The Venus of Konpara Read online

  The priest bowed his head slightly, but continued as though Mohan had not spoken. ‘This morning early, it was all over the bazaars that you had promised to marry her if a certain statue is found.’

  ‘They’ve pried the beam out,’ the man at the window said.

  ‘But... but the leg was only discovered yesterday afternoon!’ Mohan said. ‘Mr Kendrick hasn’t even given permission for the digging yet’

  ‘And Deori is but ten miles from Konpara,’ the priest said. ‘The rumour was known in Deori by nine this morning. An hour later Prithwi took action to use it. As it is false, I beg you to announce your intention, now, of banishing this girl from your life and from Deori - or of marrying a suitable lady. Otherwise it will be all but impossible for the Resident to recommend you for the gaddi It is not the truth that matters, but what people believe to be the truth.’

  A heavy crash shook the house. Mohan stared at the men round him. To rule in Deori. That was his birthright, for he was the Suvala, the heir of Indra.

  And Rukmini? Loyalty to your friends, to those who love you, stands above every other duty, Mr Kendrick had said. Mohan said, ‘I will not banish her. But I am a Kshatriya by caste. I can see no way of marrying her.’

  The priest sighed. The man at the window said, ‘They’ve dropped the beam, they’ve been forced to. A lot of our men are round them, shouting and arguing.’

  Through the walls Mohan heard the new cries, ‘Long live Mohan Suvala!’

  The man at the window said, ‘Five soldiers have arrived.’

  They ran to join him. Crowding among them Mohan saw a mob of people, close-packed, struggling round the back door below. Horses had appeared to the left, four troopers led by Captain Manikwal, sabres drawn, carbines still in the buckets.

  All the men in the room except the priest rushed to the stairs. As Mohan made to follow, the priest laid a hand on his arm. ‘The danger to your person is over, for the moment. The situation is unchanged.’ Mohan shook him off impatiently and ran down the stairs. The troopers crowded through the house from back to front, on foot, carbines in their hands. Captain Manikwal, a genial, reckless rake in his early thirties, saluted him with a grin. ‘Now we’ll show the dogs’, he shouted., ‘Come out and see the fun.’

  The bolts on the front door ground back, and a heaving mob of men tried to force in. The two leading troopers, shoulder to shoulder in the narrow passage, lifted their carbines and smashed the butts into the foremost faces. The mob fell back and the shoulders pushed after them. Mohan followed. The crowd sound out there had become a continuous caterwauling of fear. Those at the front tried to get away, while from behind the people pressed forward as hard as ever; but slowly a space cleared. The troopers moved out into it, facing both ways.

  ‘Load!’ Captain Manikwal bawled.

  ‘They can’t get away,’ Mohan said. They’re trying to.’

  ‘They’ll move after a volley,’ Manikwal shouted cheerfully.

  The landowner from the valley hurried to Mohan’s side. His hand gripped Mohan’s elbow. ‘Look!’ he said urgently, ‘We’ve got him! Prithwi!’

  ‘What?’ the captain said. Impossible! He’d never get himself caught in a mob like this.’

  ‘It is, it is,’ the landowner grated. There, about twenty feet in, under the wall, struggling like a madman to get away... his head down, in the old dirty robe.’

  ‘By heaven, I believe it is,’ the captain said softly. ‘It is! He couldn’t keep away, when he heard Mohan had come, and now he’s caught’ He rubbed his hands and shouted, ‘Left file, aim!’ He walked forward and took a carbine from a soldier’s hands. ‘Fire when I do!’

  Mohan watched with a pure deep thrill of excitement Twice Prithwi had tried to poison him when he was a child, so his nurse had told him. All the time he’d been in England Prithwi had been intriguing against him.

  Prithwi, sensing his peril, flung himself to the ground. By stooping, Mohan could see him quite clearly among the flailing legs. But now he could not possibly be shot without wounding others. Mohan almost groaned in despair. ‘No,’ he cried to Manikwal. ‘Don’t fire!’

  Manikwal said, ‘You’ll never get another chance like this, my lord, never in a thousand years.’ Kneeling, he aimed the carbine.

  Mohan pushed down the barrel. ‘No!’ he shouted. ‘I’m not going to start by killing my own people.’

