City of Bells (21 page)

             
“Thank you,” Emma said, and they exchanged a direct smile.

             
“Speaking of the girls’ school, and thus the Khajuraho Temple, it sounds as if the two of you had quite an interesting morning there,” Tom drawled.  “I take it you found time to view the famous erotic wall?”

             
“The three of us had quite an interesting morning,” Geraldine said archly, much to Emma’s relief. 

             
“And did you see the wall, Auntie?  My guess would be ‘no,’ since you do not appear to have been struck blind.”

             
“I did not have the pleasure.  Emma and Trevor quite abandoned me, claiming the walk down to the wall was too treacherous for an old lady to undertake.  Thus they explored this archeological marvel alone while I was forced to sit in a garden and pretend to drink the most wretched cup of tea I have experienced since Victoria took the throne.”

             
“And was it an archeological marvel?” Tom asked.

             
“It was,” Emma said, folding her hands into her lap.

             
“Ah,” said Tom.  “Well, it is good to hear that at least some of us are enjoying our time in India.”

             
“You seemed to be enjoying it well enough at the club last night,” Emma said.  “And I thought the two of us were going together this afternoon to the hospital to visit Amy, yet it seems you have already interrupted your busy day to pay her a call.”

             
“Quite the case,” said Tom.  “I would imagine I was holding her limp little hand at precisely the same instant that you and Trevor were compelled by duty to investigate the erotic wall at the bottom of the hill upon which stands the infamous Khajuraho temple.”

             
“Children, children,” Trevor said.  “Shall we try to maintain our focus?  Morass, why don’t you have them bring in Felix?  As both valet and driver, I suspect he is our best opportunity to verify the sequence of events on the morning Rose Everlee and Pulkit Sang died.”

***

The Gardens of the Khajuraho Temple

3:20 PM

             
She looked down at the small stiff creature in her hand.  It was still, terribly still, and this saddened her.  She sang to it, some melody she remembered from her childhood.  Something her mother used to sing – a lullaby, most likely, or some sort of folk tune now reduced to the softest and most off-key of drones.

             
The garden was empty this time of day, since the girls had gone in for their afternoon naps.  There was no one to watch as Adelaide stooped in the dust, carefully parting a mound of dirt and placing the yellow bird into the furrow.  You cannot plant birds, this she knew.  They do not grow up from the ground, erupting to life like melons or gourds.  And yet she indulged the thought, just for a moment, of a tree full of yellow birds.  A tree stretching toward the sun and releasing its bright feathered fruits, one by one, into the sapphire sky.

             
And now the bird was buried.  One small heap in the dust among the many and she knew that the minute she pulled her eyes from the spot it would be impossible to find it again.   Adelaide did not know any prayers by heart.  Religion had never been her forte, but she sang her lullaby once again and hoped it was enough. 

***

The Tucker House

3:25 PM

             
“My uncle get me job,” said Felix.

             
He was an intelligent boy – they could see that at once.  His eyes had scanned the circle of questioners with neither fear nor artifice.  And his English was good, far better than Trevor had dared to hope.  Felix had recounted the sequence of events on the morning of August 7 and his recollections had perfectly matched Anthony Weaver’s story.   No, he had said, with a gentle certainty. They had passed nothing unusual on their short ride to the club, no one had impeded their progress, and neither Mrs. Weaver nor Pulkit Sang had seemed at all ill.  Sang had ridden up front beside him, as a matter of fact, and had been his usual cheery self. 

             
But when the line of questioning turned to how he had first found himself living with the Weavers, the interview became immediately more interesting.

             
“Who is your uncle?” Trevor asked.

             
“Pulkit Sang the brother of my mother’s mother, yes?”

             
“Indeed, “said Trevor, with surprise.  So Sang had used his seniority within the Weaver household to procure a post for his great-nephew.  “I did not realize you were related.  Please accept my condolences for your loss.”

             
The phrase seemed to confuse the lad.  He said nothing in response but merely sat blinking.

             
“Your great-uncle had worked for the Weavers for a long time, yes?” asked Rayley.  “Do you know why and when they first hired him as a bodyguard?”

             
“Yes.  He was not bodyguard all at once.  He was valet to the sahib, as I am now.”

             
“He worked for the Secretary-General?  He was originally a servant to Mr. Weaver?” Rayley said in some confusion.

             
“Yes.  No.  He worked for the first Secretary-General.  His name” – and here the boy hesitated, as if pulling up something from the deepest recesses of memory – “Ro-lund Eb-er-nee.”

             
The group looked about at each other with uncertainty on every face.  There had never been any hint that Pulkit Sang’s length of service extended that far back.  That he had been with the Everlee-Weaver household prior to the slaughter of ’57, that he had served not only Rose’s second husband, but her first one as well. 

             
“Well, that is quite cozy,” Tom finally drawled.  “Anthony Weaver inherited Roland Everlee’s valet as well as his wife.”

             
Trevor nodded to Rayley to continue.

             
“Let me make sure that we all understand each other, Felix,” Rayley said.  “You are saying that your uncle first served Roland Everlee?”

             
A single emphatic nod.  “In army.”

             
“He went with Everlee into the field?  He traveled with him during the – “'

             
"War.  Yes."

