Sword of Empire Page 2

  It took some days to discover Dean’s caravan, but for the last twelve hours we were guided by our nostrils. Most of the bodies had been picked clean by the ants and the buzzards, but there was enough lying around...my God, it was like nothing I have ever seen.

  To explain the impact this event has had on the Presidency, and no doubt on Madras as well, I should record that for the last dozen years this has been the most peaceful country in the world. The Company has made it so, and the massacre of an entire caravan, not to mention the Presidency’s most wealthy resident, is therefore as shocking here as it would be had it happened between Epsom and London. It is also an affront to the army.

  To make matters worse, it is feared that this was the work of no mere band of robbers. Captain Smythe, who is apparently experienced in these matters, found some oddly knotted lengths of silk at the scene of the crime, and has declared the deed to be the work of Thugs. These Thugs are the worshippers of a heathen goddess named Kali, the Goddess of Death in the Hindu pantheon, and they believe that by murdering sufficient victims they will gain access to their paradise. One shudders to think what sort of a paradise it will be. However, the murders are carried out in a ritual known as Thuggee, in which the victims are strangled with these lengths of knotted silk, or rumals, which are said to represent the hem of Kali’s garment.

  The Presidency is in an uproar.

  We are now living under virtual martial law. The guards have been doubled, and every Hindu wishing to enter the Presidency must submit to being stripped and searched. We let our sepoys search the men, while we officers search the women. Well, we do not wish to hear any accusations of rape against our people, and a fellow must occupy himself.

  Meanwhile strong patrols are constantly sent out into the bush. I have been on two of these so far, and damned uncomfortable they are too. It is as hot as hell and the jungle plays havoc with one’s uniform. It is also filled with unpleasant creatures; one of my men had an encounter with a scorpion of enormous size, and all but died, so severe was his fever. All this without seeing a single bandit.

  Fortunately, I am told that all this activity will be forced to cease with the arrival of the monsoon, which should be in another month or so.

  The murdered factor was the uncle of my fair Laura. She and her mother have retired into the most stringent privacy; I have not seen her since my return. Her period of mourning will of course come to an end soon enough, and I shall resume my advances then, although now I fear she may be beyond my reach. Harrison Dean was a wealthy fellow, and Carmichael is his only brother, I understand. Fair Laura is now most definitely an heiress.

  I have got my dog. His name is Rufus, and he has a very interesting ancestry. He is a large, handsome fellow, ludicrously fierce. He has already bitten Ramjohn and the water carrier, who now refuses to approach my bungalow. Yesterday I persuaded him, with difficulty, not to savage Colonel Partridge. Such an occurrence would have ended my glorious military career before it has even begun.

  1 The Rajah

  Carmichael Dean stamped up the front steps of his bungalow and threw his hat on to a cane chair on the verandah. Servants hurried forward, but he waved them away.

  They were used to his ill temper; they saw it often enough. Disappointment and irritation were etched on his face, evidenced by the turned-down mouth, the dull eyes; his love of drink was to be seen in the puffy jowls, the over-red cheeks.

  He went into the small sitting room, and his wife jumped to her feet, fingers twined together as she gazed at him in expectation.

  ‘Well?’

  His daughter sat on the sofa, hands on her lap, back as straight as ever. Laura always seemed to be on parade, he thought. But no doubt she was as anxious as her mother to discover what Lawyer Wilkins had had to say.

  He poured himself a liberal measure of whisky.

  ‘We are to receive five hundred pounds.’

  There was a moment’s silence, then Marjorie Dean stammered, ‘Five hundred pounds? But...’

  ‘Oh, and a most generous recommendation, that the new factor continue to employ me.’

  ‘Do you mean Uncle Harry was not wealthy, after all?’ Laura inquired quietly.

  ‘Oh, he was even more wealthy than we thought. But it has all gone to Ella.’

  ‘Your sister?’ Marjorie’s voice rose an octave.

  Carmichael finished his drink and poured another.

  ‘Surely Aunt Ella will recognise the inequity of such a Will, Papa,’ Laura said. ‘All you need to do is approach her.’

