A Division Of The Spoils (Raj Quartet 4) (13 page)

Alone, Perron paused to wipe sweat. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes altogether was what was recommended. Say another fifteen yet to go. After that Purvis could be
presumed dead. He was probably dead now. Perron was tempted to pause again and listen for heart and pulse beat but he supposed the most important thing now was to keep up the rhythm. He resumed. He had studied the drill but this was the first time he had had to put it into practice. The action he was performing suddenly struck him as distasteful. Not only was the body very likely dead, it was Purvis’s. It would have been preferable if the inert figure, prone between his thighs, had been that of a complete stranger. The fact that he had sat and talked to Purvis strengthened the unpleasantness of their present positions. He wondered whether Purvis would thank him if he succeeded in reviving him. The suspicion that he would not made the task that much more objectionable. There was another ejaculation of water and vomit. Perron turned his head, closed his eyes. He began breathing in and out through his mouth, slowly, to the rhythm of his own body’s movement. He breathed audibly, thinking that perhaps by some quirk of nature Purvis’s moribund brain and water-logged lungs might be stimulated into action by an association of ideas.

From breathing just audibly he progressed to doing so hoarsely through a half-closed throat, and continued so after his throat had begun to ache; the point being that he wanted Purvis to
hear
what he himself now began to despair of hearing from Purvis. His back hurt. His arms and shoulders hurt. Sweat poured unchecked over and around his closed eyes. His knees were numb from contact with the tiled floor. Pain stabbed through them down the shins and up the thighs with each forward and backward movement. Only his hands, pressing into Purvis’s thin bony back and rib-cage, still seemed capable of doing their work indefinitely. He went on, exerting and relaxing pressure and breathing hoarsely until suddenly his throat dried up. He closed his mouth, swallowed and tried to make saliva. The effort put him off his stroke. He stopped for a moment and then, alerted, opened his eyes and stared down at Purvis. From Purvis’s open mouth was coming a sound and under Perron’s hands the rib-cage was moving. Purvis was breathing, or anyway fighting for breath.

‘I think you can stop now, Sergeant,’ someone said. He looked up and round. Merrick stood just behind him. ‘I’ll get
another towel. We’ve rung for a doctor. He’s just up the road so he’ll be here in a tick.’

Perron nodded and looked down at Purvis. The struggle for breath seemed immense. Surprisingly it was not without a certain dignity. When Merrick returned with the towel Perron took it from him and spread it over the vomit and then, folding a clean section, tucked it under Purvis’s cheek and stroked a lank bit of the mousy hair away from the closed eyes. As he did so Purvis’s mouth shut and then opened again.

Merrick said, ‘I think a blanket would be a good idea if there is such a thing.’ He found one in the almirah and brought it over. Perron helped him cover Purvis with it.

‘We’d better have a look at this.’ He leant down and lifted Purvis’s left arm. Perron unwound the towel. The inside was fairly bloody now but only one of the cuts was seeping seriously.

‘I think just wrap the towel round again, Sergeant, until the doctor gets here,’ Merrick said. ‘It wasn’t a very effective job, was it?’

‘He was pretty drunk.’

‘What on? More of the whisky the Maharanee didn’t like?’

‘To judge by the broken bottle.’

‘And the smell in this room.’

‘Is there a smell?’

‘Very much so. Haven’t you noticed?’

Perron sniffed. He noticed it now.

‘Not the most prepossessing chap by the look of him, is he?’ Merrick said. ‘Do you know what was wrong?’

‘I think he’d just had enough.’

‘You look as if you have. Where did you leave the bottle you brought back from the Maharanee’s?’

Perron told him he thought it must be in the living-room.

‘I think you should have some. I’ll bring it.’

Merrick went. Purvis’s breathing was shallow but fairly regular. Perron got up stiffly. A man’s voice in the corridor called ‘Hello?’ There was an exchange between Merrick and the new arrival. Merrick came back into the room with an English
IMS
officer. The officer knelt, lifted Purvis’s eyelid and felt his temple.

‘You’re the chap who found him, are you, Sergeant?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The doctor unwrapped the towel from the arm.

‘Bath, I gather. Face completely submerged?’

‘Right side, sir.’

‘D’you know how long for, roughly?’

‘No, sir.’

‘How long were you resuscitating?’

‘About ten minutes, sir.’

The doctor had his stethoscope out. When he had finished and slung the earpieces round his neck he glanced up.