             
***

             
“You mean the mutiny?” Rayley persisted. “You realize we are asking about 1857?” 

             
Since Felix was too young to have any personal memory of these events, he was obviously going solely on stories he had been told from his grandmother and great-uncle.  But he responded with confidence and enunciated carefully.  “Uncle went to Cawnpore.”

             
At this simple sentence all the air seemed to go out of the room for Trevor. 

             
“You are quite sure of this?” Rayley croaked.

             
Felix bobbed his head.  “Uncle go with Sahib Eb-er-nee to house with lady and children.  Sahib try to save, but sword go through him.”

             
“And your uncle described that day to you?  The day Roland Everlee was killed?”

             
Felix paused, perhaps uncertain of the word “described.”  Rayley tried again.

             
“What did he tell you of that day?”

             
“Take children from house.  Two.  Wish to bring more but sword.  Uncle tell me Sahib Eberlee good man.  Best white man.”

             
Ah
, thought Rayley. 
And so this is how the two children survived the raid
.  “Your Uncle Pulkit,” he said.  “He brought the two white children back to Bombay?”

             
“Yes.  Guns and fire everywhere.  He put children in cart.”

***

              “Well, that was quite the revelation,” Emma said, when Felix had been escorted from the room by Davy to offer his fingerprints to the growing collection.  “I thought no one survived Cawnpore.”

             
“No white person survived Cawnpore,” Trevor said grimly.  “I imagine quite a few of the Indian rebels got away.”

             
“But Sang was with the English,” Emma said.  “Servant to their highest ranking officer and thus, to turn the phrase, playing for the wrong team.  Why would the Indian rebels not have set upon him too?”

             
Rayley leaned back in his chair.  “I reread the reports of Cawnpore just last night.  Quite a few of the top ranking officers brought their menservants with them into battle.  These fellows, Sang, and the rest, must have occupied a strange perch.  Dark skinned, Hindi, quite possibly with friends and relatives among the rebels but still, just as Emma says, standing on the white side of the divide.”

             
“Did your report mention what happened to any of these servants once the battle began?” Tom asked.  “I can imagine several scenarios.  Perhaps some of the servants were killed beside their masters.  Others may have changed allegiance once they were engulfed and thus escaped.  Or who knows, there may have been plants for the rebellion among these menservants all along.  That would be rather a coup for the mutineers, would it not?  To have spies posing as servants for the Raj?”

             
Rayley shook his head.  “The report only mentioned them in passing and certainly shed no light on their ultimate fate.”

             
“Another thing occurs to me,” said Trevor.  “Every man of my generation was raised to admire Roland Everlee.  He was considered the very best of everything British, just as Felix said.  But exactly how did his legend begin?   If every white Englishman at Cawnpore was slain, who returned with the tale of Everlee’s great sacrifice?”

             
“Precisely what I was wondering last night,” Rayley said.  “The stories were told, the report said…which is all very well, but told by whom?”

             
“Are you suggesting it was Pulkit Sang?” Emma said, literally twisting in her seat with excitement.  “That the man who now lies dead in the Byculla Club kitchen was also the primary agent of Roland Everlee’s near canonization?  It seems bizarre that anyone in the Raj would even listen to the account of an Indian servant, but who else could it have been?”

`
              “You were a grown woman at the time, Geraldine,” Trevor said.  “How was the event reported?”

             
“I only read the accounts of London newspapers, darling,” Geraldine said.  “And you know how they color the truth in search of a good story.  Two children escaped.  I don’t recall any mention of how, or what might have happened to them later.”

             
“The baby boy was soon dead of cholera,” Rayley said.  “And the girl was shipped to relatives in England.  At least according to the official military report, which I’m beginning to think was more propaganda than legitimate reportage.  The English had been trounced, after all.  Shown to be incapable of defending their own women and children.  The Raj needed a hero and Roland Everlee fit the bill.  So yes, of course they embraced the story of his noble sacrifice, even if the details came from the tongue of an Indian manservant.”

             
“Tom,” Trevor said shortly.  “Fetch Felix back.”

             
Tom did as he was told, for once without question, and returned in a minute with both Davy and Felix, who was gingerly holding out a hand in front of him.  His right fingertips were already inked.

             
“Felix,” said Trevor, “you told us that your uncle put the children in a cart.  All the reports claim that the roads between Bombay and Cawnpore were blocked by the mutineers.  Do you know how he managed to get this cart back to the city without being overrun in the process?”

             
The boy pursed his lips thoughtfully, the pause stretching to such length that Trevor was beginning to think he had not understood the question.  Perhaps he should have couched it in plainer language.  Just as he was about to try again, Felix spoke.

             
“Uncle not say.  He said he lie on top of children.  Guns and smoke.  He…cover them with his body like…like quilt on English bed, he say.”

             
“He lay over the children?” Trevor said.  “Shielded them with his body?  If that was the case, who drove the cart?”

             
“Sahib Weaver,” Felix said matter-of-factly.  

             
“Anthony Weaver went with them to rescue the family?” Trevor exploded, glancing at Geraldine who had literally jumped to her feet with this news. “You are sure this is what your uncle told you?”

             
The boy nodded, with wide eyes.  The extreme reaction to his last statement seemed to have stunned him and he looked rather guiltily down at his ink-stained hand.