  ‘That woman?’ Marjorie sneered. ‘We approached her once before, when our need was greater, and she showed us the door. Or rather, she showed me the door. Said I was a...a harlot!’

  Carmichael sighed. ‘Nevertheless, I do intend to approach her...’

  ‘Shall we be going home?’ For the first time Laura looked animated.

  ‘No, no. We cannot afford to do that without far more money than five hundred pounds. There is still a warrant out for my arrest. I will write to Ella, and put the situation to her, and...well, we must hope for the best.’

  ‘It will take not less than six months for a letter to reach England and for the answer to return,’ Marjorie pointed out. ‘That is, if she bothers to reply.’

  ‘It’s the best I can do,’ Carmichael snapped. He looked from one woman to the other. ‘But we’ll keep this private. Wilkins will not blab it about. We’ll let people think what they wish; they’ll assume Harrison left me a considerable legacy. However, there’ll be no silks or jewellery for a while yet, my dears.’

  *

  Laura raised her parasol and walked past the bazaar to one of the paths leading across the island to the beaches that faced the Arabian Sea. Indians bowed to her and greeted her; white men touched their hats. It was the first time in several weeks she had taken a promenade.

  White women mostly ignored her. But she was used to that.

  How she hated them all! How she dreamed of escaping this over-heated prison, of returning to England while she was still young, and before malaria and disappointment had ruined her complexion.

  She took great care of her skin, shielding it from the sun, and keeping it soft with creams and lotions. Her beauty was all she possessed, all she would ever possess now.

  The bitterness of her uncle’s disposition of his wealth was just beginning to sink in. She had been born poor, she had lived all of her life poor, and now she would undoubtedly die poor.

  And unmarried. Laura Dean, spinster of this parish. So much beauty, left on a shelf to rot.

  There had been gentlemen callers enough, ever since her sixteenth birthday. Few had remained interested for very long. They would all have liked to get their hands beneath her skirts or inside her bodice, that was obvious, but marriage to the penniless daughter of a writer had been an unattractive prospect.

  Sometimes she wondered why she did not give in to one of them and have done with it. If she were to become pregnant he might have to marry her.

  But then she would be repeating her mother’s life over again, and her mother’s life had been one long disaster, entirely because of Papa’s inadequacy. Was she really going to tread the same path?

  Had she any choice?

  She left the houses and the bustle behind, and made her way through the trees, listening for the ripple of surf on the sand. She had taken this walk more times than she could count, and felt not the least concerned about the sundry rustles in the bushes. They were almost certainly caused by lizards; the last snake in Bombay had been killed some years ago.

  Yet she could not help but wonder if Uncle Harrison had felt as secure as this in the moments before he was murdered.

  She felt no sympathy for the old miser. His contempt for his brother had condemned her to a life of futureless penury. She knew that she could not continue to live in Bombay, in her circumstances.

  The beach was secluded because all the fishing boats were kept on the eastern, sheltered side of the island. It was a trysting pla
ce, too. Laura had been invited here often enough, usually at dawn or dusk, but she had never come. She had been saving herself. But for what?

  She wondered how many lovers had met here, how much adultery had been committed on these very sands, the men who had invited her to meet them here had all been married.

  Then she heard the barking of a dog, and turned to see a very large hound of indeterminate breed bounding towards her.

  Instinctively she closed her parasol and thrust it out like a sword to ward the beast off, and saw a red-coated soldier, running along the sand behind it.

  ‘Down, Rufus!’ he was shouting. ‘Down, sir! Down!’

  Rufus lolloped up to Laura, who stood absolutely still, her parasol still held in front of her. She was not afraid, she was more interested in what might happen next.

  The dog stopped within six feet of her, barking ferociously, but jumping up and down like a puppy at the same time.

  ‘Rufus! Down, sir! Damnable cur! I do beg your pardon, Miss Dean.’

