The Faraway Drums

by Jon Cleary

  “Do you think Bridie is in danger, too?”

  “Yes. I don’t know whether they mean to kill her or kidnap her and try to get at me through her.” He looked at Bridie. “In future don’t go wandering off like you did tonight after dinner.”

  Bridie nodded. She was tense and nervous again; she looked across at the limp figure of Savanna and saw herself lying there in his stead. “Do I stay in here with you all night?”

  “I think it will be safest. Will you stay too, Viola?”

  “Oh God, I’ve always hated playing chaperone. I always feel I’m spoiling the young people’s fun. Do you really think any of those downstairs will care if you two spend the night together? That Madame Monday is probably already asleep, she was so tipsy—can’t stand women who can’t hold their drink. As for Mala, she wouldn’t know what one meant if one mentioned moral decorum.”

  “It’s Mala I don’t want in here. If I’m left alone with Savanna, she’ll insist on keeping me company. I don’t trust her and it has nothing to do with moral decorum, as you so nicely put it.”

  Then the door opened and Karim Singh and Private Ahearn slipped into the room. Karim looked around at everyone, then at Farnol. “Getting jolly crowded, sahib.”

  “The more, the safer,” said Farnol. “What’s going on outside?”

  “Nobody’s there, not even that chap outside Her Highness’ door.”

  Ahearn was looking at Savanna in the bed. “Is he dead, sir?”

  “No. But he may be before we can get him out of here. What’s the matter?”

  Ahearn had made a sour face. “I’m wishing I’d stayed up in Simla, sir.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t, Ahearn. I may need you.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Ahearn and sounded like the sad Celts of all time.

  Farnol sat down on the bed beside Savanna, turned the slack grey face towards him. The only patch of colour in it was the ginger moustache, which looked now like some clown’s crude make-up. “Rupert—it’s Clive Farnol. Why are you here?”

  But the pale blue eyes were even paler than Farnol remembered, clouded pools of idiocy; they stared at Farnol without any recognition of what they saw, if they saw anything at all. Savanna’s breathing was so shallow that Farnol, suddenly fearful, leaned forward to make sure that the man was not dead. But Savanna still lived, if only just.

  “Was there anything in Major Savanna’s clothes, Karim? Any notebook, a piece of paper?”

  “Nothing, sahib. Someone tore all the pockets of his tunic. They turned his trouser pockets inside out. They were jolly thorough.”

  Farnol stood up. “Viola, mix up the mustard. Give it to Savanna only if he regains consciousness—send Karim for me as soon as he does. Karim, you and Private Ahearn are responsible for the two ladies and the Major. Don’t let anyone in the room—anyone! Use your kris or even your guns if you have to.”

  “Jolly good, sir,” said Karim, but he didn’t look happy and neither did Ahearn. “I shall try to use persuasion first—”

  “Naturally. I don’t want you chopping up the wrong people by mistake.”

  “I’ll tell him to chop them up if they’re the wrong people.” Lady Westbrook was not bloodthirsty but she was not averse to the spilling of it in a good cause. “We’ll be all right, Clive. Go and do what you have to.”

  “What do you have to do?” said Bridie.

  “Try and get to the bottom of all this. I’m not going to learn anything by turning my back on it—all I’ll probably get is a knife in it.” Then he thought his tone was too harsh and he softened it. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so blunt.”

  “It’s the only way,” said Lady Westbrook. “Pussyfooting never won wars. And I think we may have a small war of our own right now.”

  When Farnol got out into the corridor he paused for a while, put out a hand and leaned against the wall. He was not the sort of man who thrived on danger; he was satisfied if he survived it. He was no coward, but he did not relish the thought of being killed; three attempts to kill him meant that the odds were shortening. Sooner or later a bullet or a knife was going to strike home and he could not bring himself to be fatalistic about the prospect. He could feel the shifting in the foundations of himself, courage turning to sand.

