Free Supping With Panthers by Tom Holland Page A

his opponent to the wall. ‘Into the sunlight,’ said this extraordinary man.
    Cuff pushed the creature forward; sluggish before, it seemed paralysed now. ‘Yes, yes,’ said the strange man, ‘go on, through the heart.’ He gave Cuff the stake. ‘Eliminate all this damned vascular activity.’ Cuff did as he was instructed and again a fountain of blood burst up across the cell.
    ‘And now,’ said the Indian, crossing to Eliot, ‘let’s get it done with. Step back, Jack. This is a painful business for we vegetarians, I know.’ Eliot smiled and stood up as the Indian went about his grisly business. Once it was over, he rose to his feet. He shook Eliot’s hand; then he turned to me. ‘As you would say, Captain,’ he said, stretching out his arms, ‘bloody good show!’
    I frowned. It scarcely seemed possible. ‘It’s not…’ I paused. ‘It’s not Professor Jyoti?’ I asked.
    ‘Very good.’ The Indian wiped makeup from his face and, looking now, I couldn’t imagine how I had ever failed to recognise him. And yet I had been wholly deceived, and my look of astonishment must have been writ very clear, for the Indian – let me call him Babu no more – laughed out loud.
    ‘You old dog,’ I whispered. ‘How did you manage it?’
    Professor Jyoti tapped the side of his nose. ‘Know your enemy,’ he said.
    ‘But… I mean … look here … in God’s name … how?’
    The Professor drew himself up as far as his height would allow. ‘Because knowledge,’ he replied, ‘is the business of Sri Sinh.’
    I stared at him in amazement and, yes, I grant you, not a little shame as well. ‘Good Lord,’ I whispered. I realised how grievously wrong I had been about the man. Even now, thirty years on, the memory of my initial scorn makes me blush, for without a doubt the Professor was one of the bravest fellows I have ever met, and I have known quite a few in my time. He told me as he unlocked my wrists that he had been undercover in Kalikshutra for several days, and that the people had taken him to be one of their own. He had seen us fighting on the wall and had ensured, when we were taken, that we were not infected with the fatal disease. Furthermore, judging that Sergeant-Major Cuff was the strongest of us, he had left him chained where the wall was least secure, and secreted the key in the darkness by his feet.
    ‘I could not have freed you then,’ he explained, ‘because as you have seen these diseased wretches are strongest at night. In the daytime, however, it is quite a different kettle of fish. Fortunately’ – he slipped the chains from off my wrists, then glanced around the cell – ‘everything turned out as well as could be hoped.’
    ‘But, Huree,’ said Eliot, ‘if you have been amongst these people all this while, how have they failed to discover you? We have seen them; their disease enables them to smell out human blood.’
    Professor Jyoti laughed. ‘So many times I have told you, I think, that folklore leads where science must follow.’
    Eliot’s eyes glimmered bright and hawk-like. ‘Go on,’ he said.
    ‘Can you not smell me? Do you not think I am stinking pretty bad?’
    ‘Yes. You smell like the brahmins in the foothills often do.’
    ‘That is because I have sat at their feet, and learned from them.’ The Professor removed a pouch that had been slung from his belt, and opened it. As we peered into it, the stench from its contents rose up in a blast. I caught a glimpse of what seemed to be crushed vegetable matter, moist and white, before I could stand it no more and had to look away. Only Eliot continued to study it. He dipped his finger into the mess, then held it up to the light. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
    ‘It is jolly rare, and most highly prized by the sages of the East. It would be called, I suppose, in English, Kirghiz Silver.’
    Eliot frowned. ‘Does it have a scientific name?’
    ‘Not that I have heard of. * Indeed, I think only the brahmins know of it.’