A Division Of The Spoils (Raj Quartet 4) (12 page)

‘Then it is au revoir to you both. If you have time when you’re in Delhi do call on Mohsin.’

‘Mohsin?’

‘Nawab Sahib’s elder son. He is at the Kasim Mahal most of the year. He’s rather a dull fellow but his wife is very hospitable. Mirat bores her. She likes to be in the swim, but
her
parties are beyond reproach. I shall write to them and mention you, so do send in your card.’

‘Thank you,’ Merrick said. ‘And goodnight.’ He shook the Count’s hand and turned to wait for Miss Layton who was talking to Mr Kasim.

‘I often think of it,’ she was saying. ‘And our ride that morning. Do you still go out regularly?’

Perron did not hear young Kasim’s reply because Bronowsky had turned to him to say goodnight.

‘If you are ever in Mirat, Mr Perron, a note to the Izzat Bagh Palace would always reach me even if we’re up in Nanoora.’ He gave Perron his card. ‘The Izzat Bagh Palace was built in the eighteenth century. The interior has been much modernized but there’s a lot there that would still interest you.’

Perron thanked him, shook hands with him and with Mr Kasim and as the two men returned to the limousine followed Merrick and Miss Layton into the block of flats. The lift was still out of order. At the foot of the stairs Merrick muttered something to Miss Layton. She nodded and began to climb.

‘I think the form is, sergeant, for you to change into your other uniform and call in on your way down. There is, of course, no document for Major Beamish. Incidentally,
are
you going to need transport?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Where actually are you going?’

‘Kalyan?’

‘Tonight?’

‘Yes, sir.’

They went up the stairs. The servant whom Purvis had
nearly knocked over was just opening the door to Miss Layton who went in without looking at either of them.

‘We’ll see you presently, then.’

Perron went up to the next floor and rang the bell of Purvis’s flat. This time he noticed the nameplate. Hapgood. Hapgood the Banker. Mrs Hapgood the Banker’s wife and Miss Hapgood the Banker’s daughter. One of the happy families currently relaxing in Ooty. He rang the bell again. From inside he heard men’s voices. The door was opened by the servant who had originally met him on the stairs. He looked wildly at Perron and began to talk rapidly in what sounded to Perron like Tamil – of which he understood only a few words. At the first opportunity he interrupted, speaking in English.

‘What’s the matter? I don’t understand what you’re saying.’

There were two other servants at the dark end of the corridor, the cook and his boy, probably. The boy was grinning. Perron shut the door. The bearer had resumed his incomprehensible complaint but was clearly inviting Perron to follow him into the living-room.

Arrived there his first impression was that there had been a visit by thieves who had torn the place apart to find what they had come for. The drinks table lay on its side surrounded by broken glasses and bottles. Cushions from the settees were scattered at random. The glass protecting two of the priceless Moghul paintings was smashed and the paintings themselves damaged. Inspecting them Perron realized that a bottle of rum had been shied at them. He could smell it. Stains ran down the wall. On the settee beneath he found bottle-fragments.

The bearer was now referring repeatedly to ‘Purvis Sahib’. The cook came into the dining-room. His responsibilities did not extend beyond the kitchen. What was a disaster for the bearer was for him an interesting break in routine. The scene fascinated him because he was not going to be blamed for it.

‘What happened?’ Perron asked him in English.

‘Purvis Sahib,’ the cook said. He waved his arms about then mimed a man drinking, staggering, throwing things. He tapped his forehead. Purvis Sahib had gone mad.

‘Where is Purvis Sahib now?’

‘Room.’ He shut his eyes, put his head on one side, let his tongue loll, imaging a man in a drunken stupor.

Perron went back to the corridor. The cook came with him.

‘Locked,’ the cook said. ‘Sahib ish-shleeping.’

Perron tried the handle. He knocked. He called, ‘Captain Purvis? It’s Sergeant Perron.’

The bearer joined them.

‘How long has he been here?’

‘Half-hour, Sahib.’

The cook said, ‘Drunk. Ish-shleeping.’

‘What happened?’

The bearer started to explain. Perron interrupted him, asked him to tell him in English.

A telegram had come. When? Soon after Sergeant Sahib had left with the bottle of whisky. A telegram from where?