‘Well done. You’d better go next door and have a bloody strong drink and get out of that wet uniform. Major Merrick – perhaps a couple of the fellows outside will help me get him on to the bed while you ring for the blood-wagon?’ He gave Merrick the number as Perron left the room.

*

After Purvis had been taken away Merrick came back from downstairs and into the wrecked living-room where Perron sat drinking some of the Maharanee’s whisky and admiring the vivid and lively effect of the Guler-Basohli technique. The paintings were the only things he felt able to concentrate on. They were about one hundred and fifty years old. Even the two damaged ones maintained that air of detachment and self-sufficiency that went with a talent for survival.

Before Merrick could speak Perron said, ‘Until I told Purvis what those pictures were he’d no idea. If I’d kept quiet he’d probably have left them alone.’

Merrick inspected them.

‘It’s what’s called Kangra painting, isn’t it?’

Perron nodded. Kangra was close enough.

Merrick said, ‘Actually I find all oriental art unattractive.’ He turned from the paintings. ‘I don’t think you need worry further about Captain Purvis unless he does the unexpected and dies, which would mean an inquest. But Simpson says he’ll be all right. When he’s recovered they’ll hand him over to the psychiatric people. Are you going to be fit to drive back to Kalyan?’

‘I should think so, sir.’

‘Then get your other things and come downstairs and clean up. We’ll give you something to eat. How much of that whisky have you had?’

‘This is my third glass.’

‘Rather a strong one, isn’t it? When you’re downstairs you’ll remember which subjects are taboo, won’t you?’

‘The subjects of Havildar Karim Muzzafir Khan and Harry Coomer.’

‘Good. Incidentally I liked the way you handled Count Bronowsky, but I was surprised he thought fit to raise the subject.’

Perron sipped whisky. He had not liked lying. He felt he was owed an explanation. ‘Perhaps you’ll tell me what Coomer did, sir?’

‘He and five of his friends raped an English girl called Daphne Manners, the niece of the Lady Manners whose name also came up. It was a squalid and extremely nasty business and I find it inconceivable that a man should refer to it in front of a woman.’

Perron sipped more whisky. How old-fashioned. His inclination was to laugh. He wondered whether it was Merrick’s intention to make him.

‘Was a charge of rape the one you said he wriggled out of, sir?’

‘Yes. But as I told you we got him and the others on political grounds.’

Perron drained the glass and stood up. ‘It all sounds so melodramatic. I find it difficult to imagine Coomer raping anybody.’

‘But then you didn’t really know him, except with a bat and ball. Are you one of those people who think that if you teach an Indian the rules of cricket he’ll become a perfect English gentleman?’

‘Hardly, sir. Since I know quite a few Englishmen who play brilliantly and are absolute shits.’

‘Do you?’ Merrick said. He stared at Perron. ‘What are you going to do about the Maharanee’s whisky?’

‘Keep it, I should think.’

‘In view of what Miss Layton said about her father’s fondness for that particular brand I was wondering whether it
would be a nice gesture for you to leave it with her as a sort of thank you.’

‘Thank you?’

‘She’s putting herself out to see that you have something to eat.’

‘I didn’t ask for anything to eat, sir.’

‘I did that for you. I don’t want you driving on a stomach full of nothing but liquor. And then there’s the danger of delayed shock impairing your judgment and leading to an accident.’

‘It’s nice of you to have my welfare at heart, sir.’

‘My concern is quite unaltruistic. I have a vested interest in your continuing capacity to perform efficiently. Now, let’s go down and get you cleaned up and fed.’

‘May I ask what vested interest, sir?’

‘I’m arranging to have you attached to my department. The signal ordering you to report for an interview is probably waiting for you in Kalyan but the interview will be no more than a formality. You can assume you’ll be working for me. You’ll find it pretty interesting.’

‘It’s very kind of you, sir, but I imagine my department will think its present commitments much too important to allow me to go elsewhere.’

‘You’ll find they’re overruled without much fuss.’

‘The point is, sir, I shouldn’t want them overruled.’

‘Well that does you credit. One becomes attached to one’s own unit. But I imagine you’ll bow to the inevitable with more equanimity than our friend Purvis. Let’s not keep Miss Layton waiting any longer.’

Perron picked up the bottle and went to Purvis’s room to collect his pack. Back in the corridor he found Merrick instructing the bearer to leave everything as it was until morning. Perron preceded him through the open door, waited for him and then followed him downstairs. Just short of the door of the flat, which was ajar, Merrick said, ‘I’ll relieve you of that, shall I?’ and took the bottle.

