by Ruskin Bond
Now it was September and the rains were nearly over and Miss. Mackenzie’s chrysanthemums were coming into their own. She hoped the coming winter wouldn’t be too severe because she found it increasingly difficult to bear the cold.
One day, as she was pottering about in her garden, she saw a schoolboy plucking wild flowers on the slope about the cottage.
‘Who’s that?’ she called. ‘What are you up to, young man?’
The boy was alarmed and tried to dash up the hillside, but he slipped on pine needles and came slithering down the slope into Miss. Mackenzie’s nasturtium bed.
When he found there was no escape, he gave a bright disarming smile and said, ‘Good morning, Miss.’
He belonged to the local English-medium school, and wore a bright red blazer and a red-and-black-striped tie. Like most polite Indian schoolboys, he called every woman ‘Miss.’
‘Good morning,’ said Miss. Mackenzie severely. ‘Would you mind moving out of my flower-bed?’
The boy stepped gingerly over the nasturtiums and looked up at Miss. Mackenzie with dimpled cheeks and appealing eyes. It was impossible to be angry with him.
‘You’re trespassing,’ said Miss Mackenzie. ‘Yes, Miss.’
‘And you ought to be in school at this hour.’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘Then what are you doing here?’
‘Picking flowers, Miss.’ And he held up a bunch of ferns and wild flowers.
‘Oh,’ Miss Mackenzie was disarmed. It was a long time since she had seen a boy taking an interest in flowers, and, what was more, playing truant from school in order to gather them.
‘Do you like flowers?’ she asked.
‘Yes, Miss. I’m going to be a botan — a botantist?’
‘You mean a botanist.’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘Well, that’s unusual. Most boys at your age want to be pilots or soldiers or perhaps engineers. But you want to be a botanist. Well, well. There’s still hope for the world, I see. And do you know the names of these flowers?’
‘This is a Bukhilo flower,’ he said, showing her a small golden flower. ‘That’s a Pahari name. It means Puja, or prayer. The flower is offered during prayers. But I don’t know what this is . . .’
He held out a pale pink flower with a soft, heart-shaped leaf. ‘It’s a wild begonia,’ said Miss Mackenzie. ‘And that purple stuff is salvia, but it isn’t wild, it’s a plant that escaped from my garden. Don’t you have any books on flowers?’
‘No, Miss.’
‘All right, come in and I’ll show you a book.’
She led the boy into a small front room, which was crowded with furniture and books and vases and jam-jars, and offered him a chair. He sat awkwardly on its edge. The black cat immediately leapt on to his knees, and settled down on them, purring loudly.
‘What’s your name?’ asked Miss Mackenzie, as she rummaged among her books.
‘Anil, Miss.’
‘And where do you live?’
‘When school closes, I go to Delhi. My father has a business.’ ‘Oh, and what’s that?’
‘Bulbs, Miss.’
‘Flower bulbs?’
‘No, electric bulbs.’
‘Electric bulbs! You might send me a few, when you get home. Mine are always fusing, and they’re so expensive, like everything else these days. Ah, here we are!’ She pulled a heavy volume down from the shelf and laid it on the table. ‘Flora Himaliensis, published in 1892, and probably the only copy in India. This is a very valuable book, Anil. No other naturalist has recorded so many wild Hima- layan flowers. And let me tell you this, there are many flowers and plants which are still unknown to the fancy botanists who spend all their time at microscopes instead of in the mountains. But perhaps, you’ll do something about that, one day.’
‘Yes, Miss.’
They went through the book together, and Miss. Mackenzie pointed out many flowers that grew in and around the hill station, while the boy made notes of their names and seasons. She lit a stove, and put the kettle on for tea. And then the old English lady and the small Indian boy sat side by side over cups of hot sweet tea, absorbed in a book of wild flowers.
‘May I come again?’ asked Anil, when finally he rose to go.
‘If you like,’ said Miss Mackenzie. ‘But not during school hours. You mustn’t miss your classes.’