The bearer went back to the dining-room. Perron followed. The telegram – actually an official military signal – was under the telephone on a side-table.

When Purvis Sahib read the telegram he was very angry. He used the telephone. He rang people. Nobody he wanted to talk to could be found. He tried to ring Delhi. While he waited for the call he drank. He kept ringing the operator. Because he could not get through he was shouting all the time and drinking; and swearing.

Perron asked the bearer to be quiet while he read the signal. It was prefixed Secret and Urgent. It informed Captain Purvis of his secondment to the department of Civil Affairs and ordered him to report to Headquarters, South-East Asia Command, by August 9. Copies had been sent to an impressive list of authorities. No explanation was given but that was hardly necessary. In Ceylon, Purvis would find himself attached to a group of Civil Affairs officers bound for Malaya either with or in the wake of Zipper.

‘Did Captain Purvis Sahib eventually speak to Delhi?’

Yes. The call had come through. During the conversation Purvis Sahib had become like a wild man, shouting and screaming. Then the line had been disconnected. Purvis Sahib began to throw the cushions, and then the bottles. Finally he kicked the table over. No one had dared go near. They had watched from the corridor. When Purvis Sahib staggered to his room they ran into the kitchen. They heard the door slam. Then they heard him shouting and throwing things again.
After a bit they heard him crying. Cook had tried to open the door but it was locked. Now he was unconscious with drink. What to do? What would happen when Hapgood Sahib returned from Ooty? What would Hapgood Sahib say when he saw the damage? Was the telegram not from the army sending Purvis Sahib to another station? Did not this mean that when Hapgood Sahib returned Purvis Sahib would not be here? Would the Sergeant Sahib write a chit to Purvis Sahib asking Purvis Sahib to write a chit to Hapgood Sahib offering to pay for the damage and making it clear that the servants were not to blame?

Perron, already on his way back to the locked door did not answer. He knocked loudly and called Purvis again. He grasped the handle and rattled. There semed to be only one bolt.

‘I’m afraid I shall have to break in. I’ll write a chit for the door.’

Perron launched himself left shoulder forward. The impact was as bad as the jarring shock of walking into a tree or a lamp-post. The door remained shut. The bearer started shouting again. A broken door, apparently, would be the last straw.

‘Is there another way in?’

The bearer did not understand but the cook did. He sent the boy for some keys and then opened the door into the adjoining room and switched on the light. The room must be Miss Hapgood’s. It smelt of stale powder and self-satisfaction. There was a great deal of chintz and several numdah rugs on the stone floor. The french-doors on to the balcony were open to keep the room aired but the way out on to the balcony was blocked by a thick wire-mesh screen. This was padlocked. While they waited for the boy to bring the key the cook explained that between this balcony and the one outside Purvis’s room there was a gap of only a foot or two. The Sergeant Sahib would find it easy to step from one parapet to the other. Perron hoped this would be so and that Purvis’s wire screen was not closed and padlocked too. The bearer assured him it would not be; but this remained to be seen.

The boy came with the key and in a moment Perron was outside. The balcony overlooked a broad passage between the block of flats and its neighbour and also had a view of the
backs of other blocks. It was a world of hot night air and lighted windows. From some of them music came. The gap between the balconies was as narrow as the cook had promised. The cook allowed his shoulder to be used as a support while Perron got up on the parapet, steadied himself and stepped across. Without pausing to lose momentum or balance he jumped on to the floor of Purvis’s balcony, barely managing to avoid twisting his ankle. One foot had landed within an inch of a potted plant which looked both virile and belligerent. The curtains in Purvis’s room were closed but the wire-mesh screen gave at a touch. He entered.

The room was unoccupied. He tapped at the bathroom door and called. There was no sound from inside. He tried the handle. This door was locked too. He unbolted and opened the one into the corridor. The three servants were waiting outside.

‘Did Purvis Sahib have his bath before the telegram came?’

No. All Purvis Sahib had done after Sergeant Sahib left was to sit drinking.

‘In the flat below,’ Perron said, slowly and carefully, ‘there is a Major Rajendra Singh of the
IMS.
A Doctor Sahib. Please go downstairs, ring his bell and ask him to come quickly if he is there. If not come back at once.’

The cook volunteered to take the message but Perron said, ‘No, you help me.’ The cook looked tougher than the bearer. ‘Purvis Sahib may be very ill. We have to break into the bathroom.’

