The Game (43 page)

“We have no time, Russell. O’Hara has given his word. Absolutely. If you want him out of here, you shall have to carry him.”

“What, we drug him and carry him down the stairs?”

The man standing in the doorway of the adjoining cell spoke up. “Drugging shall not be necessary. My vow merely said that I should not attempt escape; there was nothing whatsoever about resisting abduction. If you choose to remove me from this place, so be it. I shall not take one voluntary step towards the border to assist you; however, neither shall I raise my voice in protest.”

“This is lunacy,” I said.

“Nonetheless,” O’Hara said placidly, folding his hands and standing patiently just inside the door to his cell.

“You can’t mean it.”

“I’m afraid he does,” Holmes said.

“Nesbit, do something,” I said. “Order him.”

“Would it help if I ordered you?” Nesbit asked the recalcitrant prisoner.

“Not in the least,” O’Hara said cheerfully.

“How much do you weigh?” he asked, then said, “Oh, never mind.”

“I hope to God you haven’t taken a vow, too, Holmes,” I grumbled.

“No. However, in any case I shall not be going with you, not tonight.”

I felt like screaming. “For God’s sake, why?”

“Because in eight minutes Sanji will be back with my food, and if he finds me missing, he will raise the others and you will not make it to the gates.”

“All right, then, we’ll use the drug to keep him quiet.”

“And in twenty minutes,” Holmes added, as if I had not spoken, “according to the custom we have established over the past days, six guards will arrive to escort me to the maharaja’s presence for a midnight entertainment. If I am not here, the alarm will be raised, after which they may think to look into the neighbouring cell and find that empty as well, and a hue and cry will be raised, and we will all be caught within a mile of the gates. If, however, I remain here, and perform my act, and return to my cell until morning, no one will look next door until O’Hara’s breakfast tray goes unclaimed. That will give you six hours to make the border, an easy matter even though you shall have to carry him every step of the way. You can return for me at another time, or wait for the maharaja to tire of my paltry tricks and turn me loose, which I estimate will happen in another two or three days. You have six minutes.”

“Holmes, don’t be ridiculous. I’m not leaving you hostage.”

“Russell, understand this: I am not a hostage. O’Hara is political, I am mild entertainment. A world of difference. The maharaja only put me under key in the first place because I slipped away from him in the city, and he was irked. That was a week ago. If the magician vanished overnight, they might send word out for him, but if he was not to be found, no one would bother further—unless he took O’Hara with him. But if they find O’Hara missing and the so-called magician still locked inside, what harm will come? They will question me as to what I heard in the night, and I will tell them I heard men speaking, and men moving, and then my dinner came. Yes, the other prisoner disappeared, but what of it? I did not know him, I have never spoken to him, so far as they know. The Morse tappings through our wall were things unheard ten feet away. Five minutes.”

“Stop it!”

He relented, so far as he could, stepping forward to take my head in his hands. “Russell, once, once only, I was taken and suffered for it. Please, my dear wife, believe me, this is not the same situation. If you want O’Hara free, you and Nesbit must take him and leave me. I will drug Sanji tomorrow night and slip away—one man, alone and unencumbered. If I have not shown up in Hijarkot inside the week, come back. Please, believe me: I shall be safe. After all, as a last resort I need only stand up and declare myself an English citizen to be made invulnerable.”

I turned, reluctantly, to consult with Nesbit.

The blond head nodded. “It’s true. A public declaration like that, Jimmy’d be furious, but I can’t imagine he’d dare take it further.”

A weight far greater than that of Kimball O’Hara settled over me. I turned back to Holmes and hissed, “If you’re wrong, I shall be extremely angry with you.” Then I kissed him hard on the lips, more threat than affection, and let him step back into his cell.

Before the door shut on him, he stuck his head back, his hand on the slim line of hair on his upper lip. “However, Russ? I think that, all in all, given the choice, I prefer you with the hair and without the moustache.”

Suddenly the light in the hall-way shifted as the oil flames ducked and fluttered: A lower door had opened. Aware of Nesbit apologetically slinging O’Hara across his shoulders, I made haste to lock Holmes’ door, then that of the other cell, before dropping the keys back into the tin box and scurrying away on Nesbit’s heels.

Our nice, smooth rescue operation had turned into something out of a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, thanks to two hugely reluctant prisoners. Why could nothing in this damnable country be simple?

We had to use
the distraction of small stones to make our escape through the gates, but both guards behaved as the first set had, and went to investigate the rattles, allowing us ample time to gain the road outside. Carrying our burden, however, we could not take a short-cut down the hillside, but were forced to keep to the paved surface, and made the main road seconds before the sound of marching feet rang out from the New Fort gates high above us. Six guards started down the hill to fetch the magician for his midnight rendezvous with the maharaja. We huddled behind a heap of stones and waited for them to cross the road and go through the gates of the Old Fort; as he had promised, our reluctant escapee made not a sound. When the guards had disappeared, Nesbit resumed his burden and staggered off across the moonlit landscape.

