The Faraway Drums (14 page)

“Karim, get a couple of the servants to take him up to my room—”

“There are plenty of other rooms.” The Ranee had arrived. She was somewhat breathless, unaccustomed as she was to moving at anything above a graceful walk; she could make love for hours, but that was another form of exercise altogether. Her breathlessness made her look flustered, something Farnol had never seen before. “There’s a room opposite my suite—”

“No,” said Farnol flatly. “He goes into my room. He’s my responsibility. Lady Westbrook, Miss O’Brady—would you come with me? I may need your help.”

“Perhaps I could help?” said Zoltan Monday. “I was once a medical student—”

“No, thank you.” One part of Farnol’s mind cynically waited for the Nawab and the Baron to offer their help; but they both held back. “I’ll let you know, Mala, if I need any more help.”

Up in Farnol’s room Savanna was laid out on the big bed. Farnol dismissed the two servants and told Karim to undress the now almost unconscious man. As if careful of their modesty, he led Bridie and Lady Westbrook across to the windows, careful to keep their backs to the bed where Karim, not very carefully or gently, was pulling off the major’s ragged clothes.

“He looks as if he’s been through hell,” said Lady Westbrook.

“I think he probably has been. He’s been pumped full of God knows what. I’ve seen tribesmen in these hills who looked just as he does.”

“What happens to them?” said Bridie.

“They start to come out of it, or so you think, then all of a sudden they become uncontrollable and in a minute or two they’re dead.”

“We must prevent that,” said Lady Westbrook. “Get Karim to get me some mustard. I’ll mix it up and feed it to him, it will make him vomit. Clean out his stomach.”

Farnol looked across at the bed where Karim was now pulling up the sheet over the undressed Savanna. “You can’t give him that while he’s unconscious. If he comes round, we’ll try it. Go down to the kitchens, Karim, and ask for some mustard. On your way tell Private Ahearn to come across here from Miss O’Brady’s room. Tell him to make sure he’s not seen.”

“Private Ahearn? Who the devil’s he?” said Lady Westbrook. “I wish you’d tell me what’s going
on,
Clive.”

Without hesitation and very succinctly Farnol told her everything, about Private Ahearn and about his own suspicions of a plot to assassinate the King. She was a far from stupid woman and she did not dismiss his suspicions as rubbish. She was seventy years old and she had lived in this country for fifty-two of them, ever since she had come out as the bride of Lieutenant Roger Westbrook. She had missed the Mutiny by only two years; she still remembered the aftermath of bitterness and suspicion. Her husband had spent most of his adult life doing just what Farnol was doing, ostensibly advising the princes and hill chieftains on how best to get along with the Raj but always with a finger in the political waters to note a change in temperature or in the current. Four times she had nursed him when he had come home wounded by would-be assassins; he had never had to tell her that the British Raj was not universally loved. Nowadays she lived amongst tea parties and gymkhana picnics and dances in Simla, sustained by her port and cheroots and gossip, but she had never lost her perspective or her memories of the hatred that still simmered in India after the Mutiny. There was a blind ex-sepoy in Simla, no older than herself, who had seen the bloody revenge taken by the British and one afternoon, sightless eyes staring down the years, had told her all about it in a sing-song voice devoid of any emotion. She believed every word Farnol now told her and did not think of deriding him.

“Do you think Bridie is in danger, too?”

“Yes. I don’t know whether they mean to kill her or kidnap her and try to get at me through her.” He looked at Bridie. “In future don’t go wandering off like you did tonight after dinner.”

Bridie nodded. She was tense and nervous again; she looked across at the limp figure of Savanna and saw herself lying there in his stead. “Do I stay in here with you all night?”

“I think it will be safest. Will you stay too, Viola?”

“Oh God, I’ve always hated playing chaperone. I always feel I’m spoiling the young people’s fun. Do you really think any of those downstairs will care if you two spend the night together? That Madame Monday is probably already asleep, she was so tipsy—can’t stand women who can’t hold their drink. As for Mala, she wouldn’t know what one meant if one mentioned moral decorum.”

“It’s Mala I don’t want in here. If I’m left alone with Savanna, she’ll insist on keeping me company. I don’t trust her and it has nothing to do with moral decorum, as you so nicely put it.”

