Terror in the Sun

by Barbara Cartland

  She understood that it was because he had worked hard all day not only in hunting down the Thugs but in arguing with them, fighting them with words as well as with weapons and in the relaxation of his home he had no wish to talk about it any further.

  Both she and Amelie had been forbidden to go near the town for the next few days and had been given no reason for the ban.

  But by listening to what was said and by skilfully cross-examining the Sergeant of the Sepoys, who spoke good English, Brucena learnt that there had been trouble because six Thugs had been executed, one of them a local hero.

  One of his adherents who could not at the moment be arrested on the charge of Thuggee had managed to stir up Indians of other Castes into protesting and making trouble.

  It was always an easy task to arrange political unrest in India and only by very strong methods of repression had the riots been put down.

  It had resulted, Brucena learnt, in the gloomy prison on the lake being filled to capacity and a great number of other prisoners being confined at Jubbulpore.

  Just when she least expected it and when she was alone on the verandah, she heard the sound of horses in the compound and a moment later Major Hadleigh was beside her.

  He looked hot and a little tired, but he greeted her politely and then asked,

  “I understand that the Superintendent is not here. When are you expecting him back?”

  “I have no idea,” Brucena replied. “In fact Amelie before she went to lie down was wondering why he had not told her when he expected to return.”

  She saw the frown on Major Hadleigh’s forehead and asked,

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No, no, Of course not,” he lied so quickly that she knew he lied.

  “Would you like a drink?” she asked.

  “Thank you,” he answered.

  She clapped her hands as she had been taught to do when she required a servant and when the Head Boy, who was getting on for sixty, appeared, Major Hadleigh asked for a glass of lime juice.

  As he sat down on a chair beside Brucena, the frown vanished from his forehead as he enquired,

  “How are you enjoying yourself? Has India disappointed you yet?”

  “I find each day more exciting than the last,” Brucena answered. “But it is a pity that I am so restricted in what I can see and where I can go. But I am disappointed that your efforts at keeping the peace are not more successful.”

  She meant to needle him and thought that he would protest at her insinuations.

  Instead he merely laughed.

  “I am sure you would be wise after your long journey to rest for a little more,” he suggested. “And let me tell you, things are almost back to normal. Soon you will be able to go anywhere you want.”

  “With, of course, an escort,” Brucena finished.

  “As you say, with an escort,” he agreed.

  She looked towards the lake and then over the hard-baked earth that stretched away towards the horizon.

  “Is this place really as dangerous as you try to make out?” she asked, “I have a feeling that you enjoy making my flesh creep by hinting at unknown horrors while refusing to name them specifically.”

  “Surely, Miss Nairn, you are not interested in horrors? Besides at your age you should be thunking of very different things, romance being one of them.”

  As he spoke, he looked down at the book that was beside her on the seat.

  “I believe,” he commented, “that the current reading amongst the young ladies at Simla is Wuthering Heights. Is that what you have here?”

  He picked up the book casually and then saw that it was written in Urdu.

  “You can hardly tell me that this is of any interest to you.”

  For some perverse reason that she could not really understand, Brucena decided not to tell him the truth.

  “No, of course not. I think Cousin William must have left it here. There is, I regret to tell you, a shortage of books in this house.”

  “I should be pleased to send to Jubbulpore for anything you require.”

  “I would not like to put you to any trouble. Besides, if you did, you would have to come here again instead of ignoring me, as you obviously intended, since my arrival.”

  “I see that you are looking on me as an enemy,” Ian Hadleigh remarked in an amused tone.

  “Why not?” Brucena retorted. “You made your feelings very clear on the journey and there has been no enquiry as to my wellbeing since my arrival.”

  He laughed.

  “That was certainly very remiss of me, but you must accept my excuse that I have been extremely busy.”

  “Chasing Thugs,” Brucena observed mischievously, “as if they were foxes to be hunted down by red-faced huntsmen and a pack of hounds?”

  “Exactly. That is a very good simile. Unfortunately in this instance there were too many foxes and not enough hounds.”

  Brucena was just thinking of something cutting to say when William Sleeman came striding onto the verandah.

  “There you are,” he said. “I was told you were here. I have found out where that man has gone.”

  You have, sir,” Ian Hadleigh exclaimed. “Where?”

  “Need you ask?” William Sleeman replied “To Gwalior, of course.”

  “I thought that might be where he would hide.”

  “It is what we might have expected,” William Sleeman said bitterly. “The place has become a sanctuary for Thugs. A murderer can return there with as much safety as an Englishman to an inn.”

  Brucena was listening wide-eyed.

  She knew that Gwalior was a neighbouring Province and that an English Resident had been appointed by the Governor-General to advise the Maharajah there as in many other Courts of the independent ruling Princes.

  “It is intolerable, but I am not certain what I can do about it,” William Sleeman was saying almost beneath his breath.

  “There must be something,” Major Hadleigh insisted.

