The Strangler Vine (11 page)

Pursloe cleared his throat and clasped his hands together. He looked, I thought, extremely discomfited. The other man, Hogwood, raised his eyebrows slightly and smiled.

‘Major Sleeman, I’m not here to interfere with your work. I’ve come to investigate the disappearance of Xavier Mountstuart. He was due back in Calcutta four months ago, and it now appears that Jubbulpore was the last place he was seen. Here are my letters of introduction.’ He stood up and extracted an envelope from the pocket of his black coat.

It was as if all the warmth and liveliness slid from Major Sleeman’s face. The blue eyes narrowed, the lips grew thinner. There was a silence. Pursloe, meanwhile, looked at his feet. He said in a low voice, ‘Major Sleeman does not choose to speak of Mr Mountstuart.’

‘Does not choose to speak of him?’ Blake looked broodingly at the Major.

‘I cannot help you, Mr Blake,’ the Major said with chilly deliberateness. ‘I will not have the man mentioned under any circumstances.

‘Surely there must be some mistake?’ I said – I really was not feeling myself. ‘Major Sleeman, you have to help us.’

‘I beg your pardon, Lieutenant, there is no mistake.’ His tone was icy. ‘I must ask you not to pursue the matter. He was here, he left, he did not deign to tell us where he was going. You have made a wasted journey.’

‘Major Sleeman, I do not wish to provoke you,’ said Blake. ‘I am
sorry this inquiry is so unwelcome to you, but I have a task to perform.’

‘Mr Blake, you are most welcome in Jubbulpore as long as you steer away from that subject. We pride ourselves on our hospitality and we will do our best to make you comfortable until you are ready to travel. I must ask, however, that you adhere to our rules.’

‘You mean being locked into our compound each night and required not to go into the town on our own.’

‘There is a Thug hanging next week. It makes the station unsettled. What with concerns that a bad harvest may prompt native unrest, we believe it is safer to ensure that visitors are secure.’

‘I thank you for your hospitality, Major Sleeman,’ said Blake abruptly. ‘We will take our leave.’

I stood up dizzily, but my legs were not ready for me and though I attempted to follow Blake to the door, the next moment I found myself lying on the Turkey carpet, not at all certain how I had got there.

‘Lieutenant, you are soaked with perspiration!’ said Major Sleeman. ‘We will arrange a palanquin. Mr Blake, your assistant is clearly not well at all’ – this said accusingly. ‘I will have the doctor visit you at once.’

I tried to protest, but I was steered back to a deep chair from which I thought I might never rise, and cold towels were brought. With a hint of ill temper Pursloe disappeared to arrange a palanquin. We waited; the sandy-coloured man, Hogwood, hovered. The Major sat at his desk, and Blake examined the bookcases apparently unconcerned by the increasing awkwardness of the silence.

Blake began to talk about some essays the Major had written about orchards and fruit trees. The Major seemed very taken aback that he’d seen them. Then Blake said, ‘But Lieutenant Avery is the keen student of plants and trees.’ And I thought dizzily,
Am I?

‘In that case, Mr Avery, perhaps I might show you around my garden before you leave Jubbulpore?’

I nodded obediently, and mopped myself with the towels. Silence returned.

Blake wandered over to the table on which various rocks were
arranged. He began to talk about the rocks, identifying each one. ‘And these are ammonites, if I am not mistaken. I have only ever seen them in books. I had no idea that fossils had been found in Hind.’

The Major seemed both surprised and pleased. ‘I believe I am the first man to have identified fossils in India,’ he said. He said he’d found other similar things a few miles outside Jubbulpore, including the bones of an enormous beast, like the skeletons of the giant reptiles they had discovered in England. Dinosauria, he said they were called. I wondered slightly if I was hallucinating.

‘See, Avery,’ said Blake. He opened his palm to reveal a shiny black stone on which was etched what looked like the carved relief of a very large snail. ‘This is the petrified remains of an ancient sea creature, but we’re thousands of miles from the sea.’

I shook my head. But I remembered seeing such things in childhood on the beach in Devon. We’d called them snake stones and devil’s fingers.

‘Mr Blake,’ the Major was saying, ‘may I ask how you come about your own knowledge? I do not know above five men in the country who take an interest in such things.’

‘I came across a copy of Lyell’s
Principles of Geology
in Calcutta.’

