The Strangler Vine, page 13
‘I confess,’ Hogwood said, ‘I have never seen so fresh a burial and I hope I never do again. It can barely be a month old. But there is no question it is a Thug grave. A perfect circle, dug with the short pickaxe they dedicate to Kali. The trouble is, we should certainly not be finding anything so recent.’ He rubbed his fingers along the bridge of his nose as trying to iron away a headache.
‘Well, Mauwle,’ he called, ‘this is a rare cut-up.’
Mauwle looked up. ‘Kitree band,’ he grunted. ‘Who else?’
‘Who are the Kitree band?’ said Blake.
Hogwood and Mauwle exchanged looks.
‘I imagine it is something the Major would rather I did not speak of,’ said Hogwood. Mauwle gave a dismissive grunt. Blake came to the tent.
Hogwood sighed. ‘They are the Thug band of whom I spoke earlier. They keep to themselves. They winter together rather than returning to a village when the season ends, as most do. As we have pulled our net tighter, so they have retreated into the jangal and mountains – and over the border into Doora. Other Thugs are caught because we have gathered details about each one from the testimony of arrested Thugs. It is one of the cleverest parts of the Major’s system – another thing of which I probably should not speak.’ He smiled deprecatingly. ‘We have a list of every Thug we have heard of. Each is given a number, and gradually we draw a portrait of him. His aliases, his associates, his crimes, his caste, his role, which gangs he has belonged to, and distinguishing marks – moles, or one eye and so on – and at last his family and his home. From this list of upward of 4,000 names, we have drawn up family trees, genealogies, maps, and built cases against each. There is nothing like it, nothing so scientific and systematic, anywhere in the world.
‘But’ – and he sighed – ‘the Kitree band do not follow the pattern, and they remain elusive. We know they are led by a man with many aliases whom we know as Rada Kishin, and they hide in Doora where the Rao puts up a hullabaloo if Company soldiers set foot in his lands. They are the last true Thug gang in these parts.’ He sat back, looking more weary than ever.
The grave contained seven bodies. The native clerks, with handkerchiefs across their faces, drew their positions in the pit. Then Lieutenant Mauwle and the chief jemadar climbed into it and disentangled the bodies, placing them one by one on a white sheet.
‘Nothing seems to daunt or disconcert Lieutenant Mauwle,’ Mr Hogwood murmured, ‘he prides himself on it. Your Mr Blake is also made of stern stuff. I am afraid I am not.’
Laid out, the little party was both ghastly and dreadfully pathetic. There were four men, one woman and two children, a boy and a girl. An odd matter-of-factness overtook the men clustered about the bodies. Mauwle and his nujeebs examined them inch by inch for any small identifying detail. The clerks drew and wrote. The nujeebs searched the empty grave. The villagers, muted and unwilling, were rounded up to look at the bodies and give testimony. It seemed impossible that they could remember anything, so unrecognizable were the faces, but one man claimed he recalled a strip of cloth, and a nujeeb found two tiny gold earrings. The afternoon shadows lengthened. Hogwood spoke quietly to the headman and gave him some money so the villagers would bury the bodies, for they could not be transported in such a state.
My mind was numb – or not quite numb, for I could not help imagining the events that had led to the scene before us.
Hogwood returned from his exertions. ‘I am sorry you have seen this; an old exhumation somehow puts the horror at a distance. I do not know what we shall say to the Major. That something like this should happen now … But there cannot be a more vivid illustration of what our work is and why it is important. Every small detail brings us closer to the murderers, and now we may at least be able to discover who these poor creatures were and then the correct prayers and burial rites may be arranged. But you may imagine how months, years even, of exhumations work themselves upon our minds.’
He called for more water and offered me a glass, which I drank noisily. I bestirred myself. Something useful must, I told myself, come out of the day’s proceedings.
‘Mr Hogwood,’ I said in a low voice, ‘forgive me for asking, but you are not a member of the Thuggee bureau, and clearly you are not entirely wedded to the Major’s habit of hiding his achievements under a bushel. Would you consider telling me—’
‘I know what you would ask, and I cannot speak of the man. I am sorry, but you must understand, we all admire the Major beyond measure, we all owe him our careers. If he demands that we do not speak of … of that man, we are bound to listen to him.’
