Ryman, Rebecca (103 page)

Ensconced
in her own office, Olivia sat thinking hard. The summer's heat in the middle of
the day was punitive. The humidity was making it even more difficult to bear.
Even her light calico dress was soaked through with perspiration and clung
uncomfortably to her damp petticoats. From the large clay pot balanced on an
iron stand in a corner of her room, she poured herself another glass of cool
water, drank it thirstily and then sent for Willie Donaldson.

"We
have an annual contract with Trident. If they flout it, can we appeal to the
Chamber for redress?"

"The
Chamber!" In short, succinct words, Donaldson proceeded to tell her
exactly what he thought of the Chamber of Commerce and then, despondent again,
shook his head. "Na we can't. A clause in the contract warns that if our
indigo stains any part of the hold, Trident will hold us responsible for heavy
damages. That last consignment, if you recall, was imperfectly packed," he
paused to heap liberal curses on the absent warehouse manager, "and it
made a god-awful mess. Raventhorne will cite that as justification for
cancelling the contract altogether."

"But
supposing we agreed to pay damages and dispatched only," she riffled
through a ledger, "saltpetre, camphor, salt, timber and that Dacca muslin
that is on order?"

He
gave a bark of a derisive laugh. "What he's telling us, plain as plain can
be, is that he's
na
going to lift our cargo again,
any
cargo. You
can see what he thinks of that damned contract." He dug in his pocket and
strewed her table top with scraps of paper. "These also came with Moitra's
letter."

Understanding
his anger, all his resentments and his unspoken accusations, Olivia made no
attempt to comfort him. For a while she merely stood at her window peering
through the bamboo slats of the
chik
that did nothing to keep out the
searing midday heat. Picking up a palm leaf fan, she waved it across her face,
her mind now racing along quite another track.

"The
Trident clipper that sails next month is the
Tapti,
isn't it?"

"Aye."
His eyebrows locked horns like battling bulls. "What of it?"

"Well,
since it appears that we cannot avail ourselves of the
Jamuna,
we will
just have to wait for the
Tapti
to sail. Or, maybe, the clipper after
that. This much delay we can easily afford. In the meantime, we'd better get
that indigo back from the wharves for repacking. If there's a nor-wester storm
in the offing and the river turns blue, we'll have every dhobi on the Hooghly
panting for our blood."

Slowly
Donaldson sat up straight and stared. "Perhaps Your Ladyship has na yet
fully understood the import of
this!"
He waved Moitra's letter in
the air. "Moitra says—"

"I
know what Moitra says," she interrupted gently. "What I am trying to
convey to you, Mr. Donaldson, is that when the
Tapti
or the next clipper
sails, Farrowsham's cargo
will
be on board despite Moitra's letter, as
it will be on board every Trident clipper sailing thereafter." She swept
up the pieces of the torn contract
and put them inside an envelope.
"In the meanwhile, why don't we get that nice young Sol Abrahams to stick
these together again?"

Jesus!
That
glint is back in her eyes, so help me God! thought Donaldson. He swallowed
hard. "We'll na need them again ...," he began weakly.

"Yes,
you're right. We won't." She tossed the envelope carelessly into her waste
bin. "We will get Trident to draw up a fresh contract with more reasonable
freight rates. Double duties for foreign shipping were abolished two years ago
and they can well afford to reduce their charges. In fact, I have been meaning
to talk to you about this for some time, Mr. Donaldson."

Wildly,
his eyes flew to the liquor cabinet where Olivia kept her supplies to entertain
business visitors. God's nails—she'd been at it herself, she bloody had! Olivia
caught his glance and her eyes twinkled. "Seriously, Mr. Donaldson, do you
know what I think Farrowsham needs to do now?"

He
saw that she had intercepted his glance and, only to hide his embarrassment,
growled, "Na, what?"

"I
think Farrowsham needs to diversify. There's something very sordid about being
held for ransom, don't you think?" Dreamily, she again gazed out of the
window.

"Diversify?"
He now had no doubts about her insobriety. "Farrowsham does na
need
any
bleeding diversifications! We have more damn business than we can reck'n what
to do with!"

"Oh,
I disagree entirely, Mr. Donaldson." She picked up a pencil and started to
doodle. "In America we believe there is
always
room for expansion.
For instance, Mr. Donaldson, how does the idea strike you of acquiring a
Farrowsham hotel?"

The
idea struck Willie Donaldson forcefully. In fact, it struck him dumb.

Almost
a century had passed since 1756 when Siraj-ud-Daula, Nawab of Bengal, had
marched from Murshidabad to attack and capture Calcutta. It had been a
fearsome, uneven battle and at least part of the blame for it (for the
consequent rout of the Company's garrison at Fort William and even for the
hideous deaths of one hundred twenty-three British prisoners from suffocation
in the notorious Black Hole) many still ascribed indirectly to the evil
machinations of one Amin Chand, a Hindu
money-lender of alleged ill repute. It
was this man that Ram Chand Mooljee proudly counted among his forbears.

Like
his ancestor, Ram Chand was a money-lender by profession, a manipulator by
inclination and a crook by sheer natural instinct. If Clarence Pennworthy's
Imperial East India Bank was the conduit between the Company Bahadur and its
masters on London's Leadenhall Street—as it was between most respectable
merchants—it was Ram Chand who was the pipeline in every clandestine, illicit
but lucrative financial transaction in town. Also like his ancestor, he had
amassed a considerable sterling fortune to become one of the richest Hindu
merchants in Bengal. He, like Amin Chand, boasted a privileged residence in
Calcutta's White Town—not surprising, since it was his money that had financed
the construction of several European homes.

