by Ruskin Bond
'Goodbye,' the girl said.
She was standing very close to me, so close that the perfume from her hair was tantalising. I wanted to raise my hand and touch her hair, but she moved away. Only the scent of perfume still lingered where she had stood.
There was some confusion in the doorway. A man, getting into the compartment, stammered an apology. Then the door banged, and the world was shut out again. I returned to my berth. The guard blew his whistle and we moved off. Once again, I had a game to play and a new fellow-traveller.
The train gathered speed, the wheels took up their song, the carriage groaned and shook. I found the window and sat in front of it, staring into the daylight that was darkness for me.
So many things were happening outside the window: it could be a fascinating game, guessing what went on out there.
The man who had entered the compartment broke into my reverie.
'You must be disappointed,' he said. 'I'm not nearly as attractive a travelling companion as the one who just left.'
'She was an interesting girl,' I said. 'Can you tell me—did she keep her hair long or short?'
'I don't remember,' he said, sounding puzzled. 'It was her eyes I noticed, not her hair. She had beautiful eyes—but they were of no use to her. She was completely blind. Didn't you notice?'
He Said it with Arsenic
Is there such a person as a born murderer—in the sense that there are born writers and musicians, born winners and losers?
One can't be sure. The urge to do away with troublesome people is common to most of us, but only a few succumb to it.
If ever there was a born murderer, he must surely have been William Jones. The thing came so naturally to him. No extreme violence, no messy shootings or hackings or throttling; just the right amount of poison, administered with skill and discretion.
A gentle, civilised sort of person was Mr Jones. He collected butterflies and arranged them systematically in glass cases. His ether bottle was quick and painless. He never stuck pins into the beautiful creatures.
Have you ever heard of the Agra Double Murder? It happened, of course, a great many years ago, when Agra was a far-flung outpost of the British Empire. In those days, William Jones was a male nurse in one of the city's hospitals. The patients— especially terminal cases—spoke highly of the care and consideration he showed them. While most nurses, both male and female, preferred to attend to the more hopeful cases, nurse William was always prepared to stand duty over a dying patient.
He felt a certain empathy for the dying; he liked to see them on their way. It was just his good nature, of course.
On a visit to nearby Meerut, he met and fell in love with Mrs Browning, the wife of the local station-master. Impassioned love letters were soon putting a strain on the Agra-Meerut postal service. The envelopes grew heavier—not so much because the letters were growing longer but because they contained little packets of a powdery white substance, accompanied by detailed instructions as to its correct administration.
Mr Browning, an unassuming and trustful man—one of the world's born losers, in fact—was not the sort to read his wife's correspondence. Even when he was seized by frequent attacks of colic, he put them down to an impure water supply. He recovered from one bout of vomitting and diarrhoea only to be racked by another.
He was hospitalised on a diagnosis of gastroenteritis; and, thus freed from his wife's ministrations, soon got better. But on returning home and drinking a glass of nimbu-pani brought to him by the solicitous Mrs Browning, he had a relapse from which he did not recover.
Those were the days when deaths from cholera and related diseases were only too common in India, and death certificates were easier to obtain than dog licences.
After a short interval of mourning (it was the hot weather and you couldn't wear black for long), Mrs Browning moved to Agra, where she rented a house next door to William Jones.
I forgot to mention that Mr Jones was also married. His wife was an insignificant creature, no match for a genius like William. Before the hot weather was over, the dreaded cholera had taken her too. The way was clear for the lovers to unite in holy matrimony.
But Dame Gossip lived in Agra too, and it was not long before tongues were wagging and anonymous letters were being received by the Superintendent of Police. Enquiries were instituted. Like most infatuated lovers, Mrs Browning had hung on to her beloved's letters and billet-doux, and these soon came to light. The silly woman had kept them in a box beneath her bed.
Exhumations were ordered in both Agra and Meerut.
Arsenic keeps well, even in the hottest of weather, and there was no dearth of it in the remains of both the victims.
