A Division Of The Spoils (Raj Quartet 4) (76 page)

‘Present among the guests was Mr Mohammed Ali Kasim, obviously recovered from the recent chill that prevented his attendance at the Chamber of Commerce dinner two weeks ago. Until the announcement also two weeks ago that Mr Trivurdi would succeed Sir Leonard Perkin, Mr Kasim had been widely tipped as the new Governor-designate. Answering your reporter’s questions, Mr Kasim said he had no particular plans for the immediate future but that Mr Trivurdi’s appointment as Governor was one that would have
his whole-hearted approval. He declined to answer our question whether the Governorship had been offered to him first, and whether such a refusal was an indication that presently Mr Kasim intends to return actively to politics in the province.’

The article about the Chakravarti building had seen Perron through his bacon and egg and part of his toast and marmalade. The bearer asked if the sahib desired a fresh pot of coffee. Perron said he did. He took another piece of toast and folded the
Mirat Courier
to pages two and three. A glance at page two showed that it was taken up entirely by box-advertising, so he placed the paper on the stand with page three towards him.

Another muddy photograph; but suddenly he paused, a piece of toast on its way to his mouth, but never getting there. He pushed back his chair and took the
Courier
over to the stronger light near the balustrade. The face in the photograph was virtually unrecognizable. The heading alone made identification possible:

Lieutenant-Colonel Merrick
,
DSO
A moving ceremony

‘The funeral service for the late Lt.-Col. (Ronnie) Merrick,
DSO,
whose tragic death we reported last week, was held last Saturday here at St Mary’s, in a simple but moving ceremony conducted by The Reverend Martin Gilmour who, in his short address to a large congregation, spoke of Colonel Merrick as “a man who came into our midst, a stranger, and inspired us all by his devotion to duty, and has now gone, leaving us not poorer but richer for the example he set.” ’

The same Merrick? The three-quarter profile photograph did not itself confirm so. Perron scanned quickly down to the smaller print where the names of the chief mourners might be found.

‘Supporting the widow were members and close friends of the family, Colonel John Layton, Mrs F. Grace, Captain Nigel Rowan (
AAGG
) and Mrs Rowan. Among the representatives of the cantonment were the station commander and his wife, Colonel and Mrs Rossiter and the Misses Rossiter; Brigadier and Mrs Thorpe, Colonel and Mrs S. K. Srinivasan, Major
Thwaite and Miss Drusilla Thwaite, Major and Mrs Peabody, Captain and Mrs P. L. Mehta.’

So, then, yes. Merrick. But who was Mrs Rowan? Sarah? She wasn’t otherwise named. And what were they all doing in Mirat? AAGG meant assistant to the agent to the Governor-General. Was Rowan political agent in Mirat? He went back to the larger print.

‘Referring briefly to Colonel Merrick’s skilful handling of the far from easy task entrusted to him some months ago, the chaplain pointed out that the man whom they had gathered together to mourn and honour was one who had a disability that would probably have persuaded many men to feel that the period of their useful active employment and service had ended. “Ronnie,” he said, “never felt this. Some of you have seen, many of us have heard, how this gallant officer who had taught himself to ride again, led his detachment of States Police during times of trouble, patiently and humanely but firmly restoring order and securing the peace of the state in whose service he was for all too short a time.”

‘ “Today,” he continued, “our hearts and prayers should be offered to Colonel Merrick’s widow, in thanksgiving for a life so well lived, so abruptly ended, so sadly lost.”

‘After the singing of the hymn “Abide with Me” there was a moment’s silence and then from outside the church came the clear sombre notes of the Last Post, sounded off by a bugler of the Mirat Artillery. An equally moving last touch to the simple service was made when the Chief Minister of State in Mirat, the Count Bronowsky, stepped forward and assisted the widow from the church.

‘A few days earlier a post-mortem confirmed that Colonel Merrick died as a result of injuries sustained in a riding accident. The funeral was delayed to enable the widow and other members of the family to attend. The remains were cremated.’

*

‘Sahib?’

The bearer had brought the tray of fresh coffee. He was asking Perron whether he wanted it at the breakfast table or at
the verandah table where Perron was leaning against the balustrade. Perron nodded at the verandah table and then read the report again. And now the muddy photograph began to take on a sinister likeness to the Merrick he had known. He sat down, poured more coffee, and continued to study both the photograph and the report.