  As he started to walk down the corridor he was surprised at the quietness and the utter absence of anyone, even a servant. It was as if there had been a general desertion and he wondered who had ordered it. His heels clicked like bone against bone on the marble floor; the oil lamps glowed dimly like lamps for the dead. He had the sudden strange impression of walking through catacombs; he looked for skeletons but there were none. He walked on to a thick rug without seeing it and the sudden silence of his footsteps was like the shock of a pistol shot. He went down the wide stairs, feeling the night chill taking hold of the palace. He wondered if he would find any of the other guests still in the palace.

  But if the others had, indeed, departed in a hurry, Baron von Albern was still on hand. He sat in the Peacock Room, which he had not left even after Bridie had raised the alarm about Savanna’s dramatic re-appearance. He was smoking a cigar and drinking port and thinking of other, greener hills than those that surrounded the palace, the hills of Thuringia. He would be going home there next year and he wondered how many peaceful years he would have left to enjoy them.

  He looked up as Farnol came into the room but, contrary to his usual punctilious politeness, he did not rise. “Forgive me, Major. I am a tired old man this evening.”

  Farnol sat down, poured himself a glass of port. “Where is everyone?”

  Kurt von Albern gave a sort of facial shrug. With only one hand, he was limited in his gestures. He expressed everything with his face, keeping his one hand only for essentials. He had lost the arm forty years ago in the war against the French and, when alone, still bitterly regretted its loss. It had been his sword-wielding arm, his love-making hand: there had been no conquests after its loss. Only magnanimous apologies from men with whom he would have otherwise fought a duel and ball-destroying love-making from women who took him to bed out of pity. He stubbed out his cigar and picked up his port.

  “I fear everyone has retired, even the servants. The decanter is almost empty, but no one has come in to see if I want any more. Perhaps you would care to bang that gong?”

  “Not yet, Baron. I’d like you to tell me if you know anything about what’s going on. I don’t think you’ve been entirely open with me.”

  “I could plead diplomatic immunity.” But the Baron smiled. “Major, you and I should be friends. I’m German, but I’m not your enemy.”

  “Not yet.” Then it was Farnol’s turn to smile, to take the edge off that remark. “I mean the Kaiser. Nobody knows what he has planned for the future.”

  The Baron nodded morosely. He put down his port and took off his glasses; he looked older without them, as some people do. He let them hang by their black silk ribbon while he picked up his drink again. “We’re all at the mercy of those who rule us. A cliché, but so true.”

  “But even at our level we can occasionally change the course of events.”

  “Perhaps you, Major. But I’m too old.” Or felt too old, which can be worse.

  Farnol put down his glass, leaned forward, kept his voice low. Whispers could be magnified in such a room as this; the palace had been built by a Mogul prince who, surrounded by intrigue, had wanted nothing kept secret from him. The room, round with a domed ceiling, had no corners to absorb sound; in the mosaic gardens of the tiled walls peacocks stood alert listening. Farnol wondered how many men had condemned themselves with their own voices here in this room.

  “Baron, how did you know the Nawab had been in Berlin this summer?”

  “A friend in Berlin sent me the information. The Nawab was there without any official invitation.” He did indeed feel old tonight, old enough not to want to be burdened by minor diplomatic secrets. “It was as much a surprise to me when I learned of it as it was
this evening to you. He has never shown any sympathy for Germany.”

  “I’m more worried that he might be showing sympathy for Har Dayal or some of the other revolutionaries. There are Germans who are very sympathetic towards Har, colleagues of yours in the Foreign Office in Berlin.”

  “Why do you always suspect us so much?” It was a rhetorical question and the Baron knew it; but it was heartfelt, because he admired England and things English, if not all the English themselves. “You should worry about the Russians. Look at what they are doing in Persia this very minute, doing everything they can to put it under their thumb. They have forced the Persians to get rid of their American economic adviser, Shuster, some name like that—” He sighed, feeling suddenly very tired as well as old. His memory could no longer cling to minor details; names, unless they were linked to a face, slipped away like drops of water off the waterproof skin of a diplomatic wallet. “How do you know about the meddlers in Berlin? It isn’t official policy to stir up trouble here in India.”

