A Division Of The Spoils (Raj Quartet 4) (28 page)

‘His real name was Pierre-Cuiller.’

‘Was it? I don’t think I knew that. Oddly enough we had a Perron at school. I was told to chastise him once for persistent slackness at games. The consensus of House opinion was that his incompetence on the playing field was a deliberate exhibition of eccentricity and the unpleasant task of persuading him to conform fell to me.’

‘You mean you had to cane him?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘He was in Bank’s, then?’

‘That’s right.’ Rowan hesitated. ‘I don’t remember telling you which house I was in. What are you laughing at?’

‘The picture of you caning Perron.’

‘He thought it was rather funny too.’

‘Did it improve his games?’

‘No. He warned me it wouldn’t. Actually I’m exaggerating. Violence wasn’t necessary. I was supposed to apply corrective methods but he and I decided the best thing would be to talk it over. He told me he found team sports awfully depressing, all that waiting around at cricket on the one hand and what he called the incomprehensible hurly-burly of football on the other. Fortunately I’d discovered through another source that he rowed quite a bit during the holidays. We weren’t a rowing school but there was a local canoeing and sculling club in the town so I got permission for him to join and that suited him down to the ground because it got him out of the school and off by himself on the river. When I last saw him he would have been about seventeen, but nearly six feet tall and with shoulders like an ox.’

‘When was that, Nigel?’

‘The same occasion I was telling you about at the party Hugh Thackeray took us to – when I visited the school between finishing at Sandhurst and coming out here.’

‘And watched Hari Kumar playing cricket?’

‘Yes.’

‘He said he didn’t remember Kumar.’

‘Who said he didn’t remember Kumar?’

‘Sergeant Perron.’

‘Sergeant Perron?’

‘The Sergeant Perron who was at the Maharanee’s party. The one who tipped us off about the drinks being locked up. I
was only joking when I called him the Maharanee’s leopard. He’s a sergeant in Field Security. He came back with us and met my father and they talked about Bank’s and Coote’s. He remembered you but pretended not to remember Kumar.’

‘A sergeant in Field Security?’

‘At the Maharanee’s he was a sergeant in Education. But when I first met him he was in Field Security.’

‘You’ve met him twice?’

‘Twice on the same day.’

‘In one day he switched from Field Security to Education?’

‘Education was only a disguise. I suppose I oughtn’t to talk about it on the phone.’ She sounded amused.

‘Sarah, what
are
you talking about?’

‘About your old friend Perron.’

‘It can’t be the same one.’

‘Well he was over six foot. He looked like an oarsman. He remembered you. He remembered your first name. In fact he remembered you quite clearly. And still being only a sergeant is rather eccentric so obviously he hasn’t changed. Does that convince you?’

‘But he didn’t remember Coomer.’

‘Pretended not to.’

‘Why should he do that?’

‘I think probably Ronald could tell you.’

‘Ronald? Ronald Merrick?’ After a moment he said, ‘Where does he fit in?’

‘Sergeant Perron is going to work for him.’ She added, ‘I got the impression he wasn’t very keen.’

‘What made you think so?’

‘The look on his face whenever Ronald ordered him to do anything. In fact I think he’ll try to get out of it. I’m sorry. He was nice. He would have been an asset in that particular sphere. I’d better let you get on. I may get down to Ranpur again in a few weeks because daddy says he may be going. I’ll let you know shall I? Unless you’ve gone by then. Have you had any news?’

‘No. None.’

‘It was awfully good of you to see the nuns. You must have been pretty busy if the
daftar
here is anything to go by.
They’ve been at sixes and sevens ever since they heard Mr Kasim’s coming up to attend his old secretary’s funeral.’

‘Oh, why, particularly?’

‘In case he takes the opportunity to make some sort of political announcement. There are quite a lot of people crowding in. Some are already camping out near the station.’

‘Old Mahsood was a Pankot man.’

‘But the police think it’s
MAK
they’re coming to see.’

‘A popular demonstration or just taking
darshan?
’

‘Taking
darshan
, we hope. Has there been any trouble in Ranpur?’

‘Just a few crowds, directly it leaked that he was on his way from Mirat with old Mahsood’s coffin.’

‘Is Ahmed with him?’

‘Not to my knowledge. Isn’t he still in Bombay?’