Going in, Merrick called, ‘Sarah? I’ve got Sergeant Perron here.’

Perron followed. In layout the flat was a mirror-duplicate of the one upstairs. She was coming through the dining-room area towards them.

‘Hello. Are you all right?’

‘I think he’s still a bit groggy,’ Merrick said before Perron could answer.

‘If you are I don’t wonder. I’ll show you where you can relax and freshen up. Ronald, you go and sit down.’

Her manner was brisk but sympathetic. The bedroom she took him to corresponded with the one Purvis had occupied upstairs but was properly furnished. The light and the ceiling fan were already on. There were two beds; between them a writing-table and a chair with an officer’s bush-shirt draped over its back. The bush-shirt looked brand new. The woven shoulder-tabs were those of a Lieutenant-Colonel of the Pankot Rifles.

The door to the bathroom was open and the light switched on. She said, ‘Do bathe or shower if you want to. You’ll find a large green towel on the rail that hasn’t been used.’ She had made simple but efficient preparations. She looked at his damp uniform. ‘I know father wouldn’t mind your borrowing his dressing-gown if you want to have anything dried out and pressed quickly.’

‘It’s very kind of you, Miss Layton, but I’ve got a change of clothes in here.’ He indicated the pack. ‘My correct uniform. The one you saw me in this afternoon.’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll leave you to it, then. How hungry are you?’

‘I’m not at all hungry but I suppose I ought to eat something.’

‘I think you ought to if you possibly can. Not that there’s much to offer you. Aunt Fenny assumed we’d all be out so she gave cook the night off and Nazimuddin isn’t very inventive.’

‘Whatever’s going will be fine.’

‘I’m afraid it’s only soup, cold chicken and salad, and what Aunt Fenny calls a shape. In other words, blancmange.’

‘I’m rather partial to shape.’

‘Good.’

They smiled at one another rather gravely.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘come along whenever you’re ready. I’ll send Nazimuddin in with a drink. What would you like?’

‘Major Merrick thinks I’d just better eat. I’ve had some of the Maharanee’s whisky. Incidentally, he thought your father
might like what’s left of it. Will he be insulted, being offered left-overs?’

She hesitated. ‘Not of that particular whisky. How very nice of you. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a glass while you’re changing?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘Did Major Merrick tell you I tipped him off that there was a Field Security man in disguise at the party?’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘I wasn’t sure whether to tell him or not so it was a relief when he said you’d already met and were coming to work with him.’

‘You were quite right to tell him. You weren’t to know which uniform was the masquerade.’

‘Actually that never crossed my mind.’

There was a knock on the open door. The curtains parted and Merrick looked in.

‘What is it, Ronald?’

‘You’ve been such a long time I thought our sergeant friend was suffering a reaction from his exertions and that you were having to minister.’

‘Actually, sir,’ Perron said, ‘we’ve been discussing the attractions and nutritive value of that homely pudding, the blancmange.’

‘Oh,’ Merrick said, not looking at Perron, speaking to Miss Layton. ‘You’re having shape again, then. Well, if it’s one of the sergeant’s favourite afters we’d better let him get changed.’ He pushed the curtain further aside: a gesture of command rather than a mark of good manners. Miss Layton hesitated and then went through, murmuring ‘Thank you, Ronald’ as she did so. Still without looking at Perron Merrick followed her.

Perron put his pack on the nearest of the two beds. Taking out his carefully folded jungle-green issue uniform, spreading it, considering it, he said aloud suddenly, ‘I’ll be buggered if I will.’

The Zipper-bound boats out there in the roads riding the gentle swell of the Arabian Sea, patient in the night and the persistent rain, seemed infinitely welcoming; his working clothes (in comparison with the jacket that hung on the
chairback) purposeful, appropriate. Going into the bathroom he felt his chin. It could have done with a shave but he didn’t go back for his razor and brush. A day’s growth of bristle was appropriate too. He stripped off the damp harlequinade and stepped into the tub, on to Purvis who lay there invisibly entombed in the smooth white porcelain. Perron’s feet went right through him; but when he turned the shower faucet and gasped under the impact of a needle-sharp cold spray he felt the sodden flesh of Purvis’s left arm take shape against his shins and the hand take hold of his ankle. Be not afeared, Perron began to declaim, the Isle is full of noises, sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.