The Far Pavilions Page 27

  Malik laughed, and Ash, who knew that last was true enough, did not pursue the subject. But less than a week later it became all too clear why Dilasah Khan had enlisted in the Guides. And equally clear that his kinsmen's distrust and Ash's suspicions had been well founded.

  12

  There had been no moon on the night that Dilasah disappeared from Mardan, taking with him his own and one other Government-issue cavalry carbine. Nor had anyone seen him go, for he, like Malik, could move like a shadow when he chose.

  He had been on sentry duty in the last watch before dawn, one of two men who were patrolling the lines, and the fact that he had not knifed his fellow sentry was probably due to a dislike of being involved in further blood-feuds rather than any respect for human life. But the man had suffered a bad case of concussion and it was some time before he could tell his story. He had naturally not expected any attack from such a quarter and could not remember being hit; but it was obvious that Dilasah had felled him with the butt of his carbine before gagging and binding him with his own turban, and dragging him away into the shadows out of earshot of the sleeping camp. The aggressor had then made off into the darkness, and must have had at least an hour's start before the groans of the bound man at last aroused someone to investigate, for although patrols on horseback had galloped out to scour the countryside and track him down, they failed to find him.

  By nightfall there was still no sign of him, and the following morning the Commandant demanded to know how many other members of his clan were serving with the Regiment. These were summoned to his office and ordered to remove every piece of uniform or equipment that was the property of the Corps, and they had obeyed in silence, each in turn adding to the pile on the matting-covered floor before returning to his place to stand rigidly at attention.

  ‘Now go,’ said the Commandant. ‘And do not let me see your faces again until you have brought back both rifles.’

  The men had gone without a word, and no one had questioned the Commanding Officer's action except Ash, to whom it had come as the culmination of a particularly harrowing week.

  ‘But he can't do that,’ stormed Ash to his Squadron Commander, white-lipped with anger. ‘What's it got to do with them? It wasn't their fault. Why – why they don't even like the man! They never have.’

  ‘They belong to the same clan,’ explained the Squadron Commander patiently, ‘and the C.O's a very shrewd bird who knows what he's doing. He wants those carbines back because we can't afford to have that kind of weapon being used in the passes – and because we can't afford to allow one of our fellows to get away with this kind of thing either. It might give a lot of other men ideas. No; he's done the only thing he can. It's a question of izzat. Dilasah has let his clan down and his fellow clansmen will get those carbines back for their own sakes. You'll see. They've probably got a pretty good idea where he's heading for, and the chances are that they'll be back inside forty-eight hours with the rifles.’

  ‘What if they are?’ demanded Ash. ‘They've had their uniforms stripped off them and they've been flung out – punished and publicly disgraced for something that had nothing whatever to do with them. If there was any justice, I'm the one who ought to be punished – or you! I knew that man was up to no good, and so did you. I warned you, and you brushed it off as though I'd brought you some footling fairy-story. But I could still have done something to prevent this, and Malik and the others couldn't. It isn't fair!’

  ‘Oh for God's sake grow up, Pandy,’ snapped the Squadron Commander, losing his patience: ‘You're behaving like a child of two. What's got into you? You've been going round like a bear with a sore head for the last few days. Aren't you feeling well?’

  ‘I'm perfectly well, thank you,’ retorted Ash angrily. ‘But I don't like injustice and I'm going to see the C.O. myself.’

  ‘Well, rather you than me. He's not in a particularly good mood at the moment, and after you've heard what he has to say you'll wish you'd had more sense.’

  But Ash was beyond the reach of reason, not only on account of Dilasah Khan's defection and the dismissal of his fellow clansmen. That had merely been the last, and by no means worst incident, in a week that he was to look back on as the blackest period of his life. Ever afterwards, nothing would ever seem so bad again, because he himself was never again to be the same kind of person that he had been until then…

  It had begun with the arrival of a letter by the morning post, and he had not even recognized the writing on the envelope, but had opened it casually in the mess, expecting it to contain only another invitation to a dinner-party or a dance. Mrs Harlowe's well-meant letter, informing him that her daughter was engaged to be married, had been as unexpected as the first shock of an earthquake.