‘Indeed.’ The Major laughed. It was a pleasant sound. ‘Where do you stand on …’ and he said some word like ‘uniformitarianism’. Blake had some answer, but I could not hold my attention upon it. Then the large double doors opened and a small, dark-haired white woman swept into the room, accompanied by a native woman holding a wriggling child, two more servants and, trailing behind, a sulky-looking Pursloe.

‘Amelie!’ said Sleeman. ‘This is my wife, gentleman, and my daughter Louise.’

‘
Eh bien, enchantée, Messieurs
,’ said Mrs Sleeman. I had the impression of grace and exceptional neatness, and a brisk deliberateness similar to the Major’s.

‘My wife is French,’ the Major said with evident pride. ‘And very clever. She is, among many things, an expert on strains of sugar cane.’

‘William!’ she said, in a tone between exasperation and pleasure. ‘Is this the sick gentleman from Calcutta?’ she said, fixing upon me. ‘The palanquin is prepared. Please let us know if there is anything we may do for you. My dear, I hope you have invited the gentlemen for next week. I am holding a dinner for our regional officers and planters; I do hope William has mentioned it.’

‘Ah, yes, of course, we would very much like you to attend,’ said Major Sleeman, as if the earlier awkwardness was all forgotten.

‘We should be delighted to come,’ said Blake.

Mr Hogwood came forward. ‘Let me help escort the Lieutenant to the litter.’

I said that I could make my own way, but Blake insisted I leant on his arm. I could read nothing in his face.

The doctor unwound my bandages. The wound was swollen, red and seeping. He placed a hand on my forehead.

‘Little to be done,’ he said. ‘Brandy at regular intervals to take down the fever.’ He poured me a small glass. ‘I have a powder somewhere about me. I see you take an interest in native remedies, Mr Blake.’ Blake nodded. ‘I do not,’ the doctor said crisply.

‘Care for a glass yourself?’ said Blake.

‘Oh, no,’ the doctor said. ‘I imbibe only sparingly. We all do in Jubbulpore. Major Sleeman demands the highest standards.’

‘You’re his cousin, I think?’

‘I am,’ he said, mildly suspicious. ‘And Captain Pursloe is his nephew. We are devoted to him, and the cantonment works much the better for it, I should say.’

‘Can you tell me anything about Xavier Mountstuart?’

The doctor looked down. ‘Ah. Yes. Well, as you know Major Sleeman simply will not have the man mentioned.’

‘But you must have met him,’ Blake said, coaxingly. ‘Can you not tell me what you remember? Even in the privacy of the sickroom?’

He shook his head and frowned. ‘I have nothing to say.’

Blake touched his arm lightly. The doctor’s features softened a little.

‘Didn’t like him. Very slighting of my work. I have had a number of well-received articles published in serious journals on the subject
of Phrenology and the Thugs.’ The doctor’s mouth tightened into a disapproving moue.

‘Phrenology?’ I said.

‘It is the scientific method by which one may deduce the character of an individual – or potentially a whole race – by means of mapping the lumps on their skull. My conclusions have been received with great interest. We had the skulls of various captured Thugs measured and then sent the dimensions to Edinburgh, where they were analysed by the experts. The results were fascinating. Firstly, they showed that the Thugs’ skulls and therefore brains are smaller than ours, and secondly, the shape of their heads revealed that they are not naturally predisposed to evil, but they are, like children, easily swayed and yield to cruelty. They require guidance.’

‘And Mr Mountstuart disagreed with you?’

The doctor took a breath. ‘He was – is – not a man of science.’ He shook his head again, as if he might have said more but had decided not to. ‘I must go.’ He picked up his case and bustled out. Blake followed. He returned a few minutes later carrying one bowl of ghee and another of an unattractive green paste.

‘Pompous fool,’ he muttered, and sat down by my bed where he began to unwrap the doctor’s bandages.

‘You do not believe in Phrenology?’

‘I do not believe you can determine the character of a group of people by the measurements of a few men’s heads. And life has taught me not to trust too much to appearances.’ He swabbed the wound with the ghee, then picked up the bowl of green paste, picking out a few black insects before he pressed it upon my wound. ‘The insects here are as bad as anywhere I’ve ever been.’

‘So, what is your plan, Mr Blake?’

‘Should I have a plan?

‘You are the Company’s Inquiry Agent. Colonel Buchanan said you were a bloodhound in pursuit of your quarry.’

‘Did he.’ He poured me a small brandy and tipped into it a brown powder.