  “I wish there were, but Mr. Cavendish opposed me resolutely ever since I came here and has made my work more difficult than it need have been.”

  “It’s disgraceful!” Ian Hadleigh exclaimed.

  “Are you saying that the Resident is an Englishman who actually approves of the Thugs?” Brucena asked.

  Her voice seemed to startle the two men and she realised that they had completely forgotten her existence.

  “He would not admit it,” William Sleeman answered after a moment’s pause, “but by blocking my investigations and disallowing my men into the Province of Gwalior, he has made the place an escape hole that any Thug can disappear into when he is hard pressed.”

  “It seems an incredible situation,” Brucena chimed in, “when the Governor-General has appointed you to suppress the Thugs.”

  “It is,” William Sleeman said, “but Gwalior or no Gwalior, I intend to destroy what is the most dreadful and most extraordinary Secret Society in the history of the human race.”

  His voice had a dedicated note as he spoke and there was a look in his blue eyes which was that of a visionary.

  *

  Later that evening they sat round the dinner table and entertained not only Major Hadleigh but also half a dozen neighbours.

  It seemed hard to believe, Brucena thought, that outside the civilised comfort of the room with the cheerful voices and the laughter of the guests rising on the warm heavy air, there were men waiting to murder innocent and unsuspecting travellers and to glory in their killing.

  It was not a subject to be discussed at dinner, Brucena realised, so she listened to the local gossip and the stories of how tiresome and stupid the Indian servants often were.

  She was shown some amusing little knick-knacks that had been purchased from the native bazaar besides some very lovely material that could be used as an English lady’s scarf just as well as an Indian sari.

  It was all very feminine and frivolous, but she knew that the young men who were present looked at her with a gl
int in their eyes and the older ones teased William Sleeman for having produced such an attractive guest without warning them that she was a beauty.

  It was all commonplace and uncomplicated and yet, when Brucena went to bed, she stood looking out into the night and felt that it was all part of the India that was an enigma, a mystery and at the same time an enchantment.

  She had the feeling that the knowledge she craved and everything she wanted to know was out there but always just out of reach.

  It was hidden behind thousands of years of tradition, behind a complexity of rituals and customs that the Europeans could never understand.

  And behind all that was the secrecy so deeply ingrained in the minds and hearts of the Indians who would die rather than reveal what to them was sacred.

  *

  Brucena walked through the garden knowing, as she did so, that only constant watering almost every hour of the day could keep the small patches of grass from withering away in the heat and protect the flowers, planted painstakingly over the years by every occupant of the bungalow, from being lost in a jungle of weeds.

  The wild flowers were beautiful, bougainvillaea swarmed in thick profusion over every wall and creepers of crimson and white blossoms wound their ways round the trunks of trees.

  The gardeners fought an unending battle with the shrubs that encroached almost like an octopus on everything near them.

  It was all inexpressibly lovely and Brucena felt as if she moved to hidden music that was part of the beauty of the Indian dawn.

  Although it was nearing the end of October, it was still very hot in the middle of the day and William Sleeman had advised Brucena to rise as early as possible when the air was cool and the earth itself felt fresh.

  Sometimes he would take her riding with him before breakfast, but this morning he had to go into the town and she decided to walk through the garden carrying a sunshade, which was as yet unopened, to protect her as the sun rose.

  It was all so magical, she told herself, and she could never look at the flowers and the countryside without feeling that they had a special message for her that she could not yet fully comprehend..

  She reached the end of the cultivated garden and stood looking over a hibiscus hedge to where a long dusty road ran over the sandy unwatered earth towards some trees in the distance.

  She had a feeling that, if she walked along the road far enough, she would find what she was seeking and yet she was not certain what that was.

  She stood looking at it, feeling that it was symbolic of something that she should understand, but for the moment its meaning escaped her.

  Then she heard a sound and, looking to the right, saw a party of people camped in the shade of a few scraggy trees.

  The bright saris of the women were vivid against the earth where nothing could grow until the rains came and, as they were packing up their belongings that they had obviously used during the night, she noticed that the bangles on their wrists flashed and glittered in the morning light.

  They were beautiful women and they had a grace that was enviable, Brucena thought, and she knew that it was the years of carrying water vessels on their heads that made them walk as if they were Goddesses.

  The men were tending some small spindle-legged horses and an ancient rather tired donkey.

  There were quite a number of them and there were children too playing happily on the ground, one with a piece of wood and another with a coloured rag which he tried to make blow out in a non-existent breeze.

  Ever since Brucena had arrived in India she had wished that she could draw or paint the beauty of the Indian children.

  Never had she imagined that small human beings could be so exquisite in every way.

  With their large eyes and their small faces they had a helpless appeal that tugged at her heart and invariably made her remember the baby that she had not been able to save from the rioters on the Station platform.

  She was watching them when one little boy of perhaps five years old detached himself from the others and came towards her.

  He was carrying a flower in his hand and, as he reached her, he held it up with a smile on his lips that made her long to catch him up in her arms.