‘It is such a small thing,’ I said dejectedly. ‘And we have been sent here by Calcutta. And come such a long way, and at no small cost.’
He looked apologetic. ‘Perhaps Mr Blake might try writing to the Major, setting out your argument on paper? That may make him reconsider. He may seem stubborn – it is easy to become wary of outsiders when you spend years in the Mofussil – but he is not deaf to sensible argument, believe me.’
‘I will suggest it, but I am sure Blake will not. He is not precisely free of stubbornness either.’
Hogwood gave me a quizzical look. ‘I am sorry I cannot be of more help. To be honest, I do not think you will find anyone in Jubbulpore with a good word for Mountstuart.’
‘Will you at least consider?’
He shook his head. ‘I cannot.’
The ride back was interminable. For mile after mile the strangler vines choked the sal trees, one grey trunk encircling another, until the whole jangal appeared like some terrible tangled knot in which it was impossible to tell murderer from victim. I felt hot and dizzy, though whether it was from the fever or the sight of the Thug grave I could not exactly say. Ahead of me, Blake and Lieutenant Mauwle rode side by side in silence. It was dark when we arrived at the Jubbulpore sentries.
‘I suppose you’ve taken many Thugs, Mr Mauwle,’ said Blake suddenly.
‘Hundreds.’
‘Tell me, do you release many?’
Mauwle laughed. ‘None.’
‘Not one?’
‘Maybe eight or nine in the time I’ve been here,’ he said dismissively. ‘We know our men. Some are caught red-handed on Thugging expeditions, in the act as you might say. The others are arrested on good evidence. The system does not make mistakes.’
Blake nodded. We rode on.
‘Lieutenant Mauwle, did you ever find the thieves who attacked us on the road to Jubbulpore?’ Blake called out.
‘Yes.’
‘And what’s to become of them?’
‘They are to be food for the worms, Mr Blake. They resisted capture, so we shot them. I strung them from a tree as a warning.’
I felt so all in by the time we returned that I went straight to my bed. A few minutes later Blake came in with a bowl of curry and a rice cake and another of the doctor’s vile powders.
‘Why do you force these things on me when you have such a low opinion of the doctor?’ I said irritably.
‘They are not the doctor’s powders, they are mine,’ Blake said.
‘Yours! What do you know of fevers?’
‘More than any army sawbones.’
‘What is it, then? Where did you come by it?’ Silence. ‘I will not drink it unless you tell me.’
‘It works. That’s all you need to know.’
I put a damp cloth over my eyes and lay back. ‘Mr Blake, I swear that you would let me perish rather than reveal a single detail touching yourself. I’ve never known anyone so keen to ask questions and so reluctant to answer them.’
‘How’ – I went on after a few minutes of silence – ‘how do I know that your powder does not bring on fever rather than take it away, and that you force it on me to keep me ill so you can do whatever it is you occupy yourself with here? And, by the way, I should like to know what you are doing here.’
Blake sighed. ‘It’s called quing-hau. I had it from a fellow up near Saharanpore by the Thibet border years ago. It’s a kind of wormwood, which accounts for the bitter taste. It’s the best cure for fever I’ve ever found. Though of course, I could be lying. It might be poison.’
I drank it up.
‘What were you doing at the Thibet border?’
‘Company business.’
That night my dreams were of Thugs and blood. I was glad to be woken by Mir Aziz.
‘Major invites you to his garden this afternoon, if you are well enough,’ he said. ‘Will you say yes?’
‘Is Blake in?’
‘He is not, Chote Sahib.’
‘I will say yes.’
In the shadow of a cluster of toddy palms, the Major surveyed his garden. He seemed quite immune to the heat, though his nose had gone scarlet and there was a constant trickle of perspiration from his forehead.