I swallowed it. ‘Ugh! This is vile! Do you not wonder what Mr Mountstuart can have done to so enrage the Major?’

‘I can imagine almost anything. He has a talent for enraging people.’

‘Oh.’ I was disappointed.

He began to wrap the bandage around my arm again. ‘What do you make of Jubbulpore?’ he said.

‘You are asking me?’

‘No one else.’

I was half-minded not to answer since he had been so unforthcoming himself. But it was better to be on speaking terms with Blake than not.

‘It is as well kept and comfortable as anywhere I have seen in India. The constant escort and the locking up at night is tiresome, but perhaps that is the price of order in the Mofussil. You would know better than I. The Major is impressive, but his refusal to speak about Mountstuart – well, it seems rather excessive. And I find his nephew the Captain disagreeable.’

‘Your fever was a piece of luck.’

‘I’m so pleased you found it useful.’

‘I have something to ask you.’

‘Yes?’ I felt my pulse quicken.

‘Don’t recover any faster than you must. I need time here.’

‘And what will you do?’

‘I will find out what happened to Mountstuart.’

‘And my contribution is to play the invalid,’ I said, again disappointed. ‘Surely you have a better use for me?’

‘Not for now. Take heart, Lieutenant Avery,’ he said, ‘you already proved yourself the other night, on the road.’

Despite myself, I was gratified.

I slept fitfully. My wound ached and my mind raced horribly. I dreamt of a flowing stream and a white pitcher of clear water, but the thought of drinking the swirling water made me nauseous. I felt I would never be cool or refreshed again. When I woke my sheets were soaked and Mir Aziz was sitting by my bedside with a pot of coffee and another of the doctor’s noxious infusions. I was glad to see him and told him so.

‘Will you rise?’ he said. ‘It is nearly afternoon.’

‘Where is Blake?’

‘He is away.’

I pressed him.

‘I am not knowing, Chote Sahib.’

‘I do not believe you,’ I said. He smiled. I told him about Major Sleeman’s anger over Mountstuart. ‘I have no idea what Mr Blake’s plans are,’ I said, hoping he might take the bait and share what he knew.

But instead he said, ‘Let me shave you, it will be making you much refreshed.’

‘Are you a soldier or a barber, Mir Aziz?’

‘I have been many things, Chote Sahib,’ he said, as the razor came close to my ear. ‘Healer and
moonshee
too.’

The blade glided across my cheek. ‘Am I never to get a clear answer about anything?’ I said.

By the time Blake returned I was restless and bored. He, however, was in a fine mood and surprisingly well turned out, his cheeks freshly shaved, his hair oiled. He opened my bandages and pulled away the now-blackened paste. The swelling was much improved and the wound had stopped seeping.

‘Where have you been, Mr Blake?’ I said. He did not answer. ‘Does the bloodhound have the scent?’ I said, irritation larding my words with sarcasm. He poured a small glass of brandy and gave it to me.

‘I think you went to the bazaar. That is, I assume, what you do. Jaw with the natives and all that.’ Silence. ‘I saw you that night in Benares when the woman, the
tawaif
, sang. Mir Aziz said there was discontent in Benares,’ I went on, ‘and that the
tawaifs
sing about such things.’ I wrenched my arm away from him. ‘Good God! It is like talking to oneself!’

Blake sat back. ‘The Company is not popular in Benares,’ he said. ‘There’s discontent all the way up the Grand Trunk Road. A famine has begun north of Mirzapore. The people are frightened, and their fears spread to other matters.’

‘What about here?’

‘Famine hasn’t reached here yet. But there’s some discontent about rents and fear about the poor harvest.’

‘So what do they complain about in Benares?’

‘They think the Company takes too much in taxes and is sending its profits back to England and they will be left with nothing. The country people complain that crop yields have gone down, so there’s less food, but the Company goes on taking the same or more and forces them to plant opium instead of food. The city dwellers fear the arrival of missionaries: they think they may be forced to convert. They say the Company is disrespectful to their wives and daughters. They fear change.’

‘Is that what the
tawaif
sang about?’

‘No, she sang about Mountstuart. He likes to be known as
malik-al-shuara
, “the king of poets”. In Benares his book was the talk of the bazaar.’

‘
Leda and Rama
?’ I said, utterly amazed. ‘How would the natives know about that?’

‘They are not stupid,’ he said. ‘Why should they not know about something that touches so deeply on corruption and misdemeanours among the Europeans?’