The Dark Horse (15 page)

‘A rumour that he won't would mean a better price, then everyone will be suspicious. I cannot, I will not, countenance anything like that.'

‘It may be you'll have to.' Again John did not say it and, He's thinking of his precious stewardship, thought John, of shaking hands with the Viceroy… but Mr Leventine pounded his fist on the desk. ‘Let us get this clear. Until the facts are known, there must be no leakage to the Press or to anyone else. You hear me?' He hectored the babu.

‘I think you are not speaking to me, sir,' said Ram Sen with dignity and, ‘Then explain to me,' said John, ‘how you can start to find a horse when you are forbidden to say that you have lost it?'

‘Not
it
–
my
horse
.'
Tempers were getting frayed and, ‘It's a plot,' cried Mr Leventine again. ‘Someone is jealous. One of you must have been bought.' He was, mercifully, interrupted by the arrival of a car, the unmistakable bang and rattle of an old Ford T, and the sound of the bandar-log running to meet it, but Captain Mack, with his accustomed expertise, had got rid of them – probably he had a litter of puppies or rabbits in his car – because he appeared alone in the doorway. ‘Good afternoon – or should I say evening.' He looked down at them all. ‘Och, man!' he said to Mr Leventine. ‘You do look depressed. Is it possible you have lost a little something?'

Mr Leventine sat upright in his chair. John lifted his head.

‘A valuable little something?'

‘Sandy, don't tease.'

‘I'm not teasing.'

‘You have found him?' Mr Leventine jumped up.

‘Not found. I was called in to him.'

‘Then he is injured?'

‘Had a cut with a whip, but he's quite all right – in fact, in clover.'

‘Clover? Where is Clover?'

‘Captain Mack means he is being well looked after. Stop clowning, Sandy,' John said irritably. ‘Where is he?'

‘In the Convent of the Sisters of Poverty just down the road.'

‘The
Convent
!'
They both stared incredulously at Captain Mack. Then, ‘In God's name, how did he get there?' asked John.

‘In God's name, precisely. That's what the Sisters believe,' but Mr Leventine was at the door.

‘I will go and fetch him
immediately
.
Johnny, call Sadiq and Ali,' but, ‘Wait a minute,' said Captain Mack.

‘For what?'

‘By a strange coincidence,' said Captain Mack, ‘last night the Sisters lost their only means of transport. The horse that pulled their cart.'

‘What has that to do with this?'

‘It would seem everything. If you knew your psalms, Mr Leventine,' the Captain was enjoying himself, ‘you would remember an inconvenient little set of verses,' and he quoted: ‘“Every beast is mine, the cattle upon a thousand hills. I know all the fowls of the mountain. The wild beasts of the field are mine. For the world is mine and the fulness thereof”: which, of course, includes Dark Invader. Those verses are favourites of mine,' said Captain Mack. ‘When I get sickened by the cruelty and indifference, I find them reassuring.'

Mr Leventine did not. ‘Poppycock,' he said, a word he had learnt from Sir Humphrey.

‘The nuns don't think it poppycock. They believe it.' Captain Mack quoted again: ‘“Every beast is mine, and He, God, disposes.” I, unfortunately, had to put the Sisters' horse down. They had been praying for another and – hey presto!'

‘That's enough of this!'

‘Wait, Mr Leventine,' said Captain Mack. ‘It's not only that. The Sisters believe Dark Invader took sanctuary with them.'

‘Sanctuary?'

‘Yes – a refuge. A holy place where a fugitive, a runaway is safe from being taken away. Of course, that
can
be arranged,' said Captain Mack, ‘but there must be conditions.'

‘I'll give them conditions! John, order the men.'

‘Look, Cas.' For once John used the detested nickname. ‘This may be a ticklish situation. The Sisters have great influence. I know Mother Morag, their Superior. Let me go.'

‘It's my horse. Do as you're told.'

The chauffeur cranked the car, the engine fired, the snake horn blared; children, hens, dogs scattered as the Minerva set off.

Never had the Convent front door bell been pulled as hard. It was followed too by a fusillade of knocks, but the portress, in her clean white apron, seemed unflustered. ‘Yes, sir?' she asked.

‘I want to see the… ' Mr Leventine suddenly did not know what to call her. ‘The nun in charge – at once.'

