Jon Cleary - The Faraway Drums

Weyman smiled at the sarcasm. ‘Always glad to help you Indians.’

As they rode away Karim Singh said, ‘Why do they dislike us Indians so much, sahib?’

Farnol smiled at the Sikh’s implied designation of Indians: he meant the Indian Army, of which he was a proud member. ‘Because we are the fortunate ones.’

‘You think so?’ Karim pondered while he rode; then he nodded. ‘I suppose so. We are the best of all, aren’t we?’

Perhaps, thought Farnol; but he wondered if all the circles of British life in India rode in their own small circle of mirrors. The lady he was going to see, though not British, spent her life looking in mirrors, cracked though some of them might be.

The Ranee of Serog’s small domain began on the first ridge south of the Simla ridge and ran almost down to Kalka, the rail junction at the foot of the ranges. She had a palace somewhere in her territory, but neither Farnol nor anyone else from Simla had ever been invited there; she also owned one of the largest houses in Simla itself. She had never become like her neighbour, the Nawab of Kalanpur, more British than the British; but she liked the social life of this very social town and the unattached men that it offered. It had more appeal than living in the palace with her half-mad brother.

Once the servant who had announced him had left the room, Farnol was greeted by slim arms that wrapped themselves round his neck and a mouth that smothered him with a kiss that had nothing to do with caste or class. ‘Darling Clive! You hardly looked at me last night! I wondered if those Tibetan lamas had got to you, converted you to celibacy or something.’

They had been lovers a year ago, but he had thought that was all past history. The Ranee collected lovers as she collected gems; she had once told him that she graded her men as she did her diamonds. She had classified him as a perfect blue-white, which he had thought must be the ultimate till he had found himself superseded by an Italian Consul who was evidently a superior gem in bed, the Ranee’s preferred setting. He wondered where the Italian was now, whether he, too, had been replaced by someone even closer to perfection.

Farnol withdrew from her arms and the musky smell of her perfume. She wore no other jewellery this morning than a double-strand necklace of pearls and a heavy gold bracelet that looked like a more expensive class of shackle.

‘Come and have breakfast with me like we used to! You are lucky to find me out of bed so early. But I have to catch that train this afternoon and there is so much one has to do!’

She had a large staff who did everything but blow her nose for her. She was the hedonist supreme and when he had been her lover he had enjoyed humouring her. It was almost six months since he had last had a woman, a young lady out on a visit from England who in private had proved to be no lady at all; looking at the Ranee now, still feeling her body against him, he was sorely tempted to forget other things for half an hour or so. But no, he told himself: he hadn’t come here to make love to her or banter with her.

‘Mala, where is Major Savanna?’

She put her spread hand to her bosom; her gestures at times could be as extravagant as her jewellery. ‘Darling, you don’t think I’ve taken him to my bed, do you?’

He sighed patiently. He hated arguing with women or interrogating them, either as lover or political agent. ‘Did I suggest that? I’m not jealous, Mala, I’m here on business. Do you know where he is?’

The Ranee was not only vain and nymphomaniacal, she was also as shrewd as any trading woman from the bazaars. She had kept her voluptuous looks and she was confident that for some years yet she would not have to do more than lift a finger to have men come to her bed; she had only contempt for any will-power that men professed to have below the navel. But she would never be subject to any of them for, with her, love was a hunger of the body and not the heart.

‘Don’t be sharp with me, Major Farnol. I don’t keep track of minor government officials.’

‘Your Highness –’ He hadn’t called her that in private since their first meeting. ‘You know Major Savanna is more than a minor government official.’

‘Oh? What is he then?’ Through the windows of the large morning-room in which they stood he could see a hawk planing on the breeze, ready to pounce: it struck him that her voice was suddenly like the hawk’s flight, lazy but alert.

‘You know he is like me, a political agent, a senior one.’ He didn’t mention the Secret Service, though that was not its official name; nothing was secret if it was talked about. ‘You were heard last night to tell him that if he wasn’t gone by this morning, he would have you to answer to. How is it that a British officer, who isn’t seconded to your service, has to answer to you?’

The hawk had dropped out of sight, fallen on some invisible prey. A monkey clambered up and sat on the window-sill and the Ranee walked towards it and snapped at it. It looked at her with its decadent child’s eyes, clicked its teeth at her, then disappeared below the sill. The Ranee leaned out of the window, as if she were actually interested in where the monkey had gone. At last she turned back into the room.

‘Whom do you have spying on me, Major? One of the servants up at the Lodge? I think His Excellency would be interested in that.’

‘You’re free to complain to him, Your Highness.’ They were now exhibiting the cold formality of ex-lovers, which has the same chill as that of diplomats about to declare war on each other.

‘I’m afraid your spy, whoever it was – Was it that beautiful Miss O’Brady? But you’d never met her, had you? And the Americans, I’m told, are such poor spies anyway. They think everything should be open and above-board. So naïve.’

‘Why not take an example from them?’

‘Ah, Major –’ She softened for a moment, but he was not yet Darling Clive again. ‘What secrets have I ever kept from you? No, your spy has a ringing in his ears, I’m afraid. All I said to Major Savanna was that I’d see him on the train this afternoon. I was just being polite. I’d rather not spend the journey with him down to Kalka and Delhi. He’s a frightful bore. I wonder what Mrs Savanna sees in him?’

‘There is no Mrs Savanna, as far as I know.’

‘I’m not surprised.’ The Ranee had only contempt for wives. She had been fortunate enough to inherit her domain, her fortune and her position direct from her father and she had never had to pay homage to any man but him. Marriage was a state of disgrace into which no woman should ever allow herself to fall.

‘Then you can’t tell me where he is?’ He did not call her a liar, as he might have a village woman he’d been interrogating. After all she was, in theory if not in practice, a sovereign ruler, even if she was at present out of her territory.

‘No, Major, not at all.’ She gazed at him blandly, her dark eyes as unrevealing as the monkey’s had been. ‘Let’s hope he is on the train when we leave at one o’clock.’

‘Let’s hope so, Mala. Otherwise I may have to come back to you.’

‘Do that, Clive. Do you still snore when you lie on your back?’

He left her on that less formal note and went out to where Karim waited for him with the horses. All up and down the road he could see gharrys and tongas being loaded with trunks and suitcases; the Durbar Train this afternoon looked as if it would be packed. Residents who had not been down to Delhi in years were making the journey; many had never been there, being only acquainted with Calcutta or Bombay or some army cantonment. But they’d have gone to Timbuctoo if His Majesty, God bless him and the Queen, had invited them. Their invitations to the receptions and levees were more carefully packed than their frocks and suits and dress uniforms.