  Belinda was so very, very happy, wrote Mrs Harlowe, and she did so hope that he would do nothing to spoil that happiness, but be sensible about it and not enact them any tragedies, for it must have become plain to him by now that he and Belinda were quite unsuited to each other, and in any case he was much too young to be thinking of marrying and settling down. Ambrose was in every way a far more suitable husband for Belinda, and she felt sure that Ashton would be unselfish enough to rejoice in her daughter's great happiness and wish her the best of good fortune in the future. Belinda had asked her to break the news to him, as owing to all the foolish talk there had been between them, the dear child felt that he might prefer it that way…

  Ash sat staring at the letter for so long that eventually one of his friends had inquired if he were feeling all right, and had had to repeat the question three times before receiving an answer. ‘Yes – I mean, no. It's nothing,’ said Ash confusedly.

  ‘Bad news?’ asked Wigram Battye sympathetically.

  ‘ No. Only a headache – touch of the sun, I expect. Think I'll go and lie down,’ said Ash. And added unexpectedly: ‘I don't believe it!’

  ‘Believe what? I say, old fellow, hadn't you better see the M.O.? You're looking like death,’ observed Wigram candidly. ‘If it is sun-stroke –’

  ‘Oh, don't be an ass,’ said Ash unkindly, and went back to his room to sit on the edge of his bed and re-read Mrs Harlowe's letter.

  He read it half-a-dozen times, and each time it seemed to be less believable. If Belinda had really been falling in love with someone else, surely he would have sensed it when he last saw her – which was barely three weeks ago? But her last words to him had given no indication of any drastic change of heart, and he did not believe that after all that there had been between them, she would have asked her mother to write such a letter. If it were true, she would have written to him herself; she had always been honest with him. Ambrose – Who the hell was Ambrose? It was all a plot on the part of her parents. A plot to separate them. Either that, or they were forcing Belinda into a distasteful marriage against her will.

  Mrs Harlowe's letter had arrived on a Friday, and there were still eight days to go before Ash was officially allowed to see Belinda again. But on the following day he defied orders and rode over to Peshawar.

  Once again, as on the occasion of his first visit, the Harlowes' bungalow was empty and a servant informed him that the Sahib and the memsahibs were out to lunch and not expected back until mid-afternoon. Ash retired, as he had done before, to the Club; and here too, history repeated itself, for though the Club was far from empty and the lawns and terraces were packed with a gay and chattering Saturday morning crowd, the first person to accost him was George Garforth.

  ‘Ash!’ cried George grabbing at him as he passed. ‘Mus' talk to you. Don't go. Have a drink -’

  Ash had no desire at all to talk to George – or to anyone else, apart from Belinda. But two things prevented him from disengaging himself and walking away. The first, that George was tipsy, and the second that here was someone who would certainly know if there was any truth in this tale of an engagement. Though the very fact that George was drunk – and at this hour of the morning – made his heart shrink with foreboding.

  �
�Jus' the fellow I wanted to shee,’ babbled George hoarsely. ‘Wan' t' talk to you, Ash. Only one I can talk to. But not here… too many people here… too many b-bloody stuck-up snobs sitting around and listening. Le's go t' my bungalow for t-tiffin.’

  In the circumstances it seemed a sensible suggestion, for Ash could think of nothing worse than having to listen to what George had to say (if, as seemed only too likely, it concerned Belinda) in the presence of half the members of the Peshawar Club. In any case, the sooner Mr Garforth removed himself from such a public spot the better, for his behaviour was obviously attracting a considerable amount of attention. Far too many people were staring at him in patent disapproval and whispering to their neighbours, and it was plainly only a question of time before the Secretary or some irate member requested him to leave – a disgrace that to someone of George's over-sensitive temperament would cause a degree of suffering and humiliation out of all proportion to the offence. Ash sent for a tonga and took the inebriated Mr Garforth back to his bungalow, which turned out to be a large, square building, part office, that was owned by his firm.