  “Baron—” Farnol smiled. He liked the old man, wished he knew him well enough to have spent more time with him. “You know as well as I do that subversion is never official policy. When Lord Curzon sent Younghusband up into Tibet, it wasn’t official policy. It was something decided upon by Lord Curzon and London only sanctioned it when it was too late to stop it. It’s been like that ever since governments were invented and it will go on being like that. As you said, we’re all at the mercy of those who rule us. But we’re also at the mercy of meddlers at a lower level. I’ve been guilty of it myself on a very low level. It’s called historical anticipation or, if you like, don’t let’s leave everything to our stupid rulers.”

  Kurt von Albern put his glasses back on, smiled, perked up a little. “You should not spend so much time out in the field, Major. You would have made my time in Simla much happier if you had worked there. One doesn’t get much appealing cynicism up there, except occasionally from an Indian.”

  “The Mondays—” Farnol did not want to be sidetracked into a discussion on cynicism. “You must know more about them than you’ve told me.”

  The Baron shook his head. “Truly I do not. What little I saw of them in Simla, they were delightful company, especially Frau Monday . . .” He had reached an age when women, even those full of pity, no longer took him to their beds; so he looked at young women and dreamed of what he had once enjoyed. “I don’t think she is quite of his class, but she knows how to make an old man feel younger. Or wish he were so. There’s no political harm in her, Major. Sexual harm, perhaps, but nothing else.”

  “And Herr Monday?”

  “Ah—” He drained the last drop from his glass of port, looked at the empty decanter, decided it would be too much bother even to strike the gong for a servant to bring more port. “No diplomat ever really welcomes an arms salesman coming to his door wanting patronage. It contradicts diplomacy. Herr Monday brought a most comprehensive catalogue with him. He is trying to sell more than hunting rifles.”

  “To whom?”

  “If I knew, Major, I should let you know. I do not want us falling out. Not just you and I. England and Germany.”

  Farnol stood up, knowing the Baron was telling the truth and he would get no more from him. As he did so he saw Albern suddenly look past him. “Ach—a servant at last! Get me more port. We’ll have a last night-cap, Major.”

  “I am sorry, sahib, I am not one of the palace servants—I do not know where the drink is kept. I am one of the Ranee’s men. She has sent me here to ask Major Farnol to come to her rooms.”

  The old diplomat got slowly and heavily to his feet. “Oh, I envy you, Major. Or should I?”

  Farnol still had enough humour in him to be able to smile. “Not tonight, Baron. I’ll see you in the morning. We’ll be leaving early, I hope.”

  He followed the servant through the silent halls and corridors, came at last to the door of the Ranee’s suite. The giant Sikh stood outside it again, the point of his big sword between his feet, his hands resting on the hilt. He lifted the sword and Farnol, still on edge, tensed, thinking he was going to be struck by it; but the Sikh was only raising it in salute as he stepped aside for Farnol to go into the room. The door was closed behind him and for some reason that amused him, Farnol waited for the turning of a key in the lock but there was none.

  The Ranee’s bedroom could have accommodated a small durbar; arches opened into two other large rooms for any overflow. Farnol had spent nights in several bedrooms with the Ranee, but the size of this room, he felt, would have made him impotent; it would have been like making love in a theatre with the audience likely to file into their seats at any moment. The Ranee, dressed in diaphanous pink, was reclining on a divan at the foot of the great canopied bed. She looked almost comical in her seductiveness but Farnol knew better than to smile. Mala saw no humour in any role she played.

  The room, Farnol noticed at once, was unusually warm. Rooms of such size, with their tessellated floors and high ceilings, were difficult to heat in the cold months in these mountains. Then he saw the giant ceramic-fronted stoves in the four corners.

