

  Mr Oliphant moved into Worplesdon the week before Christmas. I went to see him a few days later. I had been to a series of pre-Christmas cocktail parties the night before, and was not at my best. Nor, evidently was Mr Oliphant. They had given him a nice little room and done it up with a lot of gay paper decorations; Mr Oliphant lay in bed in it sunk in profound depression.

  ‘This silly old man thinks he’s going to die,’ Father Harris said, coming in after a few minutes. He had been having a few glasses of sherry on his round of the patients and was beaming a bit. ‘He’s gone and made a will.’

  Mr Oliphant roused himself from his torpor and began fumbling about at his bedside cabinet.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Father Harris said. ‘Here we are. He wants us both to witness it.’

  It was a somewhat austere will. Mr Oliphant had left all his worldly estate and such chancy assets as might still accrue to it to the foundation of an Exhibition in Latin, to commence five years after his death, at his old university, Oxford. I gathered that this disposition did not meet entirely with Father Harris’s approval. He signed it, however, and so did I, and the old man watched us with a certain gloomy satisfaction.

  There were four Christmas cards on the cabinet, and I edged round presently and managed to have a look at them while Mr Oliphant’s attention was diverted by the priest: it was after all a pitiful enough collection after a lifetime’s voyage through the world. I wondered if their paucity might not in some measure have contributed to his gloom.

  There was one from Father Harris, and one from Miss Marks, and one from me. The last was inscribed, ‘Tight lines in 1960 and hoping for a good salmon,’ and signed ‘your old friend Wallie.’

  There wasn’t one from his old friend Houston.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  1

  THE governor of Hodzo was unwell. He was morose. For two whole days after receiving his brother-in-law’s letter he remained in his room, listless and sick at heart. His priest read him seven volumes of the Kangyur. His youngest wife played to him on a set of consecrated cymbals. Nothing availed. He remained steeped in melancholy. On the third day, however, despite a continuation of the bowel movements that neither the Kangyur nor the cymbals had been able to arrest, he felt a slight accession of confidence, and after a light breakfast and prayers, he called for his palanquin and set off for Yamdring.

  The journey to Yamdring was one of twenty-four hours, and though he knew he would end it in pain and exhaustion, he did not send his servants ahead to prepare for his comfort, for he did not wish in any way to upset the routine of the monastery or arouse suspicion. He planned to examine personally the dossier of every single soul there. He thought he might manage thirty in an hour and two hundred in a day. There were some eleven hundred souls in the monastery.

  Because it was essential that none should be regarded as above suspicion he meant to keep the reason for this enterprise strictly to himself, and the last thing that he wanted was to walk into a meeting of the monastery council. This, however, was what he walked into.

  The council had been summoned on curious business, and the abbot welcomed him to it, and to the chair most gratefully; for he was sorely puzzled.

  The unconscious trulku Houtson, he said, had had a dream. He had requested an interview with the abbot that very morning. He had told the abbot his dream.

  ‘There were indications in it,’ the abbot said, ‘that the trulku may be no longer unconscious.’

  ‘What was the dream?’

  The dream was that the trulku had found himself walking in the monastery. As he walk
ed he had spied a Westerner, a man like himself. He had drawn closer to the man and observed that he was watching a shower of rain falling in the monastery. The rain turned into greenstones and from them emerged suddenly the figure of the Mother. As he watched, a demon appeared behind the Mother with a net and a sack. The demon had made to catch the Mother and the greenstones, but the trulku had run towards him, waving his arms and shouting a powerful mantra, and the demon had fled. The Mother had nodded to the trulku in gratitude, and he had awakened from the dream.

  The governor sat for a moment gazing at his small hands, placed one above the other on the table. He said, ‘Who is guarding the trulku?’

  ‘Two artist monks, Excellency. They are reliable men.’

  ‘Do they speak his language?’

  ‘No. But he has picked up some Tibetan. Why do you ask …?’ the abbot said, and paused, seeing why the governor had asked.

  ‘Someone has told him of the greenstones,’ the governor said, nodding.

  There was silence for a moment.

  The deputy abbot said, ‘But Excellency, even if this were so, who could have told him of the ceremony or the fact that one of the Westerners had witnessed it?’

  The governor nodded again and looked down at his hands, for he had seen at once that this was the nub of the problem, and he had not meant to pursue it. If he knew the answer to that, he might also know who had been telling the Chinese. … To give himself time to think, he said, ‘And tell me, Abbot, did the trulku make any further request of you?’

  ‘Yes, Excellency, he did. He asked permission to see the Westerners.’

  ‘Since the reason for their restraint has now been revealed to him?’

  ‘This is the reason he gave.’

  ‘And what answer did you make him?’

  ‘None. This is why we have met. May I ask what are your Excellency’s views with regard to this question?’

  The governor drummed his hands on the table. He didn’t think he had any views on this question. It did not seem to matter a bean, now that the cat was out of the bag, whether Houtson saw the other Europeans or not. But he thought he should temporize.

  ‘Tell me, Abbot, what was the trulku’s attitude – confident, assured?’