‘That was a week ago. The police here think it’s going to be more like a political meeting than a Muslim funeral. They’ve drafted in men from Nansera.’

‘I don’t think they need worry. He was very devoted to old Mahsood. Bringing the body home is a mark of respect, I should say. If not he wouldn’t have been at such pains to tell us what he was doing and ask for what amounts to official protection from excessive curiosity. That’s probably the real reason why there are extra police.’

‘Oh well. So much for that rumour. But people here are so used to nothing happening they’ll probably be disappointed when it doesn’t. I shan’t be. It suits father as it is.’

‘I’m glad he’s better. Is there anything else I can do for you? Anything for your father, for instance?’

‘Nothing I can think of, but thank you.’

‘Let me know if there is. I’m afraid I’ve been keeping you. Look after yourself.’

‘And you. Oh, and remember me to Hugh Thackeray.’

‘I will.’

When they had rung off he collected together the envelope and package the Reverend Mother had given him. It seemed absurd to think of her actually having them in her hands tomorrow morning. The package, which contained something hard like a book and something soft, some sort of material, was inscribed:
In the event of my death: Dear Sarah.
The envelope, inscribed by a different hand, probably the Reverend Mother’s, was marked ‘Oddments’ and seemed to contain papers and other envelopes.

He put both the package and the envelope into a large manila envelope, sealed it and addressed it to Sarah at Area Headquarters, Pankot. The telephone rang. He picked it up immediately, thinking she might have remembered something important and rung back.

‘Nigel?’ It was Hugh Thackeray on the internal line.

‘Oh, hello. Well. How was Delhi?’

‘Like Delhi. More to the point, how is Pankot? I’ve been trying to get you but they said you were talking to Pankot. The fair Miss Layton, would it be?’

Hugh was still very young.

‘It would. She asked to be remembered to you.’

‘Very nice of her but quite unnecessary. I was thinking about her anyway. On your behalf, I hasten to add. What are you doing?’

‘Nothing right now. I’m off-duty.’

‘I know. But you’re not under the weather, are you?’

‘Not in the least. Why?’

‘They tell me you’ve ordered a tray.’

‘And a tankard of beer.’

‘They kept that dark. I was a bit worried. I imagined something more on invalid lines.
HE
would like a word.’

‘Right.’

‘I mean over here in the study. Shall I tell him five minutes?’

‘Yes, I’ll come right over.’ He hesitated. ‘Any news?’

‘What news did you have in mind?

‘From Tokyo, say?’

‘We think they’re still agonizing about how to surrender unconditionally on condition that the Emperor remains sacrosanct. I can’t think why he doesn’t commit
hara-kiri.
’

‘I don’t think sons of heaven can. Any suggestions about which subject I could usefully mull over on the way down?’

A moment’s silence. Then: ‘
MAK
perhaps?’

‘Right.’

He replaced the phone. He had hoped for something else, something more personal. He called Jaiprakash, told him
where he was going. He took the envelope down to the signals office and then crossed over to the east wing. Here there were several people in the main hall: General Crawford and his
aide
– a slim and handsome Sikh in a pale blue turban – the Deputy Inspector-General of Police; old MacRoberts, the senior Member of Council, with Henderson of the Finance Department and his pale and angular wife who caught his eye and smiled; Mrs Saparawala and Doctor Bannerji, the Member for Education, and another fellow
aide
of Rowan’s, Bunny Mehta. Some of them had been at Ranagunj airfield to meet the Governor. All except Bunny were on their way home, awaiting cars, calm among the servants who were coming and going intermittently. Rowan made for the narrow corridor to the private staircase: a spiral enclosed by wrought-iron that took him up to the small landing on the first floor and a green baize door through which he passed into the lobby of the air-conditioned private quarters. Here the public grandeur of pillars and black and white tiled floors, of busts on plinths and of immense potted palms in brass bowls, gave way to homelier oak-panelling and thick Turkey carpeting. With its magazine-cluttered central table, leather chairs and sofas set around the walls, it always reminded him of a doctor’s waiting-room.