‘May I say, Lieutenant, how sorry I am that you had to witness so ghastly a sight as yesterday’s exhumation. At least you can now comprehend the evil we struggle against. And it is most kind of you to accept my invitation. I am afraid that anyone who shows a modicum of interest is thus importuned. Do not let me over-exert you. My wife reminds me that I have a tendency to forget others’ needs. How are you today? Arm still in the sling I see.’
‘Better today, thank you, sir, though still a little tired.’ I had no idea where Blake was. ‘And I am glad to be here, sir. A garden such as this, it reminds me of home.’
‘Does it? What do you see, Lieutenant Avery?’
‘Ah,’ I ventured a little nervously, ‘coconut palms, tamarisk, mango, young teak over there, a small neem, pomegranate …’
‘You have a countryman’s eye,’ said the Major. ‘I love the pomegranate’s gaudy red flower. These are blooms you could never find in an English garden. And over there a jackfruit tree, another exquisite bloom. Custard apple – so much better looking than they taste, I always think, but the natives love them. Now, what are these?’
I followed his brisk stride between the beds, felt myself begin to droop in the heat, and surreptitiously loosened my cravat.
‘The garden is not merely a pleasure and our orchard, Lieutenant Avery, it is also my “laboratory”. I improve our yields with scientific methods which I then endeavour to pass on to the ryots, and I am teaching my gardeners to prune and irrigate. I firmly believe it is our duty as rulers to demonstrate to the people of this country that we have their best interests at heart.’
‘Is that what prompted your campaign against the Thugs, sir?’
The temperature suddenly fell several degrees.
‘As I said before, Lieutenant, we do not discuss Thuggee and certainly not at home,’ the Major said sharply.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said, mortified.
‘No,’ he said, relenting at once. ‘I am sorry. Your question is reasonable. I am stuck in my habits. The Thuggee Department has crushed the Thugs by means of the strict and persistent application of a precise system. As part of this I demand absolute obedience. I forget that it is a different matter beyond Jubbulpore and that I myself have made the Thugs a subject of discussion in the wider world. Though I confess the extent of the excitement and interest they provoke seems extraordinary to me. To answer your question: for me, ridding the natives of this plague of murderers is both a duty and a demonstration of our intentions and our effectiveness.
‘My duties in the Thuggee bureau are another reason I so love the garden, Mr Avery. As I think I have mentioned, I was recently made Commissioner for Thuggee and dacoity throughout India.’ His pleasure in his promotion was unmistakeable. ‘Living in the shadow of such darkness, delving into it as deeply as I have, is a burdensome thing. The weight of those horrors can be hard to shake off.’
He leant forward and scrutinized some long spiky leaves. ‘May I ask you, Lieutenant, have you known Mr Blake long?’
‘No, sir, I met him only shortly before we left Calcutta.’
‘Indeed.’ He took out a paring knife and began to cut an odd-looking green and yellow nubbly fruit from its base. ‘Please, do not feel obliged to say anything you would rather not, but he is a most surprising man.’
‘I am afraid I know very little about him. I believe he was formerly a common soldier who worked his way up to Captain. I have never come across anyone so good at asking questions and so reluctant to answer them.’ Before the words were out I wished I had not said them.
‘I like a man who rises by his own efforts,’ said the Major mildly.
‘Of course, now he works for Government House. They seemed to think he was the only man for the job.’ In my embarrassment I laughed.
‘Well,’ said Major Sleeman, ‘he is certainly something of an enigma. And he has an extraordinary grasp of Persian. You might let him know that I am aware he has been asking questions of my staff.’ He stared at his paring knife. He drew himself up, his jaw locked and his hand closed over the knife. Through clenched teeth he said very slowly and emphatically, ‘I must ask that he desists.’
He strode off to a new vantage point, beckoning me to follow. ‘My one regret,’ he said, ‘is that I cannot plant peepul trees here. I like them most particularly – those delicate pale green leaves that rustle. The natives say it is the gods sitting in the branches that make them do so.’ He smiled. ‘But their roots ruthlessly undermine any building. It makes me think of how I conceive of my work in Jubbulpore: preserving and encouraging the best of native custom and introducing European advances, while uprooting those evils that lurk in Hindooism – Thuggee, widow-burning, infanticide – so they cannot undermine the good. Ah, here is my nephew. I have arranged for him to escort you back.’