  The captain stood up, and after a moment handed the carbine back to its owner. He looked at Mohan and said, ‘Suvala-ji, you may not have signed your own death sentence. After all, if you don’t succeed to, the gaddi, you can go away. But you have certainly signed mine.’ He turned his back and bawled, ‘Order arms! Stood easy!’

  The crowd began to disperse more easily as soon as the immediate threat of firing was removed. Unless a crowd is really bent on trouble, Mohan, a firm, gentle hand is the answer. He leaned back against the wall, feeling suddenly weak. He should have allowed Manikwal to shoot Prithwi, who was a murderer. British ideals, Rajput tradition; Rajput blood, British upbringing. His life would be simpler if it had all been one or the other. Even Rukmini.

  The ‘feel’ of the crowd changed again, without warning. At one instant they were dispersing in near-silence; the next - their voices rose to a roar, a shriek, their movements trebled in speed but lost direction. They turned back on themselves, ran together, and formed impenetrable knots which increased the panic.

  Mohan ran out into the street, shouting, ‘Keep calm! There is nothing to fear.’

  But now above their heads he saw the horses, the bright turbans and the flashing sabres. A trumpet began to shrill the ‘Charge’ over and over again in a hysterical brassy blare. He grabbed Captain Manikwal and yelled, ‘Tell those fools to stop! It’s all over. They’re causing the panic’

  Men fell around him, were pushed over and trampled on by the fear-maddened crowd. The trumpet echoed from the houses down the street, and from that direction the people rushed towards the cavalry, while others rushed away. The sabres rose and fell.

  Mohan yelled, ‘Stop!’ and raised his arms and jumped as high as he could above the crowd to attract the cavalrymen’s attention. There were about twenty of them. He saw Mr Kendrick riding in the third or fourth row, his riding crop rising and falling, his mouth open.

  Slowly Mohan’s arms fell. Pushed and jostled, Captain Manikwal’s arm guiding him, he returned to the shelter of the doorway and the four troopers who now waited there, in close protective order, guarding the entrance.

  The turmoil in the street slowly subsided as the cavalry reached the doorway. Mohan noticed dully that they had mostly been using the flats of the swords. Only a score of people lay dead or maimed or unconscious in the street Mr Kendrick’s face was white, wet, and contorted, his eyes burning as he laid about him with a riding crop, yelling, Take that, and that...’

  Mohan stepped forward, and Mr .Kendrick reined in sharply. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Mohan said. ‘We have not been in any real danger.’

  ‘Just in time, thank God,’ Mr Kendrick said.

  The twitching of the right side of his face stopped, and his breathing slowed. Dismounting, he put his arm briefly round Mohan’s shoulder. His voice was normal. ‘Firm action, taken in time, eh? Captain, recall your men... and then, give an account of the events of the day, if you please.’

  Mohan stood back. Mr Kendrick was so calm now. He would not have been wearing that coat, or the black tie, or the tight white riding overalls while he was out with a gun; so, after he had been found, he had taken time to change into; formal clothes before coming down. He had followed his own advice, the sort of advice he was always giving Mohan - to put on a calm, unhurried front, to show that nothing out of the ordinary was in prospect. Until the decisive moment. Then he had panicked.

  Mohan stirred uneasily. How could he tell what the situation had looked like from Mr Kendrick’s position? Who was he, even to think that Mr Kendrick had acted foolishly?

  The City Ward
en arrived riding a fat mare. Mr Kendrick drew him aside and they talked in low tones for several minutes. Then Mr Kendrick replaced his topi and called, ‘Mohan? If you are ready, I think we will return to Konpara.’

  The syce appeared, leading Leander. Mohan swung up into the saddle, and at Mr Kendrick’s side rode out of the city. Neither spoke until they had left the houses behind, and entered the jungle. The syce fell back to his proper position, too far away to overhear his master’s conversation.

  Mr Kendrick said, ‘You know the cause of that riot?’

  ‘Prithwi,’ Mohan said.

  ‘He was the instigator. The cause was the young woman now living in Cheltondale, and the rumour...’

  Mohan said, ‘It’s not true, sir.’