  George's portion of it was a modest one, consisting of a small back-bedroom with an adjoining bathroom and one end of a verandah (screened off from the remainder by a chik*) that did duty as a combined sitting-room and dining-room. The whole bore a depressing resemblance to a dâk-bungalow, but the servant who appeared at the sound of the tonga bell was able to produce a three-course lunch, accompanied by two bottles of Brown & MacDonald's light ale, so that despite his forebodings Ash contrived to make a tolerable meal. His host, on the other hand, rejected every dish with expressions of loathing, and sat slumped in his chair muttering belligerently and scowling at the khidmatgar. It was only when the table was eventually cleared and the servant went away that he abandoned this truculence in a startling manner.

  The verandah chik had no sooner dropped into place behind the departing khidmatgar than George leant forward, and laying his folded arms on the table, dropped his head onto them and burst into tears.

  Ash retired precipitately to the dusty compound where a solitary neem tree provided an oasis of shade in the mid-day glare. He would have liked to walk back to the Club, but he could not bring himself to abandon George at this particular juncture, even though he was by now fairly certain that the cause of both drunkenness and grief must be Belinda's engagement, and he was no longer sure that he wanted to hear what George had to say on the subject. He sat down on a root of the neem tree, feeling angry with himself and angrier with George, and waited. The harsh, gulping sobs were not a pleasant sound to listen to, but they stopped at last and he heard George blow his nose and stumble away to the bedroom where, judging from the noise of splashing, he appeared to be emptying the contents of the water chatti over his head.

  Ash rose and came back to his chair on the verandah, and presently George reappeared wearing a towel around his shoulders and with his hair dripping water. He poured himself out a cup of black coffee from the pot that the khidmatgar had left on a tray, and subsided heavily into a sagging cane chair where he sat sipping the hot liquid and looking utterly demoralized. There seemed to be nothing left of the talkative and bumptious young man who for over a year had been such a success at tea-parties and Club dances. Even his good looks had vanished, for his pallid face was puffy and unshaven and his eyes red with weeping, while his sodden hair had lost its Byronic curls and straggled limply down his neck and forehead.

  Confronted by this spectacle Ash's irritation became diluted with sympathy, and resigning himself to the role of confidant and comforter, he got up and helped himself to coffee and said with an effort: ‘You'd better tell me about it. I suppose it's this engagement.’

  ‘What engagement?’ asked George tonelessly.

  Ash's heart gave a leap that set his pulses racing, and the coffee slopped all over the floor. So he had been right after all. Mrs Harlowe had lied to him, and it wasn't true.

  ‘Belinda's of course. I thought that was why – I mean…’ He was incoherent with relief. ‘I'd heard she was engaged to be married.’

  ‘Oh that,’ said George, dismissing it as something of no account.

  ‘Then it isn't true? Her mother said –’

  ‘It wasn't really her,’ gulped George. ‘She – Mrs Harlowe – tried to be nice about it, I think. She really did like me, you know. But Belinda… I – I wouldn't have believed that anyone… no, that isn't true; I suppose it was just because I did believe it that I tried to keep it quiet. I should have known that someone would find out one day.’

  ‘Find out what? What the blazes are you mumbling about, George? Is she engaged or isn't she?’