Then
the door opened and Karim Singh and Private Ahearn slipped into the room. Karim looked around at everyone, then at Farnol. “Getting jolly crowded, sahib.”

“The more, the safer,” said Farnol. “What’s going on outside?”

“Nobody’s there, not even that chap outside Her Highness’ door.”

Ahearn was looking at Savanna in the bed. “Is he dead, sir?”

“No. But he may be before we can get him out of here. What’s the matter?”

Ahearn had made a sour face. “I’m wishing I’d stayed up in Simla, sir.”

“I’m glad you didn’t, Ahearn. I may need you.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Ahearn and sounded like the sad Celts of all time.

Farnol sat down on the bed beside Savanna, turned the slack grey face towards him. The only patch of colour in it was the ginger moustache, which looked now like some clown’s crude make-up. “Rupert—it’s Clive Farnol. Why are you here?”

But the pale blue eyes were even paler than Farnol remembered, clouded pools of idiocy; they stared at Farnol without any recognition of what they saw, if they saw anything at all. Savanna’s breathing was so shallow that Farnol, suddenly fearful, leaned forward to make sure that the man was not dead. But Savanna still lived, if only just.

“Was there anything in Major Savanna’s clothes, Karim? Any notebook, a piece of paper?”

“Nothing, sahib. Someone tore all the pockets of his tunic. They turned his trouser pockets inside out. They were jolly thorough.”

Farnol stood up. “Viola, mix up the mustard. Give it to Savanna only if he regains consciousness—send Karim for me as soon as he does. Karim, you and Private Ahearn are responsible for the two ladies and the Major. Don’t let anyone in the room—
anyone
! Use your
kris
or even your guns if you have to.”

“Jolly good, sir,” said Karim, but he didn’t look happy and neither did Ahearn. “I shall try to use persuasion first—”

“Naturally. I don’t want you chopping up the wrong people by mistake.”

“I’ll tell him to chop them up if they’re the wrong people.” Lady Westbrook was not bloodthirsty but she was not averse to the spilling of it in a good cause. “We’ll be all right, Clive. Go and do what you
have
to.”

“What do you have to do?” said Bridie.

“Try and get to the bottom of all this. I’m not going to learn anything by turning my back on it—all I’ll probably get is a knife in it.” Then he thought his tone was too harsh and he softened it. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so blunt.”

“It’s the only way,” said Lady Westbrook. “Pussyfooting never won wars. And I think we may have a small war of our own right now.”

When Farnol got out into the corridor he paused for a while, put out a hand and leaned against the wall. He was not the sort of man who thrived on danger; he was satisfied if he survived it. He was no coward, but he did not relish the thought of being killed; three attempts to kill him meant that the odds were shortening. Sooner or later a bullet or a knife was going to strike home and he could not bring himself to be fatalistic about the prospect. He could feel the shifting in the foundations of himself, courage turning to sand.

As he started to walk down the corridor he was surprised at the quietness and the utter absence of anyone, even a servant. It was as if there had been a general desertion and he wondered who had ordered it. His heels clicked like bone against bone on the marble floor; the oil lamps glowed dimly like lamps for the dead. He had the sudden strange impression of walking through catacombs; he looked for skeletons but there were none. He walked on to a thick rug without seeing it and the sudden silence of his footsteps was like the shock of a pistol shot. He went down the wide stairs, feeling the night chill taking hold of the palace. He wondered if he would find any of the other guests still in the palace.

But if the others had, indeed, departed in a hurry, Baron von Albern was still on hand. He sat in the Peacock Room, which he had not left even after Bridie had raised the alarm about Savanna’s dramatic re-appearance. He was smoking a cigar and drinking port and thinking of other, greener hills than those that surrounded the palace, the hills of Thuringia. He would be going home there next year and he wondered how many peaceful years he would have left to enjoy them.

He looked up as Farnol came into the room but, contrary to his usual punctilious politeness, he did not rise. “Forgive me, Major. I am a tired old man this evening.”

Farnol sat down, poured himself a glass of port. “Where is everyone?”