  Laura recognised Guy Bartlett, the latest subaltern to arrive for service in the Bombay Regiment. He was quite an attractive young man, with good features and a splendid physique well displayed by his tight-fitting red tunic, now sadly sweat-stained. Although she did not care for very fair men, she had been able to tell at their first meeting that he was most certainly attracted to her. But he had not done any more than look, thus far; he seemed, in fact, to be painfully shy.

  ‘Is this creature yours?’ Laura inquired.

  ‘I’m afraid he is. He really is a splendid fellow, when you get to know him.’

  ‘I’m sure he is. May I take my walk now, or is he going to tear my dress?’

  ‘He will do no such thing,’ Guy declared. ‘Ah...may I accompany you, Miss Dean?’

  ‘Why not?’ Laura raised her parasol again, and commenced strolling along the beach.

  ‘Now, behave yourself, Rufus,’ Guy commanded, and fell into step beside her. ‘May I say what a pleasure it is to see you out and about again?’

  ‘One cannot remain in mourning forever,’ Laura said. ‘Even for such a dear old soul as Uncle Harry.’

  ‘Oh, quite.’ They walked in silence for some moments, the dog panting at their heels, then Guy said, ‘I suppose you will be leaving Bombay?’

  ‘I really cannot say, Mr Bartlett. I don’t think we shall be leaving for a while, certainly. There is so much to be sorted out, and Papa has to decide what is to be done with the factory.’

  ‘Will he not take it over himself?’

  ‘I don’t think he wishes to do that. I imagine he will suggest to the Directors that they send out a new man. But he will undoubtedly wish to remain to break him in.’

  What an accomplished liar she was becoming, she thought. And how this nice young man would despise her when the truth came out, as it undoubtedly would.

  ‘Of course. Well, if I may say so, Miss Dean, from my point of view...well, I am very pleased that you will be remaining in Bombay for a while longer.’

  Laura stopped, and turned to him. ‘Will you, Mr Bartlett?’

  Rufus started to bark and went bounding off after a bird which had been incautious enough to alight on the sand.

  ‘Stupid dog,’ Guy commented. ‘Oh, indeed I...well, I am speaking entirely out of turn, and now more so than ever, of course, but as we have encountered each other fortuitously...’

  ‘Mr Bartlett,’ Laura smiled. ‘You are losing the thread.’

  ‘Oh, ah...yes. I do apologise.’

  ‘And you could stop apologising,’ she suggested sweetly.

  She gazed at him as disarmingly as she knew how. Really, he was very good looking, and she found his artlessness strangely charming. After all, he was a soldier, and a promising one, she had been told. His awkwardness might only be caused by adoration of her. She was in the mood for, at least, a flirtation. When the truth came out she would be damned anyway. She might as well have a little fun first.

  ‘I don’t suppose you would consider...’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But we do not have to consider. We are here now, perfectly alone.’ She looked along the beach. ‘Except for your dog.’ She selected a smooth area of sand, and sat down, straightening her skirts, her legs carefully arranged in front of her, her parasol, still extended, resting on the sand, to shelter them from one direction, at any rate. ‘Will you not sit beside me?’ she invited.

  Guy sat down, carefully leaving some space between them.

  ‘You were going to ask me for an assignation?’ she prompted. ‘Well, here we are. What is it you would like to say to me?’

  Rufus came bounding back in a flurry of scattered sand, having abandoned the fruitless chase.

  ‘Oh, Rufus!’ Guy said. ‘Do lie down, there’s a good fellow.’ Rufus lay down, panting, and staring at them. He was somewhat disconcerting. But Laura was feeling wilful; she would carry this absurd event through to its logical conclusion, whatever that might be.

  ‘Yes, Mr Bartlett?’ she pressed.

  ‘Well...’ he was obviously steeling himself. ‘I know I have not been in Bombay very long, Miss Dean. And I also know that this is a most unfortunate time for you. But I fear that, now you are your uncle’s heiress, you will surely soon fly entirely beyond my reach, if I do not, well...’

  ‘Snare me now?’ she suggested wickedly.

  ‘Well, I hope you will not think of it as a snare.’

  ‘I do not know what "it" is, Mr Barlett.’ She opened her cobalt blue eyes as innocently wide as they would go.