‘I'm afraid it can't be at once,' said Sister Bridget. ‘Reverend Mother is at Vespers.'

‘Vespers?' Mr Leventine made it sound like an affront.

‘Our evening prayer. Will you wait in the parlour?' and Mr Leventine found himself penned, willy-nilly, in a small bare room, spotless from its plain stone floor to its whitewashed walls and ceiling, and furnished only with a table, wooden chairs, a small bookcase of books, its legs set in saucers of Jeyes Fluid against white ants, and a crucifix.

 

Twice Mr Leventine rang the bell, twice the portress came. ‘Isn't this – what-d'you-call-it – over yet?'

‘Not yet. They are listening to the reading now.'

‘But… this is interminable.'

‘Half an hour. That is not much.'

The second time – ‘It will not be long. They are singing the Magnificat.'

‘The Magnificat?'

‘Our Lady's song of praise and thanksgiving.' The portress broke into a smile. ‘That has a special meaning for us today. We have been given a horse.'

‘Given!' Mr Leventine did not ring the bell again.

 

‘So you refuse to give him back.'

‘Under present conditions, yes, and I should have to think very carefully before something made me change my mind.' For a moment the hazel eyes looked down. It was difficult for Mother Morag to keep a spice of amusement out of them, but she knew she must control them and look directly and seriously at Mr Leventine, and she raised them again. ‘I might even have to consult our Mother General in Bruges.'

‘Bruges! That's in Belgium! Madam! The horse is due to race in five days.'

‘What a disappointment for you,' said Mother Morag.

Mr Leventine seemed to swell. ‘Madam, I am not accustomed to being disappointed.'

‘What an exceptional person you must be,' said the cool voice.

‘I am going straight to the Police, to Lall Bazaar.'

Mother Morag inclined her head in acquiescence. ‘Then I will not keep you,' she said.

 

In the railed red brick building of the Police Headquarters in Lall Bazaar, the Chief Commissioner looked dispassionately at Mr Leventine. He had been on the point of going home when his Deputy had come imploring him, ‘Chief, I cannot deal with this case. So much bluster,' and he had handed over his notebook.

Now, under the Chief's bland considering gaze, even Mr Leventine faltered and the blustering grew quieter, but still, ‘No action. No response,' cried Mr Leventine. ‘Good God, Mr Commissioner! My horse has been stolen.'

‘I think the Sisters of Poverty don't steal.' The Commissioner had the notebook in front of him, but he asked another question or two. Then, ‘I am sorry,' he said, ‘but for the moment it is better we do nothing. Police do not, on principle, interfere with religious premises or disputes.'

‘This is not a dispute. It is a fact… a
fact
.'

‘Disputes,' the Commissioner went on as if he had not heard. ‘Hindu, Muslim, Buddhist, Christian – unless there is violence, and I find no violence here. The Sisters of Poverty are the most deserving of all charities. We know because we often send them the destitutes we pick up from the streets or gutters and old people who have been living in hovels. I expect you have passed them thousands of times – on the other side.' Mr Leventine drew his breath in sharply. Why should he, the injured party, be preached at? First Captain Mack, now this officer who was going on, ‘They do this city a great service and ask nothing in return.'

‘Except my most valuable horse.'

‘Not for themselves, Mr Leventine. For you, to lose that horse means you forfeit the chance of winning perhaps a great deal of money and prestige. For them the loss of theirs spells hunger, not just for themselves, but for the two hundred or so people in their Home and, if I know them, many more. Have you ever been hungry, Mr Leventine? I don't think so. Of course you can, if you wish, involve the law, but it will bring you a great deal of odium – also it will take time.'

‘Time! The race is in five days! No, it is almost four.'

‘Then I strongly advise you to settle with the Sisters yourself. Good evening, Mr Leventine.'

 

After Mr Leventine had gone even more quietly than he came, the Commissioner, smiling more than a little, pulled a writing pad towards him. ‘Dear Reverend Mother,' he wrote, ‘I have just seen Mr Leventine and this is to tell you I endorse… '

Mother Morag did not open the letter until the next morning. By the time it had arrived, the Sisters were saying Compline, after which no outside business was allowed, no letters or even telephone calls, except in an emergency. ‘This is an emergency,' she could imagine Mr Leventine saying. ‘Not to us,' she would have replied. The telephone had sounded angrily two or three times. There had also been a hammering on the front door and, in spite of her calm, Mother Morag had passed another sleepless night. ‘So how glad I was to have your note!' she wrote to the Commissioner.