  ‘Who? Oh, Belinda. Yes. They got engaged after the Bachelors' Ball, I believe. Look, Ash, do you mind if I talk to you about something? You see, I don't know what to do. Whether to stick it out, or give in my notice and quit, or… I can't stay on here. I won't. I'd – I'd rather shoot myself. She'll tell everyone – she's started already. Didn't you see the way they were all staring at me and whispering at the Club this morning? You must have noticed. And it will get worse. Much worse. I don't think I can –’

  But Ash was not listening. He had put down his cup with a hand that was noticeably unsteady and now he sat down with some suddenness. He did not want to hear anything more or to talk to anyone. Not to George, anyway. And yet…

  He said abruptly: ‘But that can't be true. The Bachelors' Ball was right at the beginning of the month. That's nearly six weeks ago, and I've seen her since then. I had tea with her, and if it was true she would have told me then. Or her mother would. Or someone.’

  ‘They didn't want to announce it too soon. They kept it quiet until his new appointment came through – I suppose it sounded grander then. Marrying a Resident, you know.’

  ‘A Resident? But –’ Ash broke off and scowled at George, who must be even drunker than he had thought, because a Residency was a senior appointment: a ‘plum job’ of the Indian Civil Service. Only men who had served that department for many years were sent to represent their Government in some independent native state with the title of ‘Resident’.

  ‘Bholapore – one of those states somewhere down south,’ said George indifferently. ‘It was in the papers last week.’

  ‘Bholapore?’ repeated Ash stupidly. ‘But – Oh, you must have made a mistake. You're drunk. That's what it is. How would Belinda ever meet anyone like that, let alone get engaged to him?’

  ‘Well, she has,’ said George flatly and as though it did not matter very much. ‘Friend of her father's. You must have noticed him: stout party with a red face and grey whiskers. He was having tea with them the last time you were here, and Belinda was all over him.’

  ‘Podmore-Smyth!’ gasped Ash, appalled.

  ‘That's the fellow. Pompous old bore, but I'm told he's no end of a catch. Sure to be knighted before long and end up as a Lieutenant-Governor, and all that. His wife only died last year, and his daughters are older than Belinda, but she doesn't seem to mind that. He's got a lot of money of course – his father was one of those Calcutta Nabobs, so he's simply rolling in it. And I suppose she likes the idea of being Lady Podmore-Smyth. Or Her Excellency the Governess. Or possibly even Baroness Podmore of Poop one day.’ George gave a hollow crack of laughter and helped himself to more coffee.

  ‘I don't believe it,’ said Ash violently. ‘You're making it up. She wouldn't do a thing like that. Not Belinda. You don't know her like I do. She's sweet and honest and –’

  ‘She's honest, all right,’ agreed George bitterly. His lip quivered and once again his eyes filled with tears.

  Ash disregarded them: ‘If she's engaged to him it's because she's been forced into it. Her parents are behind this – that dried-up old stick of a father and her idiotic, gossiping mother. Well, if they think I'm going to let them ruin Belinda's life and mine, they're wrong.’

  ‘You're the one who's wrong,’ said George. ‘Her parents didn't like it above half, but she coaxed th
em round. She's a taking little thing, as you should know by now. But then you don't really know her at all. Neither did I. I thought I did, and I would never have believed… Oh God, what am I going to do?’

  The tears brimmed over and trickled down his cheeks, but he made no attempt to brush them away or any effort to control them. He merely sat there slumped in his chair and staring into vacancy, with his jaw slack and his fingers clenching and unclenching on the coffee cup. He was an embarrassing sight and his unashamed misery exasperated Ash. What right had George to behave like this? It was not as though Belinda had even been engaged to him, or ever would have been. Ash told him so with considerable sharpness, and found a perverse comfort in doing so. But though he had not minced his words they drew no answering spark of anger from George.

  ‘It's not that,’ said George dully. ‘You don't understand. Of course I knew she'd never marry me; I'm not a fool. I was too young and I hadn't any prospects. I hadn't… anything! I suppose that's why I invented all that stuff. To make myself more interesting… But I never thought – I didn't dream that she'd take it like that if she found out.’

  ‘Found out what?’ demanded Ash, justifiably bewildered. ‘For God's sake, George, pull yourself together and stop babbling! What is all this about? What did she find out?’