Captain Pursloe walked into the garden, his reluctance evident in every stiff step.
‘It is most kind of you, but I would not dream of distracting the Captain from his work,’ I said.
‘Nonsense! James can show you what we have accomplished in Jubbulpore.’
Pursloe rode ahead of me. His rigid back could not have more perfectly expressed his exasperation with his task, though why he should have so thoroughly taken against us I did not know.
Evening was not long off, and the natives were out carrying water pots or bundles of vegetables and fruit. Jubbulpore was not especially distinguished, but I was once again struck by how clean and clearly thriving it was. On every road there were small tanks shaded by tamarind trees, and new buildings seemed to be rising up everywhere. Beyond the town, the fields were in luxuriant cultivation: nature both fruitful and tamed.
‘Is an escort really necessary? The town seems so orderly and so peaceful I cannot imagine there could be anything to fear.’
‘There is a hanging in a few days. It is always a difficult time,’ Pursloe said coolly. ‘Besides, we have had a number of burglaries – even in Jubbulpore it is not always possible to keep evil at bay.’
‘Nevertheless, the place is most handsomely kept.’
Pursloe’s pride in his uncle overrode his dislike of me.
‘Major Sleeman created Jubbulpore. It was a nothing after the Maratha wars and it is far from a plum, but he has transformed it. Soon there will be half a regiment here, and a department of engineers and munitions. Planters arrive every month. And, of course, there is the School of Industry, the new model prison for our Approvers and their families.’
‘We are to see it tomorrow. I must say I am surprised that they should have a special place to live.’
‘It is the Major’s idea. They were promised their lives and security for their families in return for turning King’s evidence. It is a way of ensuring their children are not lured into Thuggee and will allow them to be productive. Major Sleeman has in mind to set up a carpet manufactory in the prison. He wishes to have their children educated. We are waiting to hear from Calcutta if they may be taught to read and write.’
‘You admire the Major very much.’
He turned sharply as if he suspected I was somehow teasing him.
‘He is a great man. And he and my aunt – Mrs Sleeman – have been like a father and mother to me. I came out to Madras when I was very young; they have taken great pains with me.’
‘What becomes of the prisoners who are not Approvers?’
‘There is a prison on the north side of Jubbulpore for those awaiting trial or hanging, and those serving out sentences.’
‘Might I see that?’
‘No.’
‘How big is it?’
‘I cannot divulge such details.’
‘And you cannot tell me about Mountstuart either.’ The heat was making my head ache and my temper was suffering. ‘Though you could. Your uncle is not here.’
‘How dare you ask me about him!’
I rode up behind him. ‘I do not pretend to know why you have so clearly taken against us, Captain Pursloe, but the sooner we find out what became of him, the sooner we can leave.’
He did not acknowledge that I had spoken, and after a few minutes I gave up hope of an answer. But as we drew up to the gates of the compound he burst out, ‘He was a cad. He may be celebrated elsewhere, but we all disliked him intensely.’
‘Mountstuart is a great man and a brilliant poet,’ I said.
‘Have you met him?’ he scoffed. I did not answer. ‘I did not think so. Let me tell you, we do not know where he went. He did not choose to inform us of his departure, which was typical.’ He looked away. ‘My uncle – Major Sleeman – allowed that man into the Thuggee Department. He went about as if he owned the place, with that infernal monkey all over him like some malevolent imp. He was disgustingly rude to my uncle. He talked a deal of nonsense about the Thugs. He made a romance of them, called them outlaws. Rot! I have seen what they do to their victims. There is nothing picturesque about them, let me assure you. I loathed him.’ Pursloe’s face contorted with rage. ‘And now you and your civilian are here, raising things that are best left alone. Wasting our time, and what for? For nothing.’
We glared at each other.
‘You should just go to Doora. Mountstuart was apparently a boon companion of the Rao – and a more corrupt and dishonest native prince you will not find.’
