The Strangler Vine, page 12
‘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?’
‘But how do they know?’
‘I imagine from the akhbarat.’
‘And what is that?’
‘It’s a news sheet.’
‘But why would an akhbarat write of it?’
‘Why wouldn’t it? The book is all about the wickedness of the Calcutta Company sahibs, their greed and their immodesty.’
‘But the Hindoo and Musselman princes are hardly patterns of virtue!’ I said. ‘Good God, after the stories one hears about the princely courts.’
He shrugged again. ‘Do you want to take a walk?’
‘Forgive us for inconveniencing you, Major Sleeman,’ said Blake.
Accompanied by our inevitable sepoy escort, we had walked through Jubbulpore to the Thugee bureau. It was late afternoon and the palm-shaded streets thronged with natives in white and yellow and pink, carrying pots and baskets and bundles of vegetables. Blake wore a black tail-coat; I was saddled with my sling. Major Sleeman stood on the verandah of the Thuggee bureau with Mr Hogwood, the deputy magistrate.
‘I am afraid we do not allow visitors in the Thug bureau,’ the Major said. ‘Our work is confidential. I am pleased to see Mr Avery’s colour is a little better. And you, Mr Blake, I hope you are comfortable? Is there anything we might do for you?’
‘I wanted to let you know that once Mr Avery is strong enough we’ll be going north, probably to Doora,’ said Blake. ‘In the meantime we would be glad of some distraction – your sepoys are so very diligent it is hard to stray far from home and, of course, we are locked in at night.’
‘The city has a gaol full of murderous men, Mr Blake, and the days before a hanging are always a trying time. Even in Jubbulpore we must be vigilant. Mr Hogwood’s bungalow was broken into just the other night. One of his servants was seriously wounded by the assailants. We must ensure that everyone is safe.’
‘I am sorry for that, and I don’t wish to contravene your rules, but I know that in the past, in daylight hours at least, you have shown visitors something of your work.’
Major Sleeman frowned. For the first time Mr Hogwood spoke.
‘I cannot pretend I have an abundance of unoccupied time,’ he said, ‘but I would be happy to accommodate the gentlemen. They could visit the School of Industry, perhaps? And Mauwle and I are going out to investigate an old Thug grave in a day or so. Mr Blake might accompany us?’
He waited, almost anxiously, for the Major’s response. Sleeman nodded. ‘It is not a very edifying sight, an exhumation, and it will be a long day – taxing for the Lieutenant, I should think, but it will give you a vivid idea of the horror of Thuggee.’
‘Something to talk about in the drawing-rooms of Calcutta,’ said Hogwood, with a half-smile.
‘And you should see the School of Industry too. It is our new prison, constructed especially for our Approvers – our Thug informers – and their families, a more constructive demonstration of what we do. You will be among its first visitors. You will understand us better.’
‘And of course, Major, there is always Feringhea,’ said Hogwood.
Feringhea. The most notorious of all Thugs. It seemed very peculiar to think he should be living somewhere in Jubbulpore.
‘You have heard of him, Lieutenant?’ said Hogwood.
‘Everyone has,’ I said. ‘I must confess it would be extraordinary to see him.’
‘Then I shall take you up on all your invitations,’ said Blake.
I was determined I would not be left behind.
In the middle of the night I woke to find my sheets drenched, my bladder full, the mosquito nets encrusted in flying creatures, their din in my head. Dizzy and half asleep I staggered outside to relieve myself. As I stood in the dark a native wrapped in a blanket emerged from the back of the compound. I would have raised the alarm, but before my eyes he transformed into Blake.
‘Where have you been?’ I whispered.
‘Nowhere, Avery, nowhere.’
I stumbled back to bed. When I woke I thought I must have been dreaming.
Chapter Seven
‘It is a charming spot, is it not?’ said Mr Hogwood. It was seven and we had ridden for three hours. Blake was not pleased I had come; he thought I should have stayed in the bungalow playing the invalid, but I could not bear to. We were in a mango grove with a grassy clearing in its midst. There were signs of several recent fires.
‘According to our Approvers it was a very popular bele – a burial ground for Thug victims – for decades. Major Sleeman once found thirty-six corpses in one grove. The Thugs bury their victims with great care and artfully disguise the earth so they cannot be found by man or dug up by beast. Without our Approvers, they would never be found.’
Further along the road about thirty ryots, men, women and children, had gathered from the nearest village.
‘They are summoned to witness the excavations,’ said Mr Hogwood. ‘They may recognize pieces of clothing or stray possessions.’ The headman, an old man with white in his beard, in a dirty white blanket, approached Mr Hogwood’s stirrup and touched his forehead to the latter’s hand.
We had travelled with two Approvers, who wore long white pyjamas. Underneath these their ankles were shackled. They were small men with dark skins and faces much lined, though strangely empty of expression. You would not have picked them out as hardened murderers. They had sat on one horse, one behind the other, their chains draped across the saddle and rattling all the while. Now they slid awkwardly off their mount, and a nujeeb guided them with the flat of his sword.
Lieutenant Mauwle loomed even larger in person than he had in my memory. In the early light he looked as if he were made of some hard, dull material, impervious to everything, and he had about him an air of menace. His bite, one felt, would be as bad as his bark. My one attempt to politely engage him had dismally failed.