‘I didn’t know,’ a woman’s voice said, ‘that the local rag could be so absorbing.’

Startled, he looked up. The woman in the sunglasses had come back and was sitting two tables away. Her voice was low-keyed, a bit hoarse, but attractive. He smiled, put the paper away and said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.’

‘That’s what I mean. You are Guy Perron, aren’t you?’

‘Yes –?’

‘You’ve been expected. So I did wonder when I saw you arrive. I’ve been nosey and had a look at the book you signed. No, please don’t move.’ She got up herself and came to join him. She took the sunglasses off, revealing rather pale eyes, blue-grey with a tinge of violet. A tiny scar, about an inch long, white, showed clearly beneath the left one. In spite of this blemish she was in a sad, rather exhausted way, beautiful.

‘You won’t recognize me. But you might remember me as Laura Elliott. At least Nigel told me you did.’

After a few seconds Perron said, ‘Yes. Laura Elliott.’ He offered his hand. Hers was rather clammy. He said, ‘The coffee’s fresh. Let me ask the bearer for another cup.’

‘Thank you.’ She sat down. He rang the handbell. When the old man came out he saw at once what was wanted and went back in. Perron sat. She was gazing steadily at him.

‘I
think
I remember you,’ she said. ‘I mean I know I remember you but think I recognize you.’

‘And I you.’

‘No. I shouldn’t think so.’

She had a directness that wasn’t unpleasant, but having made this denial there was a hint of confusion in the way she replaced the sunglasses. He thought it possible that Nigel might also have said to her: Guy called you that stunning girl. She was stunning no longer.

The bearer brought another cup and another pot of coffee.
She poured for them both. ‘Why have you come to the club, Mr Perron? Nigel said they were expecting you at the Izzat Bagh.’

‘I never got round to wiring the day and time I’d get here. After a night on the train I thought it would be a good idea at least to get some breakfast and even make sure of a bed for the night without putting people out.’

‘Well, and it’s nice to be on your own for a while. Before putting on one’s visiting face. Is Nigel going to be disappointed?’

‘Why disappointed?’

‘He said you’d be surprised to find him in Mirat. But you don’t seem surprised. You haven’t even asked me who I mean by Nigel. Did Dmitri give the game away after all?’

‘No. And I am surprised. But the edge has been knocked off by what I’ve just read in the
Mirat Courier.
’

‘Oh, have they said something about him? I never read it.’

‘His name’s included in a list of people who went to a funeral on Saturday. Mr Nigel Rowan,
AAGG.
And then the other names clinched it. The only person I don’t know about is Mrs Nigel Rowan.’

Laura Elliott smiled. Her mouth went down with the smile. ‘That’s me, I’m afraid. Was I mentioned too? Nigel will be pleased. It worries him a bit that printed guest lists seldom refer to us both. But then how can they if I’m always making excuses or just not turning up? It’s Dmitri Bronowsky who’s expecting you really, isn’t it? Are you going to ring him up?’

‘The secretary said he mightn’t be in Mirat but that he could easily find out.’

‘In which case he’s probably looking for me. Dmitri was in Mirat yesterday. He must still be. But you needn’t ring. Nigel will either be ringing me here or arriving here some time this morning. You could go back with him. In any case I’ll let him know you’re here.’

‘It’s well over a year since Nigel and I were in touch. How long have you been married?’

‘Rather less than a year. But do you mind if we don’t talk about it? I was always very fond of Nigel and still am, but I’m afraid his marriage hasn’t been a success.’

Perron studied Laura Elliott’s face – turned, for once, away
from him as she watched the swooping crows; and thought he saw a woman who had had a bad time and was trying to pick up the pieces. She had rejected Nigel originally for a planter in Malaya. He remembered Nigel referring to a surviving Elliott parent in Darjeeling, who had only heard from Laura once, after she had ended up in a Japanese prison-camp. Presumably, unless there had been a divorce, the planter-husband hadn’t survived. He felt he couldn’t ask. He felt she would welcome a discussion about her and her first husband’s captivity as little as she welcomed discussion of her marriage to Nigel. He said:

‘Are you staying here at the club?’