  She took the flower from him.

  “Thank you,” she said in Urdu. “Thank you very much.”

  She wondered if she had anything to give him in return and instinctively put her hand into the pocket that was inserted in the seam of her gown,

  She thought vaguely that she might give him a handkerchief.

  Then, as she felt something soft and silky, she realised that it was a ball of silk that she had picked up on the edge of the verandah as she had left the house.

  It belonged to Amelie, who was embroidering a robe for her baby in pinks and blues.

  “Pink and blue?” Brucena had questioned when she saw it.

  “I don’t mind if it is a boy or a girl,” Amelie said, “and therefore I am placating the Gods and making them believe that I have no preference in the matter.”

  Brucena laughed as she remarked,

  “I am sure William wants a son. All men do.”

  She could not help the slight bitterness in her voice as she spoke, remembering how she had suffered all her life because she was a girl instead of the boy her father had wanted so fervently.

  “William says,” Amelie said softly, “that if it is a girl and it looks like me, he will be so thrilled to have another Frenchwoman to love that he will have no regrets.”

  “I hope he is speaking the truth, but I am praying, dearest Cousin Amelie, that you will have a son as your first child.”

  “I suppose, if I am honest, I would like a boy for William’s sake, but would be fun to have a daughter to talk to, as you and I talk together.”

  “From all you have said,” Brucena declared with a smile, “it should be twins!”

  “Of course,” Amelie agreed, “and the blue will be for the boy and the pink for the girl.”

  She smiled and it seemed to light up her whole face.

  “Whatever it is,” she said, “it will be mine. My very own and that is what will matter.”

  Brucena drew the little ball of pink silk from her pocket.

  She hoped Amelie had enough to finish the robe, but she could not resist the charm of the small boy who had handed her the flower.

  She bent over and put the pink ball in his hand.

  He looked incredulous until, as his small fingers closed over it, he made a little sound of delight.

  Then he pressed it against his chest as if to assure himself that it was real and she really intended it for him.

  “For you!” she said in Urdu. “For you to play with.”

  He gave a cry that was one of rapture, then ran back to the other children, holding it high above his head and shouting,

  “Mine! Mine! All mine!”

  It was the sheer joy of possession, Brucena thought, and whether it was Amelie or the little boy, what everyone wanted was something that belonged to them exclusively.

  ‘I have nothing. Nothing that is really my own,’ she thought with a sudden excess of self-pity.

  She looked at the road winging towards the horizon and told herself that she had something far more important than possessions.

  The knowledge she found in everything new was more inspiring than a jewel and more valuable than any fortune,

  ‘That is mine,’ she said to herself defiantly, ‘and that is something that no one can take from me.’

  *

  William Sleeman came in to luncheon in a good humour.

  “I thought that, as it grows cooler this afternoon,” he said to his wife, “you and Brucena might like to come with me for a drive.”

  “William dearest, what a delightful idea,” his wife replied. “Are you telling me it is now safe?”

  “I hope so,” her husband answered. “The last purge, which we brought off against tremendous odds, has proved so effective that I am certain that, if there are any Thugs lef
t in this vicinity, they are moving out of it as quickly as their legs can carry them.”

  Brucena listened attentively.

  She had the feeling that, if she asked questions, Cousin William would change the subject.

  “You will hardly believe it,” he said, “but a man we have been hunting for the last six months has proved to be an Intelligence Agent in the employment of the East India Company!”

  “I can hardly believe it,” Amelie exclaimed.

  “It is true and everyone who worked with him swore that they would trust him with their lives, which in fact was exactly what they were doing.”

  “How is it possible that they can reach these important posts without anyone being suspicious?” she enquired.

  “That is what I ask myself every time we turn over an administrative stone and find a Thug underneath it. Well, this man is now behind bars awaiting trial and I have a feeling that the fact that we have caught him will be an invaluable deterrent to those who thought him inviolate.”

  Amelie sighed.

  “I think what frightens me more than anything is that they believe that their magical powers will save them.”

  They are beginning to understand that we are stronger than they are,” William Sleeman replied, “and not only by main force. As one man said to me, ‘at the sound of your drums, sorcerers, witches and demons take flight. How can Thuggee survive?’”

  “How indeed?” Amelie agreed. “At the same time, darling, you must be very careful of yourself. If anything happened to you, the devils and demons would all be back in force.”

  “Of course they would,” William Sleeman agreed.

  “But so far, I believe, God has protected me because, as even the Thugs admit, I am doing His work rather than the Devil’s.”

  Later, when the sun had lost a great deal of its strength and the day was beginning to grow cooler, they sat in an open carriage and drove along beside the lake.

  Despite the fact that he had said it was safe to go without an escort, Brucena found that a number of Cavalrymen were riding with them and she came to the conclusion that it was part of the aura of his importance that Cousin William thought was essential to his job.

  She was not prepared to quarrel with him about it because she was so excited to see the country