Free The Deceivers by John Masters Page B

remembered her; she had tried to cheer him up yesterday, when only a few skeletons lay on the grass. But this -- this was monstrous. He had believed her then, believed in himself. But all the warmth had ebbed away as the picks swung.
    A mile out of Madhya she touched his arm gently. He started in the saddle and turned to her. Her eyes were full.
    ‘William.’
    ‘Oh! You . . . I’m finished. In disgrace.’ He had not slept for two nights, and the road swung like a pendulum in front of him. ‘I thought I knew everyone, everything. I could have said, I have said, that not a thief can move in my district without my knowing it. For three years I’ve sat here thinking that whatever sort of a fool I was at books I knew my people and I looked after them. Meanwhile sixty-eight of them have been murdered not a day’s stage from my headquarters.’
    She held his arm tightly and the horses pushed together. ‘It’s not your fault. It’s not! Most of those poor people were killed years ago. No one can blame you.’
    He shook his head, shaking off the excuse. ‘Yes. But a gang of six -- seven, perhaps -- has been committing wholesale murder during my three years here, and I’ve known nothing! I’ve made lots of mistakes, and I can face them and myself only because I thought I knew the way ordinary people here lived and moved and died. I thought I could help them.’
    He did not speak again until they reached the bungalow. Dismounting in silence, he gave the reins to the groom and turned to laugh harshly in Sher Dil’s worrying face. ‘Sixty- eight, Sher Dil! You counted?’ The bitter laugh echoed behind him down the bungalow’s central passage.
    Mary ran after him. ‘William, won’t you lie down? Let’s talk about it later, when you’ve had some sleep.’
    ‘I’ve got something to do first.’
    In his study at the back of the bungalow he reached for a sheet of thick parchment, found the quill, and at the third try dipped it into the ink. She watched the trembling in his hand die slowly away. His wrist and strong fingers grew rigid. The black letters marched in slow time across the paper:
    To: The Agent to the Governor-General for the
Kaimur and Mahadeo Territories.
From: The Collector of the Madhya District.
Sir, I much regret to report that I have this day . . .
    He lifted his head. ‘Your father will like this. After what George Angelsmith has told him he’ll be expecting to hear that the woman at Kahari became suttee, but this is even better. This is just about what’s he’s always been expecting from me, isn’t it?’ He bent again over the paper. She did not answer but sat on the other chair and her tears fell into her lap.
     

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    ‘Smile for me please, William,’ she said, an early morning two weeks later. ‘You don’t know how nice you look when you smile. George won’t arrive till the afternoon, and even when he does there is nothing to worry about. You’re such a serious old thing.’
    ‘I’m old all right, compared with you.’
    ‘Nonsense. I feel sometimes that I’m the old one! I believe lots of wives do.’ In a rush of words she tried to hide her chagrin at touching one of his many raw spots. They were standing side by side on the verandah of the bungalow, looking out over the garden. George Angelsmith was coming from Sagthali with some message from Mr Wilson. William did not know what the message was, but he could guess, and did not find it easy to smile today, even at Mary.
    She said, ‘I’m dreading his coming too, really, you know, because we won’t be alone then. I love this. George seems to carry a whole station around with him -- all the rivalries and attitudes and habits.’
    William nodded, and a smile came of its own to his lips. She had been too young to remember her first three years in India. Born in a little place in Bengal, she had gone home at the age of three with her ailing mother. Her mother died in England. A year ago Mary had arrived out here once