  Mr Kendrick’s tone changed. ‘Do not misunderstand me, Mohan. I’m a man of the world and I’ve -ah- sown my wild oats in my time.’ He laughed, a short, forced chuckle. Mohan realised that Mr Kendrick was embarrassed; no - more, he was deeply ashamed. The tic in his cheek had begun again. ‘I should have foreseen that something like this was bound to happen. Well, I’m afraid I didn’t - but you’ve seen the consequences. You’ll have to send her away.’

  Mohan said, ‘I can’t do that, sir. I love her.’ He spoke in a low voice, for he had learned that the words were obscene, when spoken by one Englishman to another.

  Mr Kendrick’s voice cracked. ‘You can’t She’s just a prostitute. All she can give you is sex, and sex is... vile, animal!’

  Mohan did not speak. Mr Kendrick’s self-control had always been thin, and behind it there had always been this wild anger. He used to think it was terrifying. Now, its chief characteristic seemed to be impotence.

  After a while Mr Kendrick said, in his normal voice, ‘Tell me about the archaeological matter. I gather that it concerns the statue which the rumour links with this girl, Rukmini’

  Mohan explained. Mr Kendrick said thoughtfully, ‘This is more complex than it seems. You say that Foster is proposing to pay the expenses out of his own pocket? I find that strange,’

  Mohan thought it was a little odd. Foster was a reasonably open-handed man, like most of his class; but to spend money on archaeology seemed out of character for him. The discovery of the leg had made everyone act strangely.

  Mr Kendrick said, ‘And then there is the dam. You realise that several hundred people will face starvation if anything occurs to delay its completion?’

  Mohan said, ‘Foster said there was no chance of that. Mr Smith asked him this morning.’

  ‘H’m. Of course, we ought to make a search if the results could really be important The Agent to the Governor-General would be delighted ... But there is this rumour.’

  Mohan said, ‘Even if we find the Venus, I do not see how I can marry her.’

  Mr Kendrick said, ‘Then I think we should proceed. You agree?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mohan said.

  ‘And after our meeting, we must have a long talk. Something’s got to be done about this - uh - situation with the girl or the consequences to your future will become incalculable. We must talk, man to man.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Mohan said. He felt very tired, and much older.

  Chapter 8

  Charles Kendrick ate his dinner in silence. When guests were present the pretence of an affectionate household had to be maintained but when he and Barbara were alone he could ignore her existence and turn his mind to important matters.

  He thought about the afternoon’s riot. It would necessitate a special report to the Agent to the Governor-General. The report must not stress the seriousness of the affair, or the A.G.G. would come down himself, which he must not do until Mohan had got rid of the woman. It was a pity, because in -minimising the riot he would also have to minimise his own part in it. Actually, until he led that charge with the few cavalrymen, the situation had been out of hand. Prompt, firm action had saved the day. He frowned. No one there, not Mohan nor the captain nor the City Warden seemed to realise just how close to disaster they had stood. From their manner, an awkward near-embarrassment, most noticeable in Mohan, you would have thought he had done something foolish. Were they too, like the heads of his own service, in the conspiracy to see that he never received the recognition due to him?

  He raised the fork to his mouth with deliberate calm. He must not show that these pinpricks wounded him, or his enemies would be on him like a pack of jackals - led by his wife.

  He looked at her covertly as she ate, her head slightly bent, her face hidden. He had married because a wife was a necessity to a governor; and then his superiors had made up their minds he would never be a governor. Of the ladies available to him he had married her because she was young and, as he had thought, innocent; and then he had found that the beastly craving for sexuality lay as strong in her as in any woman of the streets.

  She looked up suddenly, catching his eye, and said, ‘Today I called on Mohan’s young woman. Her name is Rukmini’

  Rendrick stared at her. ‘You - called on that woman?’ he said, hardly believing his ears. ‘Called on her!’

  ‘I didn’t leave a card,’ Barbara said. ‘But I invited her to come here this evening with Mohan.’

  Kendrick felt his cheek twitching. To hide it, he dabbed his lips and face with the napkin. His hands trembled and he put them down quickly, holding the napkin in his lap. ‘You are trying to destroy my work here with Mohan,’ he whispered furiously.