  “A present to my father by the Russians,” said the Ranee. “From Tsar Alexander the Third himself. Those were the days when the English were afraid that the Russian bear was ready to come down into India and gobble them up. Sit here, Clive darling. Come on, I’m not going to gobble you up.”

  He sat down on the end of the divan like an apprehensive schoolboy. Then abruptly he smiled and relaxed, let his eyes enjoy the Ranee. She wore nothing under the smoke-thin gown; she was naked in a pink mist. She had taken off all her jewellery except a wide diamond bracelet and her rings: there had to be a limit to one’s nakedness.

  “What are you smiling at?”

  “Mala, are you trying to seduce me?”

  “Clive darling, if you’re willing, so am I. That’s why I had all the stoves lit, so you wouldn’t feel the cold when you took your clothes off.”

  He shook his head. “You can dampen the fires—and yourself. I’m not taking anything off. Mala, what is Major Savanna doing here in the palace?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “I’m sure you already know that he’s drugged and may be dying.”

  She put her foot, in its purple silk sandal, into his lap, moved her heel into his groin. He took hold of the foot and, gently at first, then tightening his grip, slowly twisted it. He had always believed that every man, and every woman (or at least every woman he had made love to), had a streak of sadism in him or her. He allowed the streak in himself to widen.

  “You’d better tell me what you know, Mala, or I’ll cripple you. You’ll never be half as attractive hobbling around on a crippled foot.”

  He had not expected her to cry out, to surrender at once: that wasn’t Mala. But he had also not expected her to endure the pain as long as she did; she stared at him, only a tightening round the full mouth hinting at the pain she was feeling. He could feel the tendons stretching, the bones ready to grind against each other; then he felt the strength draining out of his own hand. He let go her foot, found himself sweating.

  She drew up her foot, massaged it, then stretched her leg back towards him again; but this time the foot rested beside his thigh, not in his lap. “You had better take off your tie and coat, Clive. You’re sweating like some little office-wallah from Calcutta.”

  He undid his white tie, slipped off his tail-coat. His starched shirt-front seemed ready to pop out of his waistcoat. “You should not tempt me, Mala.”

  “Tempt you to hurt me? Was I doing that?”

  Abruptly angry, he jumped to his feet and walked away from her. “Dammit, don’t let’s beat about the bush! Tell me what’s going on or I’ll have it arranged that you’ll be barred from the Durbar, that you won’t even get near the King!”

  “You’re not that important, Clive—you don’t have that sort of influence. If you knew the men I’d slept with, you wouldn’t make such a foolish th
reat. I’ll attend the Durbar, whatever you think you can do. But you really don’t think I’m planning to kill the King, do you?”

  It took him a moment, in his anger, to get his thoughts together. Then: “Who told you I think there is a plot to assassinate him? Major Savanna is the only one who knows what I suspect.”

  “No, darling.” She stood up, tested her foot before she walked on it, then came towards him. Beneath the gossamer veil of her gown he could see the body he had once known so well. But he could resist it now: or so he told himself. “You as much as told me yourself, at dinner at the Lodge last night. And someone has not been trying to kill you just because you’re a political agent. I suppose they’ve tried that before, but not three times in four days. You may be right—someone may well be planning to assassinate the King. But it’s not me, darling.”

  He didn’t know whether to believe her or not. Her tongue could be as devious in lying as in loving. “All right, I do think there is a plot of some sort. But I have no evidence of it and nothing may ever come of it, it may just turn out to be a brainstorm of mine. But that doesn’t alter what’s happened to Rupert Savanna. So you’d better tell me what you know, because I’m not going to let it rest. I’ll keep at you all the way down to Delhi and then there I’ll have Colonel Lathrop take over. I know he hasn’t slept with you. His wife takes care of him too well.”

  She sighed, lifted her arms above her head: the breasts rose up under the gown. He waited for her to yawn; she looked ready for bed, to dismiss him just by turning her back. Then she lowered her arms, crossed to a chair and sat down, drawing the gown about her in a flimsy show of modesty (though he knew she was incapable of modesty).