‘What is this cloth you wear?’ I had asked, pointing at his odd grey jacket, for though it failed on every criteria of elegance and fashion, it did appear in its way sensible, as it was the very same colour as dust. The Lieutenant looked at me as if it was quite the most stupid question that had ever been conceived of.
‘It’s called karkee,’ he said shortly.
Now Mauwle said something in their lingo, and the Approvers picked up their chains and began to shuffle about through the trees. From their saddlepacks, the nujeebs unpacked shovels and pickaxes. A bullock cart laden with boxes and cloth hove into view, and two wallahs dismounted and began to form the cloth into a large open tent, embroidered with blue thread. Carpets were laid on the ground, and a table erected on them, and from a cluster of sticks, several chairs emerged. We sat in the shade of the tent and were served breakfast. The villagers sat by the wayside and murmured quietly to each other, occasionally sharing small packets of food.
‘How long have you been in Jubbulpore, Mr Hogwood?’ Blake asked.
‘Oh, five years now. But I was promised to India from an early age and I went to East India College. I had a few years in Calcutta then I came to Jubbulpore just after the last of the big Thug trials in ’32. I am deputy magistrate and much of my work concerns the running of the cantonment, but rooting out Thuggee has become so thoroughly entwined with the Major’s other work that inevitably I am more of a general aid.’ He rubbed his forehead.
‘You are tired, Mr Hogwood,’ said Blake.
‘It has cost me the last vestiges of my good looks,’ Hogwood said wryly, passing his hand through his thinning hair.
The Approvers shambled about to little effect. Occasionally they alighted on a particular spot and a nujeeb dug a few shovelfuls, only to change their minds. Increasingly impatient, Lieutenant Mauwle watched them. At last he strode up to them and, bending over them, began to speak slowly and deliberately. There was no mistaking his meaning. The Approvers’ faces grew more empty and distant. Hogwood, seeing this, went over and laid a restraining hand on Mauwle, who looked mutinous but stepped back. The Approvers moved more quickly after that, but they still found nothing.
‘I imagine an exhumation is a rare thing,’ Blake said. ‘Now that Thuggee is all but crushed in this district, and you have been acting on Thug testimonies for ten years.’
Mr Hogwood said, ‘That is true. We are more likely to be beset by mountains of paperwork than Thugs. The gangs in this region have been largely caught – one still eludes us, but it is barely active now and it dares not kill near Jubbulpore.’
‘It seems strange to pursue murders that took place so long ago with no notion of who the victims are,’ said Blake.
‘It may seem so,’ said Hogwood. ‘But no rumour of a murder is too petty or too distant for us. In the past the natives were unwilling to report a crime – you know how corrupt the native police are. It is only through Thug confessions that we hear about them, and then they may be years old. We are the only ones who give justice to the dead.’
‘And how many natives do you think the Thugs have killed?’
It was Mauwle who answered. ‘The Major believes that at their height they murdered 40,000 people a year across India. He says they may have claimed a million in all.’
‘A million lives?’
Unable to restrain himself, Mauwle began to make his own passes up and down the grove, touching the trunks and shifting the leaves with the toe of his boot, while Hogwood watched. After a while he got up and followed. Mauwle had stopped under an old tree. Hogwood cleared away a circle of dead leaves.
He beckoned to us. There were the remains of a fire.
Mauwle said, ‘All the signs are there. Tamped-down earth, a fire on top.’ Close to, his blunt features were studded with pockmarks. He nodded at the Approvers. ‘Waste of time bringing them. They’ve not earned their keep today. If they do not deliver, they’ll hang.’
‘They could not possibly have known of this,’ said Hogwood placatingly, ‘if it is as recent as you think.’ He turned to us. ‘Lieutenant Mauwle has an extraordinary nose for Thug activity.’
The nujeebs were summoned to dig. The earth was crumbly and gave easily, and before long a hard clod protruded from the shallow sod. A digger brought a wide soft-haired brush and swept away the damp earth. Five toes and a foot emerged. More soil was cleared. The grove grew quiet. Working in silence, the nujeebs uncovered the edges of a circle, perhaps six or seven feet wide. With every shovelful of earth the lineaments of a horrible scene were more clearly displayed, and we were assailed by a terrible odour which forced us to cover our faces with scarves and handkerchiefs.
Within the round pit was a muddy, bloody mass of stumps and branches that gradually resolved itself into a number of horribly contorted corpses. When I forced myself to look at them, I saw that they were naked, their skins marbled black and livid green, their tongues protruding from their mouths, and where their stomachs had been there was a ghastly red and white mess. I tasted bile and stepped back; Hogwood – as green as I – followed me back to the shelter of the tent.
‘I thought they strangled their victims,’ I said, my chest heaving.
‘They do,’ Hogwood said, drawing great breaths and leaning his hands on his knees, ‘but afterwards they break the bones and cut the sinews, so they can fit all the bodies into a single hole. Then they slice open the stomach so the noxious gases may escape, so they will not explode as they decompose. Come, sit down, Lieutenant Avery, you look very ill. I shall say no more.’ He mopped his face.
I began to breathe more easily. The villagers had withdrawn to the roadside as far from the grave as they could. Only Lieutenant Mauwle and Blake were left watching the diggers; Blake, sombre and still, the Lieutenant rallying and haranguing as if supervising some military exercise.