  ‘I wanted to see what kind of a woman she was,’ Barbara said. ‘I went prepared to find that she was a simple prostitute. But she is a very remarkable woman, and a lady. She is more. She is an aristocrat, far more than you and I are.’

  ‘A lady?’ Kendrick snarled. ‘You are mad!’ The servants were listening, but they had heard such quarrels before, and they knew better than to hint about them outside these walls. He was the Resident and the Administrator, and he had many sources of information, many, ways of punishment.

  The meal was finished. He prepared his ultimatum and stood up. He was going to say, That woman is not to be permitted inside this house, or socially recognised in any way.

  But as soon as he was on his feet a multitude of new thoughts raced into his mind, so that he stood scowling at his wife but saying nothing. If they ignored Rukmini, Mohan would spend more time alone with her. On the other hand, if Mohan saw her in English society he would realise how ludicrous it was to consider her as anything more than a night-time companion of lechery. And he himself would never be able to speak to her, whereas he should probably establish a seemingly friendly relationship; then, when she fully understood the position, and the extent of his power, he could offer her some sort of a bribe to leave Deori and Mohan. She was certainly after money.

  Barbara said, ‘When I know her a little better, I am going to paint a portrait of her.’ Kendrick leaped quickly at the opportunity she had presented to escape from his dilemma. He said with heavy sarcasm, ‘Ah, of course, your art must take precedence over the ordinary customs of society. I hope that, when the portrait is finished, she will think more highly of it than I did of mine, which, if you recall, I burned to ashes.’

  He left the room and stalked through to his study. On the wall behind the desk a huge oil painting dominated the room. It showed an Englishman in the pride of manhood, as the centre of a battle scene. He had long fair hair and bestrode a rearing horse with the ease of a centaur. He was wearing a blue frock coat with gold epaulets, and was shown leaning down among a crowd of red-coated Indians, snatching from one of them a large Union Jack.

  The man was his father, Dighton Kendrick. The Indians were a mutinied regiment of Bengal Native Infantry that had marched into Deori in 1857, at the invitation of Mohan’s grandfather, the then Rajah. Dighton Kendrick had been bayoneted to death a few moments after the incident depicted. For half a generation copies of that painting had hung in thousands of English homes. ‘The Galahad of Deori’, the Queen herself had called the gallant officer.

  Kendrick stared at the painting, as h
e did whenever he entered this room or the study in the Residency, for he took it with him wherever he went His strength was as the strength of ten, because his heart was pure. That had been the popular quotation in the days of Dighton Kendrick’s brief, posthumous glory. But it wasn’t true. Dighton Kendrick avoided work, drank heavily, and seduced any woman who looked at him twice - which many had, both Indian and English. Everybody worshipped him, including his wife, his superiors, his mistresses, and their husbands.

  Kendrick groaned under his breath. Why, why, what was the difference? He recalled, in an ecstasy of self-torture, the details of the portrait that Barbara had painted of himself. He had known she dabbled in art when he married her. Nothing strange about that. For the next eight years she had painted nothing but pretty landscapes and a few portraits. Then, this last cold weather, he had had one of the most unpleasant surprises of his life,

  A group of tourists visited Deori. One of them was Sir James Allcard, the baronet, banker, and art collector. Dinner ended, the men sat over their port in the big Residency dining-room. Sir James pointed his cigar. ‘Kendrick, you’re going to be famous.’ He remembered smiling in anticipation. , Sir James was rumoured to have the ear of the Prime Minister.

  The baronet continued,’... as the husband of Barbara Kendrick! I’ll give you a thousand pounds for that portrait.’

  He sat numbed in his chair, the glass of port half-way to his mourn. A thousand pounds? ‘What portrait?’ he asked.

  ‘Good heavens, man, the one of you! Do you mean she has others as good as that?’ He realised that the baronet was not joking. ‘My wife happened to visit her in her workroom, and called to me. She - your good lady - says she has been experimenting with a new style. Well, Kendrick, I may claim to know a little something about these matters, and her technique is nothing short of masterly. A little advanced, some would say. A little reminiscent of Goya, others might think. But there’s no doubt about it. She is going to be famous, and don’t think I’m doing you a good turn by offering you a thousand. I’m making a sound investment’