Mr Jones and Mrs Browning were arrested and charged with murder.
'Is Uncle BilI really a murderer?' I asked from the drawing room sofa in my grandmother's house in Dehra. (It's time that I told you that William Jones was my uncle, my mother's half-brother.)
I was eight or nine at the time. Uncle Bill had spent the previous summer with us in Dehra and had stuffed me with bazaar sweets and pastries, all of which I had consumed without suffering any ill effects.
Who told you that about Uncle Bill?' asked Grandmother.
'I heard it in school. All the boys were asking me the same question—"Is your uncle a murderer?" They say he poisoned both his wives.'
'He had only one wife,' snapped Aunt Mabel.
'Did he poison her?'
'No, of course not. How can you say such a thing!'
'Then why is Uncle Bill in gaol?'
'Who says he's in gaol?'
'The boys at school. They heard it from their parents. Uncle Bill is to go on trial in the Agra fort.'
There was a pregnant silence in the drawing room, then Aunt Mabel burst out: 'It was all that awful woman's fault.'
'Do you mean Mrs Browning?' asked Grandmother.
'Yes, of course. She must have put him up to it. Bill couldn't have thought of anything so—so diabolical!'
'But he sent her the powders, dear. And don't forget—Mrs Browning has since....'
Grandmother stopped in mid-sentence, and both she and Aunt Mabel glanced surreptitiously at me.
'Committed suicide,' I filled in. 'There were still some powders with her.'
Aunt Mabel's eyes rolled heavenwards. 'This boy is impossible. I don't know what he will be like when he grows up.'
'At least I won't be like Uncle Bill,' I said. 'Fancy poisoning people! If I kill anyone, it will be in a fair fight. I suppose they'll hang Uncle?'
'Oh, I hope not!'
Grandmother was silent. Uncle Bill was her stepson, but she did have a soft spot for him. Aunt Mabel, his sister, thought he was wonderful. I had always considered him to be a bit soft but had to admit that he was generous. I tried to imagine him dangling at the end of a hangman's rope, but somehow he didn't fit the picture.
As things turned out, he wasn't hanged. White people in India seldom got the death sentence, although the hangman was pretty busy disposing off dacoits and political terrorists. Uncle Bill was given a life sentence and settled down to a sedentary job in the prison library at Naini, near Allahabad. His gifts as a male nurse went unappreciated; they did not trust him in the hospital.
He was released after seven or eight years, shortly after the country became an independent Republic. He came out of gaol to find that the British were leaving, either for England or the remaining colonies. Grandmother was dead. Aunt Mabel and her husband had settled in South Africa. Uncle Bill realised that there was little future for him in India and followed his sister out to Johannesburg. I was then in my last year at boarding school. After my father's death, my mother had married an Indian, and now my future lay in India.
I did not see Uncle Bill after his release from prison, and no one dreamt that he would ever turn up again in India.
In fact, fifteen years were to pass before he came back, and by then I was in my early thirties, the author of a book that had become something of a bests
eller. The previous fifteen years had been a struggle—the sort of struggle that every young freelance writer experiences—but at last the hard work was paying off and the royalties were beginning to come in.
I was living in a small cottage on the outskirts of the hill-station of Fosterganj, working on another book, when I received an unexpected visitor.
He was a thin, stooping, grey-haired man in his late fifties, with a straggling moustache and discoloured teeth. He looked feeble and harmless but for his eyes which were pale cold blue. There was something slightly familiar about him.
'Don't you remember me? He asked. 'Not that I really expect you to, after all these years....'
'Wait a minute. Did you teach me at school?'
'No—but you're getting warm.' He put his suitcase down and I glimpsed his name on the airlines label. I looked up in astonishment. 'You're not—you couldn't be....'
'Your Uncle Bill,' he said with a grin and extended his hand. 'None other!' And he sauntered into the house.