A mile later, we stopped to let Nesbit tip his burden to the ground and drop down beside him. O’Hara watched the younger man wheeze and rub his legs, a sympathetic look on his face, the beads of his rosary slipping regularly through his fingers. Damn him, anyway.

“How many beads on your rosary?” I asked the monk; my voice revealed my great displeasure with the entire episode.

He turned on me a beatific smile. “One hundred eight. My days of counting paces are over; now I count prayers.”

Stifling a groan, Nesbit stood again and prepared to take up his burden.

“Wait,” I said.

“I’ll take him another stretch, then you can try.”

“No.”

“We can’t delay, we’re too close to The Forts.”

“It’s only five miles to the border,” I noted.

“And three—”

“Three more to the British encampment, yes. But once we get to the border, couldn’t we send Mr O’Hara on under his own power?” I turned to our unhelpful burden, the monk sitting patiently and untroubled. “Wouldn’t that be within the scope of your vow?”

“Oah yes,” he replied happily. “Once outside the borders of Khanpur, I will have already—however unwillingly—effected my escape. The vow would thus be broken, well and truly; I could come and go wherever I pleased.”

I felt another pulse of rage at the absurdity of this escapade, arguing Jesuitical minutiae with an Irish Buddhist spy while Holmes performed conjuring tricks before a mad maharaja—and then I pushed the emotion down: No time for it now.

“I’d like to propose a change of plan,” I said grimly. “I think it might be a very good idea if you and I, Nesbit, were inside The Forts when the sun comes up.”

Nesbit was no longer too winded to argue, but I spoke over his automatic objections.

“I know, the original plan was for us four to make for the border and abandon Khanpur. But thanks to Mr O’Hara here, we are only three. It’s less than five miles to the border, and not yet one o’clock. Eleven miles forced march there and back, you and I could be in our beds before daylight.”

Nesbit’s quick brain considered my words, saw their truth, and picked out the glaring problem. “We can’t manage the pace carrying him.”

“No,” I agreed. So I pulled the fancy revolver out of my belt, cocked it, and lowered it until its gleaming barrel pointed directly between Kimball O’Hara’s arched eyebrows. “He’s going to walk.”

A great silence fell sharply. A pi-dog barked in the distance, a peahen screamed, and I became aware that only one of us was breathing evenly. Then Nesbit gave an uncertain laugh.

“I don’t believe that’s going to work.”

I allowed some of my anger to surface, which was not difficult. “My husband chose to remain in the hands of a powerful and mentally unstable man in order to buy time to get Mr O’Hara free. I, however, have no particular affection for your retired spy, and I have no intention of abandoning Holmes under those circumstances. Mr O’Hara’s unwillingness to carry his own weight delays me and puts my husband into even greater danger. You honestly think I won’t pull this trigger?”

In any performance, the key is convincing oneself first, and at that moment, with my fury and frustration welling close to the surface, I could well imagine my finger tightening. My performance certainly convinced Nesbit, whose breath froze completely in his throat; in the end, Kimball O’Hara, too, allowed himself to believe I meant it. He stood, brushed down his clothing, turned his back, and started walking: east towards the border. I eased the hammer down and took a much-needed lungful of air of my own before pushing past the stunned-looking captain.

I kept the gun on O’Hara’s back all the way to the borders of Khanpur, so it could not be argued that he was escaping of his own volition.

And footsore, famished, and exhausted, we made it back to New Fort a good forty minutes before dawn, to find our drugged
chuprassi
still snoring gently in his corner.

Before we parted, Nesbit caught my elbow and spoke into my ear. “Would you have shot O’Hara?”

I looked at the man’s features, haggard with fatigue but beautiful still, and I saw only Holmes’ face as the door locked him in. The false moustache shifted on my upper lip as I smiled. “If he’d refused? I honestly don’t know.”

I fell exhausted into bed, half dressed, my legs still twitching with the rhythm of the long miles of jog-trot. But as the first wave of sleep came to carry me away, it brought with it a troubling piece of flotsam.

On first seeing O’Hara, I had been struck by the peculiarly open and unshuttered quality of his eyes; now I recalled where I had seen eyes like those before. They had been in the face of a man Holmes had hunted down in the south of France, a man who preyed on gullible women, to whom he appeared an innocent, friendly, open. Up to the moment his hands closed around their throats.

Chapter Twenty-Four

T
he horrendous clamour of a laden tea tray came through my door
what seemed like minutes after I had shut my eyes. I squinted at the white-clad servant from my tumble of pillows, hating him with a deep passion. Him, I would have shot. Joyously.

“His Highness says, the horses will be ready in one hour,” he informed me, and left before I could find my pretty revolver.

I peeled my moustache from the pillow sourly, and went to assemble Martin Russell from the dregs left behind by the night.

After some thought, I thrust the revolver into an inner pocket, just in case.