After that, Anil visited Miss. Mackenzie about once a week, and nearly always he brought a wildflower for her to identify. She found herself looking forward to the boy’s visits — and sometimes, when more than a week passed and he didn’t come, she was disappointed and lonely and would grumble at the black cat.
Anil reminded her of her brother, when the latter had been a boy. There was no physical resemblance. Andrew had been fair-haired and blue-eyed. But it was Anil’s eagerness, his alert bright look and the way he stood — legs apart, hands on hips, a picture of confi- dence — that reminded her of the boy who had shared her own youth in these same hills.
And why did Anil come to see her so often?
Partly because she knew about wild flowers, and he really did want to become a botanist. And partly because she smelt of freshly baked bread, and that was a smell his own grandmother had pos- sessed. And partly because she was lonely and sometimes a boy of twelve can sense loneliness better than an adult. And partly because he was a little different from other children.
By the middle of October, when there was only a fortnight left for the school to close, the first snow had fallen on the distant moun- tains. One peak stood high above the rest, a white pinnacle against the azure-blue sky. When the sun set, this peak turned from orange to gold to pink to red.
‘How high is that mountain?’ asked Anil.
‘It must be over 12,000 feet,’ said Miss. Mackenzie. ‘About thirty miles from her, as the crow flies. I always wanted to go there, but there was no proper road. At that height, there’ll be flowers that you don’t get here — the blue gentian and the purple columbine, the anemone and the edelweiss.’
‘I’ll go there one day,’ said Anil.
‘I’m sure you will, if you really want to.’
The day before his school closed, Anil came to say goodbye to Miss. Mackenzie.
‘I don’t suppose you’ll be able to find many wild flowers in Delhi,’ she said. ‘But have a good holiday.’
‘Thank you, Miss.’
As he was about to leave, Miss Mackenzie, on an impulse, thrust the Flora Himaliensis into his hands.
‘You keep it,’ she said. ‘It’s a present for you.’
‘But I’ll be back next year, and I’ll be able to look at it then. It’s so valuable.’
‘I know it’s valuable and that’s why I’ve given it to you. Otherwise it will only fall into the hands of the junk-dealers.’
‘But, Miss . . . ’
‘Don’t argue. Besides, I may not be here next year.’
‘Are you going away?’
‘I’m not sure. I may go to England.’
She had no intention of going to England; she had not seen the country since she was a child, and she knew she would not fit in with the life of post-war Britain. Her home was in these hills, among the oaks and maples and deodars. It was lonely, but at her age it would be lonely anywhere.
The boy tucked the book under his arm, straightened his tie, stood stiffly to attention, and said, ‘Goodbye, Miss. Mackenzie.’
It was the first time he had spoken her name.
Winter set in early, and strong winds brought rain and sleet, and soon there were no flowers in the garden or on the hillside. The cat stayed indoor, curled up at the foot of Miss. Mackenzie’s bed.
Miss. Mackenzie wrapped herself up in all her old shawls and mufflers, but still she felt the cold. Her fingers grew so stiff that she took almost an hour to open a can of baked beans. And then, it snowed, and for several days the milkman did not come. The post- man arrived with her pension papers, but she felt too tired to take them up to town to
the bank.
She spent most of the time in bed. It was the warmest place. She kept a hot water bottle at her back, and the cat kept her feet warm. She lay in bed, dreaming of the spring and summer months. In three months’ time the Primroses would be out and with the coming of spring the boy would return.
One night the hot water bottle burst and the bedding was soaked through. As there was no sun for several days, the blanket remained damp. Miss. Mackenzie caught a chill and had to keep to her cold, uncomfortable bed. She knew she had a fever but there was no thermometer with which to take her temperature. She had difficulty in breathing.
A strong wind sprang up one night, and the window flew open and kept banging all night. Miss. Mackenzie was too weak to get up and close it, and the wind swept the rain and sleet into the room. The cat crept into the bed and snuggled close to its mistress’s warm body. But towards morning that body had lost its warmth and the cat left the bed and started scratching about on the floor.