Unlike
his forbear, however, Ram Chand despised politics. Money, he often said,
remained money regardless of political affiliations, and to its pursuit he
dedicated his life. As the fiscal conscience of many—black, white, brown and yellow—Ram
Chand thrived on financial adventurism. He had learned through his exploits
that nothing denuded a man's soul as much as the lure of lucre. Consequently,
nothing surprised him, for in satisfying everyone's greed—and, indeed, using it
to his own profit—he had become a canny calculator of human nature. It was his
boast that to him what was unexpected was the expected.

But
now, as he sat facing the white mem called Lady Birkhurst, on one of the
extremely rare occasions of his life Ram Chand found himself taken by surprise.
"A loan?" he murmured slowly to give himself time to think. Why
should she, with all those Farrowsham funds, need to ask him for another loan?
The first, he knew, was for Ransome sahib, but now...? He concealed his surprise
behind an obsequious smile and declared himself a humble servant whose command
was her wish, then said, "Yes, certainly a loan can be arranged, even
though what little this miserable slave has could not be more than a pittance
compared to your esteemed lord and husband's—"

"It
is in my personal capacity again that I wish to take the loan," Olivia
interrupted, answering the convoluted question he slyly asked. "I do not
wish it to involve either the Agency or my husband."

"Ah,
I understand perfectly, perfectly." The oily folds of his fleshy face
lifted in a smile, but his eyes remained cool and appraising. "It takes
time, I know, for money to arrive
from Lloyd's in your Blighty—whereby,
of course, this honour for your unworthy servant."

Olivia
was not surprised at his information. In her one previous dealing with him, she
had learned to regard his espionage system with the same awe that she regarded
Jai Raventhorne's. "Yes, precisely. I need the money immediately to cover
a certain transaction I wish to make."

"A
private transaction, no doubt."

Since
Ram Chand disliked having to ask questions, this too was inflected as a
statement. "Not at all," Olivia smiled. "It will be quite
public. I intend to acquire a property with a view to starting a top-grade
hotel. As you know, Mr. Mooljee, there is only Spence's, which is inadequate.
We could well do with another. I consider this to be a sound business
proposition."

"A
hotel?" He could not have been more taken aback, and he was peeved. All
this was being planned and he had not an inkling? He decided to instantly
dismiss his informer on Old Court House Street and replace him with a more
competent man. "A hotel owned by your noble self?" he was forced to
ask.

"At
the outset, yes. Then I might lease it to Farrowsham. Or, perhaps, offer shares
to investors."

Ram
Chand forgot his chagrin in order to ponder. It was indeed an inspired project.
Not that he would ever consider losing caste by patronising such a place, but
it was true that decent lodging houses in the city were sadly lacking. Those
that did exist were ill kept and dirty, with atrocious food, he had been told,
and worse services. Usually friends and family offered hospitality to visitors,
but should a top-grade hotel become available, he had no doubt it would attract
excellent custom. And he, of course, could make a killing on those
"shares" she had mentioned . . . But, the lady mem in the
hotel
business?
Why, her people would never stand for it! It would be worse than shopkeeping,
and he had learned enough about
firanghi
prejudices to know how that was
despised! However, Ram Chand took care not to reveal any of his reactions.

"Yes,
it could be a viable proposition," he said, looking dubious, but then he
turned expansive. "However, first we must have refreshments. Forgive this
coarse animal for having the manners of a donkey. It is deplorable!"

He
clapped and half a dozen minions appeared. Berating them soundly for not having
thought of it themselves, he ordered spiced tea and English biscuits. Olivia
watched, amused. In spite
of his wealth, she knew Ram Chand deliberately maintained this mean little
office in a crowded bazaar not far from, appropriately enough, the Royal Mint.
Many of his clients were rich and politically powerful, but his bread and
butter (and jam!) came from hundreds of modest salaried employees of Company
Bahadur for whom he performed financial services forbidden by the rules of
employment. For a fee (high but never too high), he invested their funds in
buying commodities in Calcutta to sell in the hinterland. He loaned them money
at murderous interest rates to cover their various short term embarrassments,
such as imprudent gambling debts. Without the knowledge of either Pennworthy or
other bankers, he arranged to remit illegally acquired funds to England, earning
not only undying gratitude but generous commissions. With at least two Company
Directors as his clients, he was in a position to extract various favours for
his Indian patrons in exchange for handsome "gifts." He advanced to
impecunious young civil and military English gentlemen passage money to send
for lovelorn fiancees and pining wives, was willing to keep in hock even the
meanest of mean household articles and propped up limping commercial ventures
with transfusions that ensured worth-while returns later. It was rumoured that
he could mate and match supply and demand with such skill that he could name
his own fee in the middle and frequently did. In the burgeoning middle class of
Calcutta's Indian businessmen, Ram Chand Mooljee was an undoubted pioneer.

His
duties as host discharged, Mooljee returned to business, his pudgy fingers once
more interlocked across his paunch. "The site for this hotel—I take it
that has already been decided?"

"Yes.
The site is the residence of my late uncle, Sir Joshua Templewood. I intend to
purchase the property."

Mooljee
was even more put out. But then he knew that lately there had been some very
curious goings-on in the city: Ransome's arrangement with the vulgar American,
the lady mem's extraordinary
burra khana,
that business with the ship
and now Kala Kanta's sudden aversion to Farrowsham. It was believed that the
common factor in all these was this mannish, free-minded lady mem who had
beauty and far too many brains but little modesty.
How
she was the
common factor Mooljee could not fathom and this irked him too. And now with
this projected sale, his nose smelt both trouble and profit. Would the Eurasian
allow it? The sahib might be dead but the missy mem was not! Nonetheless,
Mooljee's interest quickened further; that Templewood property was, after all,
prime land.