Priscilla Begge, looking both competent and harassed (he had never quite worked out how she managed to convey at one and the same time such apparently mutually exclusive qualities) was standing with her hockey-player’s legs astride next to the little corner desk, talking on the telephone, watched by the two duty-bearers whose job was to ensure that the lobby was never unmanned. She gave Rowan a smile of welcome and a frown of pained exasperation, put her hand over the mouthpiece and stage-whispered, ‘You can cross off –’ then uncovered the mouthpiece and went on with her conversation but made a pleading (also commanding) gesture with her free hand, which he supposed meant she wanted him to wait. The door to the room of private audience opened and Hugh Thackeray looked in. He grinned at Rowan and then mouthed something at Priscilla who turned her back irritably and said, ‘Will you repeat that please?’ as if Hugh had distracted her.

‘Poor old Bully-Off,’ Hugh said when he and Rowan were alone in the empty audience room. ‘Lady M’s not well again and
HE
wants her to go down to Ooty to decide what’s best to be done. Hang on here a moment. I’ll just make sure he’s ready.’

Thackeray went back into the study and shut the door. Rowan stood by the uncurtained window, looked down into the darkened grounds. He felt sorry for Priscilla. Much as she adored Lady Malcolm whose cousin she was, as well as secretary, and much as she loved the crisp healthy air of Ootacamund, her sense of duty, and the obligation she felt she was under to hold the fort during Lady Malcolm’s frequent illnesses and absences, always made an order such as Malcolm had just given her seem to her like an instruction to abandon her post. Not that she saw herself as indispensable. Priscilla only lost her harassed look when Lady Malcolm was in residence and then it was replaced by one of thankfulness and hearty devotion. Rowan liked her because she had virtually no notion of her own capabilities. It was as if she could never quite credit it that she got anything right. The senior women in Ranpur who found themselves co-opted to act as hostess at Government House when poor Louise Malcolm struggled asthmatically for breath or retired to the one place in India that turned out to suit her affected to be amused by but never impatient of old Bully-Off’s indefatigable efforts to help them to endure a rôle that actually gave them pleasure to assume. Malcolm had once said to him, ‘If Priscilla could only stop thinking of herself as a prefect and start seeing herself as Head Girl what a good Governor’s wife she would make.’ But that Priscilla could never do. It was against her nature. On the night she was told that her name was on the next Honours List for an
MBE
all the colour left her face and for a day or two she had seemed preoccupied, as by intimations of some kind of lost innocence.

He turned from the window at the moment Thackeray opened the Library door. He nodded. As Rowan passed through Thackeray whispered, ‘See you later, maybe. I’m going to hold Priscilla’s hand and assure her that everything will be all right so long as we remember we’re a team. Aren’t I a tease?’

The Governor was at the far end of the room where the desk – already cluttered – was angled to take light from one of the tall windows. The desk-lamp was on but Malcolm was standing gazing out of the window, as Rowan had been a few moments before, hands behind back, holding his horn-rimmed spectacles. He was in dressing-gown, slacks and slippers.

Rowan said good-evening. Malcolm turned round and smiled and went to the desk, putting on his spectacles.

‘How was New Delhi, sir?’

‘New Delhi?’ He sat and rummaged. ‘New Delhi. Here we are.’ But whatever he had looked for and found he then seemed to lose interest in. He sat back, removed the glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘New Delhi. Very bad for one’s sense of proportion, New Delhi.’ He put the glasses back on and started making notes on a memorandum pad. ‘Have a drink, Nigel. I’ll have one too if you’d be so kind.’

Rowan crossed over to the area in front of the fireplace. Three sofas were arranged round it. The live-coal effect was on below the unused elements of an ornate electric fire. The drinks tray was set out on the main sofa-table. The light from the fire was caught in the facets of the cut-glass decanters. An illusion of cosiness. The air-conditioning hummed gently. The private rooms could strike uncomfortably chilly. The imaginary live fire was Priscilla Begge’s idea. She said it cheered one up. He poured whisky for himself and Malcolm his usual brandy. No ice for either of them. Not too much soda. He took the drinks to the desk and set the Governor’s on a cork mat next to a square cut ashtray. Malcolm nodded his thanks but continued writing his memorandum.

‘Be with you in a tick,’ he said presently. ‘Do sit down. I’m sorry about this by the way, you’re supposed to be off, aren’t you? Off. Making hay. That’s it, then.’ He threw down the pencil, looked at what he had written, pushed the pad aside, reached for his glass and said, ‘Cheers.’