Two tikka gharries had had to be hired for the night round. ‘We dare not let the collecting drop.'

‘But Mother, the expense!'

‘It won't be for long,' – ‘I hope and pray,' she added secretly. Though Mother Morag seemed completely in command, confident and serene, inwardly she was in turmoil, most of all because, ‘Is what I am doing right?' She would have given worlds to be able to talk to Father Joseph, but he was a timid man; worlds to have consulted her Mother Provincial and Council… what will they say to me, she thought.

After the canisters had been carried in, the food put away, again she went into the chapel which was in darkness, except for the glow of the tabernacle light. That was steady and, ‘I must be steady too,' she told herself, but she was too tired to pray except for what perhaps is the best prayer of all, to be still, not thinking of the price of tikka gharries or crushed oats or tan-bark bedding: of Mr Leventine or Bunny or John Quillan – poor John, will he ever speak to me again? Not thinking of Solomon or Dark Invader, not even of the Sisters. Nothing – only, ‘Lord, Lord help me. Help me to do what is right under the circumstances. Lord.'

Then, as dawn broke, she heard a bird singing and went to the window; the Convent garden was still in darkness but there was light in the sky and she could just see the bird on the Convent gable end; it was a magpie-robin boldly marking its territory before the other birds began to sing, and she knew that the lovely liquid melody was her answer; it was not only prayer, a paean of praise, but defiance; not thanksgiving, but aggression. What I have I hold for my nest, my helpless ones, and, ‘Thank you,' said Mother Morag and knelt down again.

 

Mr Leventine was beside himself with fury and frustration. ‘That Mother Morag! That nun!' Yet, suddenly, he seemed to see her again; the dignity with which she held herself, the clear bones of her face, the hazel eyes, delicate eyebrows; her hands – Mr Leventine had not only a quick eye but, in a way, a connoisseur's one and, She must have been a beautiful girl, he thought illogically – appreciation does not generally mix with anger – and he was furious.

‘If it wasn't for the Viceroy's Cup, I would let them keep the horse. That would teach them a damn good lesson. Let them try putting Darkie in between the shafts. If it wasn't for the Cup… '

‘But there is the Cup,' said John.

‘I know.' Mr Leventine's voice rose almost to a shriek. ‘Johnny, you must get me out of this, you must.'

Only you can do that, thought John and, aloud, ‘I asked you to let me see Mother Morag in the first place. Now… '

‘I know, I know. But – each day that horse will be going down.'

‘I don't think so. Captain Mack… '

‘From all I hear, those women could never afford to feed him.'

‘They can't. The food is being given by Bunny Malwa.'

‘The young Maharajah!
That
young reprobate?'

‘He is a great friend of Mother Morag's.'

‘But… ' Mr Leventine was getting more and more bewildered. ‘I thought nuns were saintly people.'

‘I think you'll find that saints never minded whom they mixed with. It's the rest of us who do that,' but John was getting weary. ‘All right,' he said. ‘I'll try.'

 

‘A horse forced to race against its will,' – from the bandar-log Mother Morag had heard every detail of Dark Invader's dramatic story – ‘ridden by a jockey it dreaded. Who knows what pain he once inflicted? Handed over to him again by your man and, when it refused, given the cruellest of cuts – ask Captain Mack, or I'll show you myself – bolted blind with fear and pain… '

‘Have you finished?' asked John.

‘I see I needn't go on.' Mother Morag smiled. ‘You're quite right. I knew it was a chain of seeming accidents.'

‘Seeming?'

‘Yes, I said “seeming”, but that is the story and it will spread as long as Dark Invader is here.'

‘Which is to your advantage.'

‘Of course. Also, we Sisters of Poverty take an extra vow as well as the usual three; it is the vow of hospitality. We cannot turn anyone in distress away – not even a horse.' John could have sworn there was a mischievous glint in her eyes. ‘And do you know, Mr Quillan, that yesterday happened to be December 21st, St Thomas's Day, when anyone in need has the right to ask alms?'