Kurt
von Albern gave a sort of facial shrug. With only one hand, he was limited in his gestures. He expressed everything with his face, keeping his one hand only for essentials. He had lost the arm forty years ago in the war against the French and, when alone, still bitterly regretted its loss. It had been his sword-wielding arm, his love-making hand: there had been no conquests after its loss. Only magnanimous apologies from men with whom he would have otherwise fought a duel and ball-destroying love-making from women who took him to bed out of pity. He stubbed out his cigar and picked up his port.

“I fear everyone has retired, even the servants. The decanter is almost empty, but no one has come in to see if I want any more. Perhaps you would care to bang that gong?”

“Not yet, Baron. I’d like you to tell me if you know anything about what’s going on. I don’t think you’ve been entirely open with me.”

“I could plead diplomatic immunity.” But the Baron smiled. “Major, you and I should be friends. I’m German, but I’m not your enemy.”

“Not yet.” Then it was Farnol’s turn to smile, to take the edge off that remark. “I mean the Kaiser. Nobody knows what he has planned for the future.”

The Baron nodded morosely. He put down his port and took off his glasses; he looked older without them, as some people do. He let them hang by their black silk ribbon while he picked up his drink again. “We’re all at the mercy of those who rule us. A cliché, but so true.”

“But even at our level we can occasionally change the course of events.”

“Perhaps you, Major. But I’m too old.” Or felt too old, which can be worse.

Farnol put down his glass, leaned forward, kept his voice low. Whispers could be magnified in such a room as this; the palace had been built by a Mogul prince who, surrounded by intrigue, had wanted nothing kept secret from him. The room, round with a domed ceiling, had no corners to absorb sound; in the mosaic gardens of the tiled walls peacocks stood alert listening. Farnol wondered how many men had condemned themselves with their own voices here in this room.

“Baron, how did you know the Nawab had been in Berlin this summer?”

“A friend in Berlin sent me the information. The Nawab was there without any official invitation.” He did indeed feel old tonight, old enough not to want to be burdened by minor diplomatic secrets. “It was as much a surprise to me when I learned of it as it was this evening to you. He has never
shown
any sympathy for Germany.”

“I’m more worried that he might be showing sympathy for Har Dayal or some of the other revolutionaries. There are Germans who are very sympathetic towards Har, colleagues of yours in the Foreign Office in Berlin.”

“Why do you always suspect us so much?” It was a rhetorical question and the Baron knew it; but it was heartfelt, because he admired England and things English, if not all the English themselves. “You should worry about the Russians. Look at what they are doing in Persia this very minute, doing everything they can to put it under their thumb. They have forced the Persians to get rid of their American economic adviser, Shuster, some name like that—” He sighed, feeling suddenly very tired as well as old. His memory could no longer cling to minor details; names, unless they were linked to a face, slipped away like drops of water off the waterproof skin of a diplomatic wallet. “How do you know about the meddlers in Berlin? It isn’t official policy to stir up trouble here in India.”

“Baron—” Farnol smiled. He liked the old man, wished he knew him well enough to have spent more time with him. “You know as well as I do that subversion is never official policy. When Lord Curzon sent Younghusband up into Tibet, it wasn’t official policy. It was something decided upon by Lord Curzon and London only sanctioned it when it was too late to stop it. It’s been like that ever since governments were invented and it will go on being like that. As you said, we’re all at the mercy of those who rule us. But we’re also at the mercy of meddlers at a lower level. I’ve been guilty of it myself on a very low level. It’s called historical anticipation or, if you like, don’t let’s leave everything to our stupid rulers.”

Kurt von Albern put his glasses back on, smiled, perked up a little. “You should not spend so much time out in the field, Major. You would have made my time in Simla much happier if you had worked there. One doesn’t get much appealing cynicism up there, except occasionally from an Indian.”

“The Mondays—” Farnol did not want to be sidetracked into a discussion on cynicism. “You must know more about them than you’ve told me.”

The Baron shook his head. “Truly I do not. What little I saw of them in Simla, they were delightful company, especially Frau Monday . . .” He had reached an age when women, even those full of pity, no longer took him to their beds; so he looked at young women and dreamed of what he had once enjoyed. “I don’t think she is quite of his class, but she knows how to make an old man feel younger. Or
wish
he were so. There’s no political harm in her, Major. Sexual harm, perhaps, but nothing else.”