As a shaft of sunlight streamed through the open window, the milkman arrived. He poured some milk into the cat’s saucer on the doorstep and the cat leapt down from the window-sill and made for the milk.
The milkman called a greeting to Miss. Mackenzie, but received no answer. Her window was open and he had always known her to be up before sunrise. So he put his head in at the window and called again. But Miss. Mackenzie did not answer. She had gone away to the mountain where the blue gentian and purple colum- bine grew.
A Case for Inspector Lal
I met Inspector Keemat Lal about two years ago, while I was living in the hot, dusty town of Shahpur in the plains of northern India.
Keemat Lal had charge of the local police station. He was a heav- ily built man, slow and rather ponderous, and inclined to be lazy; but, like most lazy people, he was intelligent. He was also a failure. He had remained an Inspector for a number of years, and had given up all hope of further promotion. His luck was against him, he said. He should never have been a policeman. He had been born under the sign of Capricorn and should really have gone into the restau- rant business; but now it was too late to do anything about it.
The Inspector and I had little in common. He was nearing forty, and I was twenty-five. But both of us spoke English, and in Shahpur there were very few people who did. In addition, we were both fond of beer. There were no places of entertainment in Shahpur. The searing heat, the dust that came whirling up from the east, the mosquitoes (almost as numerous as the flies), and the general monotony gave one a thirst for something more substantial than stale lemonade.
My house was on the outskirts of the town, where we were not often disturbed. On two or three evenings in the week, just as the sun was going down and making it possible for one to emerge from the khas-cooled confines of a dark, high-ceilinged bedroom, Inspector Keemat Lal would appear on the verandah steps, mopping the sweat from his face with a small towel, which he used instead of a handkerchief. My only servant, excited at the prospect of serving an Inspector of Police, would hurry out with glasses, a bucket of ice and several bottles of the best Indian beer.
One evening, after we had overtaken our fourth bottle, I said, ‘You must have had some interesting cases in your career, Inspector.’
‘Most of them were rather dull,’ he said. ‘At least the successful ones were. The sensational cases usually went unsolved — other- wise I might have been a Superintendent by now. I suppose you are talking of murder cases. Do you remember the shooting of the Minister of the Interior? I was on that one, but it was a political murder and we never solved it.’
‘Tell me about a case you solved,’ I said. ‘An interesting one.’ When I saw him looking uncomfortable, I added, ‘You don’t have to worry, Inspector. I’m a very discreet person, in spite of all the beer I consume.’
‘But how can you be discreet? You are a writer.’
I protested: ‘Writers are usually very discreet. They always change the names of people and places.’
He gave me one of his rare smiles. ‘And how would you describe me, if you were to put me into a story?’
‘Oh, I’d leave you as you are. No one would believe in you, anyway.’
He laughed indulgently and poured out more beer. ‘I suppose I can change names, too . . . I will tell you of a very interesting case. The victim was an unusual person, and so was the killer. But you must promise not to write this story.’
‘I promise,’ I lied.
‘Do you know Panauli?’
‘In the hills? Yes, I have been there once or twice.’
‘Good, then you will follow me without my having to be too descriptive. This happened about three years ago, shortly after I had been stationed at Panauli. Nothing much ever happened there. There were a few cases of theft and cheating, and an occasional fight during the summer. A murder took place about once every ten years. It was therefore quite an event when the Rani of—was found dead in her sitting-room, her head split open by an axe. I knew that I would have to solve the case if I wanted to stay in Panauli.’
‘The trouble was, anyone could have killed the Rani, and there were some who made no secret of their satisfaction that she was dead. She had been an unpopular woman. Her husband was dead, her children were scattered, and her money — for she had never been a very wealthy Rani — had been dwindling away. She lived alone in an old house on the outskirts of the town, ruling the locality with the stern authority of a matriarch. She had a servant, and he was the man who found the body and came to the police, dithering and tongue-tied. I arrested him at once, of course. I knew he was probably innocent, but a basic rule is to grab the first man on the scene of the crime, especially if he happens to be a servant. But we let him go after a beating. There was nothing much he could tell us, and he had a sound alibi.’