‘Yes, temporarily.’ The sunglasses were redirected at him. ‘I’ve just remembered.’ She took the glasses off. ‘You had a delightful but rather dotty aunt. Is she still alive?’

‘She’s paying for most of the cost of this trip and she’s pulled most of the strings that make things easy when I want them easy.’

‘I’m glad she’s still alive. People like that deserve a long life.’

‘People like what?’

‘People who take an interest in other people, especially in young people. I felt that. I felt her reacting to me as if I were a person, not just another good-looking girl.’

‘I’ll tell her what you say.’

‘Oh, she won’t remember me.’

‘But she does.’

A moment of nakedness. Then the glasses went back on. There was the sound of a telephone ringing. Perron said, ‘Perhaps that’s Nigel now.’

‘We shall soon know. You’d like some more coffee?’

‘Thank you.’

She began to pour. Hearing footsteps, Perron looked round. It was Macpherson. He said:

‘Ah, there you both are. Already introduced yourselves. Good. Your husband is on the line, Mrs Rowan.’

She thanked Macpherson, pushed the glasses hard against the bridge of her nose and got up and went without another word or a glance in Perron’s direction.

Macpherson said, ‘It looks as if you’re in luck and I lose an overnight guest.’

She did not come back. The clerk came ten minutes later with a message from her. A car would call for Perron at midday to take him to the Izzat Bagh. He stayed on the terrace for another half-hour or so. But still she did not return.

*

The car slowed to pass through a sentry-guarded checkpoint marked by a notice:
End of Cantonment Limits
and then headed along a straight road slightly below the level of the railway. He put on his own dark glasses and took out Rowan’s note and re-read it.

‘My dear Guy, I’m sorry I can’t come to collect you personally. It’s one of those pressing official mornings. I’ve not had the chance yet to tell Dmitri you’ve arrived, but will. Meanwhile, the best thing is for you to come to my bungalow. It’s next to the Dewani Bhavan, Dmitri’s house, where you’ll be staying, but a lot has happened since he wired you in Bombay and you may find dossing down with me at least a good temporary solution. You’re very welcome. Laura tells me you and she met and that you’ve seen the
Courier
, so know something of the score. Colonel Layton went back to Pankot this morning but Susan and her aunt are still here. They’re staying at the palace guest house. Sarah’s here too, of course, and has promised to be at my bungalow to welcome you and to see you settled in. I may have to stay at the palace for lunch, but I’ve organized things for you to lunch at my place. I expect you’ll want to relax anyway. The bungalow is tucked between the Dewani Bhavan and the bungalow that was Susan’s and Ronald’s.

‘You’ll get a good view of the Izzat Bagh Palace and the guest house directly you fork right from the railway and the road starts to lead you round our side of the lake. Once you’ve passed the walls of the palace grounds you’re at the Dewani Bhavan (and our bungalow which overlooks the waste ground between the palace and the city). See you soon. Nigel.’

The fork was ahead. He moved to the left-hand side of the car. Presently he saw the palace at the other end of the
dazzling stretch of water: a rose-coloured structure with little towers, and on the lake-shore a white domed mosque with one slim minaret reflected. To one side, amidst trees, a palladian-style mansion. The guest house presumably.

At this upper end of the lake there were huts and boats (beached). A detachment of armed police patrolled the area. The lake seemed to be separated almost into two by an isthmus and an area of reeds. Where the reeds began the road curved away from the bank as though everything beyond the reeds was private property. The car became cooler, shaded by banyan trees. And to the left there suddenly appeared a brick wall mercilessly topped by spears of broken bottle-glass. The palace grounds. The wall continued for half a mile. Perhaps more. But suddenly ended, at a right angle, and the road was now edged on that side by an immense stretch of open ground, broken by nullahs. The car slowed. Just ahead on the right there was a grey stucco wall, a glimpse of a substantial bungalow, the Dewani Bhavan. But his attention was taken by a more distant view, the view of what lay at the far end of the waste ground, about a mile away: the blur of the old walled and minareted city of Mirat.

The car turned, across a culvert, into the compound of a small bungalow, a very old, squat building with square pillars to its verandah. The compound was rough and untended.

Standing in the shadow of the deep verandah was a woman wearing a blouse and skirt. Sarah. She had her arms folded (hands, as he remembered, clasping the elbows). As the car drew up she came down the steps ahead of a servant.