I must admit that I had mixed feelings about his arrival. While I had never felt any dislike for him, I hadn't exactly approved of what he had done. Poisoning, I felt, was a particularly reprehensible way of getting rid of inconvenient people: not that I could think of any commendable ways of getting rid of them! Still, it had happened a long time ago, he'd been punished, and presumably he was a reformed character.
'And what have you been doing all these years?' he asked me, easing himself into the only comfortable chair in the room.
'Oh just writing,' I said.
'Yes, I heard about your last book. It's quite a success, isn't it?'
'It's doing quite well. Have you read it?'
'I don't do much reading.'
'And what have you been doing all these years, Uncle Bill?'
'Oh, knocking about here and there. Worked for a soft drink company for some time. And then with a drug firm. My knowledge of chemicals was useful.'
'Weren't you with Aunt Mabel in South Africa?'
'I saw quite a lot of her, until she died a couple of years ago. Didn't you know?'
'No. I've been out of touch with relatives.' I hoped he'd take that as a hint. 'And what about her husband?'
'Died too, not long after. Not many of us left, my boy. That's why, when I saw something about you in the papers, I thought—why not go and see my only nephew again?'
'You're welcome to stay a few days,' I said quickly. 'Then I have to go to Bombay.' (This was a lie, but I did not relish the prospect of looking after Uncle Bill for the rest of his days.)
'Oh, I won't be staying long,' he said. 'I've got a bit of money put by in Johannesburg. It's just that—so far as I know—you're my only living relative, and I thought it would be nice to see you again.'
Feeling relieved, I set about trying to make Uncle Bill as comfortable as possible. I gave him my bedroom and turned the window-seat into a bed for myself. I was a hopeless cook but, using all my ingenuity, I scrambled some eggs for supper. He waved aside my apologies; he'd always been a frugal eater, he said. Eight years in gaol had given him a cast-iron stomach.
He did not get in my way but left me to my writing and my lonely walks. He seemed content to sit in the spring sunshine and smoke his pipe.
It was during our third evening together that he said, 'Oh, I almost forgot. There's a bottle of sherry, in my suitcase. I brought it especially for you.'
'That was very thoughtful of you. Uncle Bill. How did you know I was fond of sherry?'
'Just my intuition. You do like it, don't you?'
'There's nothing like a good sherry.'
He went to his bedroom and came back with an unopened bottle of South African sherry.
'Now you just relax near the fire,' he said agreeably. 'I'll open the bottle and fetch glasses.'
He went to the kitchen while I remained near the electric fire, flipping through some journals. It seemed to me that Uncle Bill was taking rather a long time. Intuition must be a family trait, because it came to me quite suddenly—the thought that Uncle Bill might be intending to poison me.
After all, I thought, here he is after nearly fifteen years, apparently for purely sentimental reasons. But I had just published a bestseller. And I was his nearest relative. If I was to die, Uncle Bill could lay claim to my estate and probably live comfortably on my royalties for the next five or six years!
What had really happened to Aunt Mabel and her husband, I wondered. And where did Uncle Bill get the money for an air ticket to India?
Before I could ask myself any more questions, he reappeared with the glasses on a tray. He set the tray on a small table that stood between us. The glasses had been filled. The sherry sparkled.
I stared at the glass nearest me, trying to make out if the liquid in it was cloudier than that in the other glass. But there appeared to be no difference.
I decided I would not take any chances. It was a round tray, made of smooth Kashmiri walnut wood. I turned it round with my index finger, so that the glasses changed places.
'Why did you do that?' asked Uncle Bill.
'It's a custom in these parts. You turn the tray with the sun, a complete revolution. It brings good luck.'
Uncle Bill looked thoughtful for a few moments, then said, 'Well, let's have some more luck,' and turned the tray around again.
'Now you've spoilt it,' I said. 'You're not supposed to keep revolving it! That's bad luck. I'll have to turn it about again to cancel out the bad luck.'
The tray swung round once more, and Uncle Bill had the glass that was meant for me.
'Cheers!' I said, and drank from my glass.