Perron did not wait to watch the bearer go. He rattled the bathroom door, kicked the bottom and punched the top. The bolt was at waist level. Again he launched himself, right shoulder this time. After three attempts he stood back.

‘Together. Okay?’

The cook lined himself up. On Perron’s count of three they attacked the door together. There wasn’t really enough working surface. Two shoulders needed a wider door. But Perron thought he felt something give. He fingered one of the panels. The door was a good solid piece of carpentry; which was a pity because breaking in looked like a chopper or axe job.

‘Once more.’

This time the sound and feel of cracking wood was unmistakable. The bolt-hole was being forced out of the doorframe. Some of the frame would come with it.

‘I think I can manage now.’

He stood the cook aside, made an anchorage for his left arm on the cook’s shoulder and kicked hard at the door just above the handle with the flat of his shoe. He did this four times. At the fifth kick the door gave, swung open and revealed their own reflections in the mirror above the hand-basin: an unlooked-for and disturbing confrontation.

Perron went in. The water in the bath-tub had a pink tinge. In it Purvis lay, fully clothed except for his shoes which were placed neatly on the cork mat. His body had slumped and the head, turned into one shoulder, was half submerged. The source of the pink tinge was a series of cuts on the inner side of the left arm which was bare to the elbow. From these cuts slicks of blood rose. In his right hand, which lay under the water, the fingers touching but not grasping it, was the broken-off bottle neck that he had used to inflict the wounds. Other fragments of the bottle were visible. The label – from the second of the two bottles of Old Sporran – floated on the surface.

There was space enough between the wash-basin and the head end of the bath. From there Perron reached down, grasped the collar of Purvis’s bush-shirt and heaved him up far enough to get the head out of water and a hand under one arm. He had to struggle to get a grip under the other. He glanced round. The cook was standing in the doorway looking as if he had come to announce that the dinner was ruined through no fault of his own.

‘Help me with his feet,’ Perron said.

‘Sahib dead?’

‘I don’t know. Help with his feet.’

Reluctantly the man came in. After one glance at Purvis’s face he looked away, studied the feet and presently leant over and grasped them, none too firmly.

‘Up.’

Shoulders and feet came clear but Purvis was a dead weight. He sagged in the middle. The feet fell back in. The cook was drenched. Perron’s eyes began to sting with sweat. The
bathroom was like a hothouse. By contrast Purvis’s body felt alarmingly tepid through the sodden khaki material. Changing tactics, Perron heaved the shoulders further up and then began to turn Purvis over on to the rim of the bath. As the face disappeared from the cook’s view his attention to the mechanics of the problem improved. He grabbed Purvis’s knees and heaved. Purvis was now face down and half out of the bath at the top end. Perron readjusted his grip and began to pull. The cook got hold of the thigh and knee of the left leg. At one moment Purvis was balanced entirely on the rim and in danger of falling off it. Perron walked backwards to the door, dragging Purvis with him. The water sloshed out of Purvis’s pockets. The cook now got a secure grip on both ankles. They carried Purvis through into the bedroom.

‘Bed, Sahib?’

‘No, here.’ Perron lowered his end to the floor. The cook followed suit.

‘Towel.’

While the cook went back for this Perron turned Purvis’s face sideways and adjusted the arms, straddled the body and began the exhausting drill for first-aid to the drowned. While he did so he looked at the left arm. There didn’t seem to be much blood on the floor. Perhaps the slashes on the arm were superficial. A towel dangled in his face. ‘Sahib,’ the cook said. Perron broke off, took the towel and wound it tightly round the slashed arm. Then he resumed. A thin trickle of water and what looked like vomit came from Purvis’s mouth.

‘Doctor Sahib not answering,’ came the bearer’s voice. The cook repeated the message. ‘No answer, doctor sahib.’

Perron continued exerting and relaxing pressure. A large trickle of water came.

‘Go downstairs,’ Perron said, between pressures. ‘Ring Colonel Grace Sahib’s bell. Ask for Major Merrick. Anyone. Say: Doctor, ambulance, Purvis Sahib. Quick. Okay?’

The cook repeated the instructions to the bearer.

‘Go with him,’ Perron said. ‘Doctor. Ambulance, Sergeant Perron’s request.’