‘The axe with which the Rani had been killed must have been a small woodcutter’s axe — so we deduced from the wound. We couldn’t find the weapon. It might have been used by a man or a woman, and there were several of both sexes who had a grudge against the Rani. There were bazaar rumours that she had been supplementing her income by trafficking in young women: she had the necessary connections. There were also rumours that she pos- sessed vast wealth, and that it was stored away in her godowns. We did not find any treasure. There were so many rumours darting about like battered shuttlecocks that I decided to stop wasting my time in trying to follow them up. Instead I restricted my enquiries to those people who had been close to the Rani — either in their personal relationships or in actual physical proximity.’
‘To begin with, there was Mr. Kapur, a wealthy businessman from Bombay who had a house in Panauli. He was supposed to be an old admirer of the Rani’s. I discovered that he had occasionally lent her money, and that, in spite of his professed friendship for her, he had charged a high rate of interest.’
‘Then there were her immediate neighbours — an American mis- sionary and his wife, who had been trying to convert the Rani to Christianity; an English spinster of seventy who made no secret of the fact that she and the Rani had hated each other with great enthusiasm; a local councillor and his family, who did not get on well with their aristocratic neighbour; and a tailor, who kept his shop close by. None of these people had any powerful motive for killing the Rani — or none that I could discover. But the tailor’s daughter interested me.’
‘Her name was Kusum. She was twelve or thirteen years old — a thin dark girl, with lovely black eyes and a swift, disarming smile. While I was making my routine enquiries in the vicinity of the Rani’s house, I noticed that the girl always tried to avoid me. When I questioned her about the Rani, and about her own movements on the day of the crime, she pretended to be very vague and stupid.’
‘But I could see she was not stupid, and I became convinced that she knew something unusual about the Rani. She might even know something about the murder. She could have been protecting someone, and was afraid to tell me what she knew. Often, when I spoke to her of the violence of the Rani’s death
, I saw fear in her eyes. I began to think the girl’s life might be in danger, and I had a close watch kept on her. I liked her. I liked her youth and freshness. and the innocence and wonder in her eyes. I spoke to her whenever I could, kindly and paternally, and though I knew she rather liked me and found me amusing — the ups and downs of Panauli always left me panting for breath — and though I could see that she wanted to tell me something, she always held back at the last moment.’
‘Then, one afternoon while I was in the Rani’s house going through her effects, I saw something glistening in a narrow crack near the door-step. I would not have noticed it if the sun had not been pouring through the window, glinting off the little object. I stooped and picked up a piece of glass. It was part of a broken bangle.’
‘I turned the fragment over in my hand. There was something familiar about its colour and design. Didn’t Kusum wear similar glass bangles? I went to look for the girl but she was not at her father’s shop. I was told that she had gone down the hill, to gather firewood.’
‘I decided to take the narrow path down the hill. It went round some rocks and cactus, and then disappeared into a forest of oak trees. I found Kusum sitting at the edge of the forest, a bundle of twigs beside her.’
‘You are always wandering about alone,’ I said. ‘Don’t you feel afraid?’
‘It is safer when I am alone,’ she replied. ‘Nobody comes here.’ ‘I glanced quickly at the bangles on her wrist, and noticed that their colour matched that of broken piece. I held out the bit of broken glass and said, ‘I found it in the Rani’s house. It must have fallen . . .’
‘She did not wait for me to finish what I was saying. With a look of terror, she sprang up from the grass and fled into the forest.’
‘I was completely taken aback. I had not expected such a reaction.
Of what significance was the broken bangle? I hurried after the girl, slipping on the smooth pine needles that covered the slopes. I was searching amongst the trees when I heard someone sobbing behind me. When I turned round, I saw the girl standing on a boulder, facing me with an axe in her hands.’