It was good sherry.
Uncle Bill hesitated. Then he shrugged, said 'Cheers', and drained his glass quickly.
But he did not offer to fill the glasses again.
Early next morning he was taken violently ill. I heard him retching in his room, and I got up and went to see if there was anything I could do. He was groaning, his head hanging over the side of the bed. I brought him a basin and a jug of water.
'Would you like me to fetch a doctor?' I asked.
He shook his head. 'No I'll be all right. It must be something I ate.'
'It's probably the water. It's not too good at this time of the year. Many people come down with gastric trouble during their first few days in Fosterganj.'
'Ah, that must be it,' he said, and doubled up as a fresh spasm of pain and nausea swept over him.
He was better by evening—whatever had gone into the glass must have been by way of the preliminary dose and a day later he was well enough to pack his suitcase and announce his departure. The climate of Fosterganj did not agree with him, he told me.
Just before he left, I said; 'Tell me, Uncle, why did you drink it?'
'Drink what? The water?'
'No, the glass of sherry into which you'd slipped one of your famous powders.'
He gaped at me, then gave a nervous whinnying laugh. 'You will have your little joke, won't you?'
'No, I mean it,' I said. 'Why did you drink the stuff? It was meant for me, of course.'
He looked down at his shoes, then gave a little shrug and turned away.
'In the circumstances,' he said, 'it seemed the only decent thing to do.'
I'll say this for Uncle Bill: he was always the perfect gentleman.
Hanging at the Mango-Tope
The two captive policemen, Inspector Hukam Singh and Sub-Inspector Guler Singh, were being pushed unceremoniously along the dusty, deserted, sun-drenched road. The people of the village had made themselves scarce. They would reappear only when the dacoits went away.
The leader of the dacoit gang was Mangal Singh Bundela, great-grandson of a Pindari adventurer who had been a thorn in the side of the British. Mangal was doing his best to be a thorn in the flesh of his own government. The local police force had been strengthened recently, but it was still inadequate for dealing with the dacoits who knew the ravines better than any surveyor. The dacoit Mangal had
made a fortune out of ransom: his chief victims were the sons of wealthy industrialists, moneylenders or landowners. But today he had captured two police officials; of no value as far as ransom went, but prestigious prisoners who could be put to other uses....
Mangal Singh wanted to show off in front of the police. He would kill at least one of them—his reputation demanded it— but he would let the other go, in order that his legendary power and ruthlessness be given a maximum publicity. A legend is always a help!
His red and green turban was tied rakishly to one side. His dhoti extended right down to his ankles. His slippers were embroidered with gold and silver thread. His weapon was no ancient matchlock, but a well-greased 303 rifle. Two of his men had similar rifles. Some had revolvers. Only the smaller fry carried swords or country-made pistols. Mangal Singh's gang, though traditional in many ways, was up-to-date in the matter of weapons. Right now they had the policemen's guns too.
'Come along, Inspector sahib,' said Mangal Singh, in tones of police barbarity, tugging at the rope that encircled the stout Inspector's midriff. 'Had you captured me today, you would have been a hero. You would have taken all the credit, even though you could not keep up with your men in the ravines. Too bad you chose to remain sitting in your jeep with the Sub-Inspector. The jeep will be useful to us, you will not. But I would like you to be a hero all the same—and there is none better than a dead hero!'
Mangal Singh's followers doubled up with laughter. They loved their leader's cruel sense of humour.
'As for you, Guler Singh,' he continued, giving his attention to the Sub-Inspector, 'You are a man from my own village. You should have joined me long ago. But you were never to be trusted. You thought there would be better pickings in the police, didn't you?'
Guler Singh said nothing, simply hung his head and wondered what his fate would be. He felt certain that Mangal Singh would devise some diabolical and fiendish method of dealing with his captives. Guler Singh's only hope was Constable Ghanshyam, who hadn't been caught by the dacoits because, at the time of the ambush, he had been in the bushes relieving himself.