  He licked his lips. ‘I would like to marry you.’

  Laura’s mouth opened in surprise. She had anticipated some kind of a proposition. But... ‘Marry me?’

  ‘I have insulted you.’

  ‘You have flattered me, sir. May I ask...would you have made such a proposal were I not my uncle’s heiress?’

  ‘I would have made such a proposal were you a beggar in rags. I have thought of nothing else since my arrival here, Miss Dean. I fell in love with you at first sight.’

  ‘That was an unworthy thought of mine,’ she confessed. ‘But marriage...’

  ‘I can offer you very little, at the moment, save my love. But as time goes by, and I rise in the service...’

  ‘I think I would settle for love, Mr Bartlett. But you must give me a little time. As you say, we hardly know each other.’ She turned to gaze out to sea, and to hide an unavoidable glint of calculation in her eyes. ‘That is something that should be remedied before we can consider marriage, do you not suppose?’

  It seemed to take him a few moments to realise that she had not actually said no, rather that she was actually inviting him to take advantage of his situation. By then she was already leaning towards him. Their lips touched, and then she was in his arms, falling over backwards on to the sand so that he was lying half on top of her. For a few moments, they both indulged the wildest passion, mouths working together, tongues caressing, her hands tight on his back while his swept up and down from her hips to her breasts, afraid to linger for more than a passing second.

  For how long had she wanted to lie in the arms of a man? But with the thought came a recognition of her danger. Mr Bartlett’s hand had now settled on her bodice, very lightly — but she was enjoying the sensation too much.

  She got her mouth free, ‘Mr Bartlett!’ she gasped. ‘You are so vehement.’

  Instantly he released her and sat up, face flushed, with some difficulty adjusting his breeches. ‘Forgive me. I apologise. But I do adore you so, Laura.’

  ‘Do not apologise,’ she told him. ‘Promise me that you will never apologise again. To anyone.’

  ‘I promise. Laura...’

  She sat up in turn. Her bonnet had fallen off, and hung around her neck by its ribbon. Undoubtedly there would be sand in her hair.

  ‘I must be going home.’

  She stood up, and dusted herself down.

  He stood also, and took her into his arms again. She did not resist. Would
she settle for being Mrs Guy Bartlett, a subaltern’s wife? It would mean remaining in Bombay. But at least she would be married. However, she must not appear over eager.

  ‘Will you marry me? I shall have to obtain permission from Colonel Partridge, of course, and we may have to wait a couple of years, but in all the circumstances...’

  ‘Give me time, Guy dearest. Give me time.’

  ‘Well...can we meet again?’

  ‘Certainly. Tomorrow?’

  ‘I am on duty tomorrow. And the day after. Damnation! I will be free on Sunday.’

  ‘Sunday,’ she said. ‘I will take a walk on Sunday morning at dawn.’ That would guarantee privacy.

  ‘May I walk back with you, now?’

  ‘I think not,’ she said. Rufus was also on his feet, panting with impatience. ‘Perhaps you should finish your walk. Otherwise people will talk.’

  ‘I don’t care about that.’

  ‘But it would not do, would it?’ She smiled, and kissed his cheek. ‘Till Sunday.’

  Would she do it? On the beach, in his arms, she had felt there was nothing she would rather do. But as she walked back through the trees, although she still burned where he had touched her, could still taste him, she realised that she had no idea whether she actually loved him. Indeed, she had no idea what love was.

  She felt attracted to him, as he clearly did to her. In fact, she doubted he had ever thought of her in any other terms. But then, had she not always known that she would be married simply for her face and body?

  Was sexual attraction enough, when it meant remaining in Bombay, and being poor, for the rest of her life?

  And they could not even get married for years; no colonel would allow a penniless twenty-three year old subaltern to take on a wife.

  But if she was going to say yes, it must be on Sunday, before he could change his mind. Or, if she were to be totally honest with herself, before he found out she was not an heiress after all.

  She entered the house on tiptoe. She wanted to go upstairs and take off her clothes and shake out the sand before encountering her mother.