Dust and Steel Read online

  As Morgan heard the crunching impact, he knew that Lawler wouldn’t make the count. The referee counted down the seconds and the Scunthorpe champion lay in the dust, as cold as the setting sun was hot.

  ‘You see what I mean, gentlemen? Never underestimate these people. They’ll always surprise you,’ Forgett observed, as Sepoy Nirav grinned mightily, making namasti to all four corners.

  ‘There now, I said ’e was an ’andy little bugger, didn’t I?’ Pegg, by the side of the ring, pulled his clay pipe from his mouth and spat. ‘But let’s see how they take to powder an’ shot, shall we?’

  As the troops of both regiments – the 10th noisy in victory, the 95th sullen in defeat – wandered off towards the smell of cooking, Commandant Brewill bore down on the knot of officers. ‘Well, gentlemen that was a treat, even if it was rather brief. Thought you said Lawler had done a bit of this sort of thing before, Hume?’

  It was the first time since the arrival of the British troops, three days before, that the sepoys had done anything to restore their honour; now Brewill was going to make the most of it.

  ‘Aye, he’s been tidy in all the bouts that he’s had in the Regiment,’ Hume replied modestly. ‘There’s no question, though, that Nirav beat him squarely.’

  ‘But he’s hardly got used to the heat or the water yet, Colonel.’ Carmichael sprang to Lawler’s defence. ‘Once he’s into his swing I’ll back him against anyone. Why, you remember him at Aldershot, don’t you, Colonel?’

  ‘I do, Carmichael, and he did well then, but the commandant’s feller showed him a trick or two this time and he won handsomely.’ Hume’s tone brooked no further intrusion from Carmichael, his humility causing Brewill to beam with pleasure.

  ‘Well, let’s get some drinks and toast our partnership against the bloody Pandies, shall we?’ Brewill led the way up the steps of the officers’ mess, the great wooden doors of which were opened silently by waiters as the officers approached.

  Caps and swords were passed to servants, Hume pointedly unhooking his pistol from his belt as well. Carmichael was the only officer not to follow Hume’s lead and remove his revolver.

  ‘Don’t forget to leave your splendid pistol, Captain Carmichael. You won’t need it in this mess any more than you would in ours.’

  ‘But, Colonel, in Meerut…’ Carmichael’s voice trailed off as Hume stared hard at him.

  ‘We’ve got some more guests, ain’t we, McGowan?’ Brewill appeared not to notice this little scene, hesitating before leading the party into the anteroom.

  ‘Yes, Commandant,’ Brewill’s adjutant replied. ‘A Captain Skene, the political officer from Jhansi, and an escorting officer from the Twelfth Bengalis.’

  Morgan’s ears pricked up; guests from Jhansi – the station not only where his father’s friend Colonel Kemp commanded the 12th but, much more importantly, the godforsaken place where Mary Keenan was.

  ‘No matter, but you have told Forgett that they’re here, haven’t you? Our policeman is bound to want a discreet word with the political, won’t he?’

  Morgan noticed how much more relaxed Brewill was once he was back in control of events.

  ‘I have sent word to his bungalow, sir,’ McGowan replied. ‘I’m sure he’ll be with us directly.’

  After the court martial in which the police officer had been the principal witness for the fatal prosecution, it had been thought wise to move Forgett, his wife and daughter into the fort until tempers had cooled.

  The officers strode into the anteroom, where the curtains had been pulled against the night that would suddenly rush upon them. Where it had been cool and shaded earlier, it was now stuffy, the tables alive with candles, their light flickering off crystal bowls of punch and glasses that lined the sideboards, ready for the press of thirsty guests. There were some modest pieces of silver in the corners of the long, low room, but the décor relied mainly on countless heads of stuffed animals, skins of tigers and leopards, and a vast pair of elephant tusks from which hung a brass gong.

  ‘Christ, I hadn’t noticed earlier – the place looks more like a bloody zoo than officers’ quarters.’

  Hume frowned to silence Carmichael but it was true, Morgan thought: there was little of the grace or taste of a British regiment’s mess, but then wasn’t that exactly the point that Forgett had made to him a couple of days ago? What had he said – something about ‘most of us don’t come from money like most of you’?

  As the waiters fussed around the guests, Morgan noticed two figures at the far end of the room; they rose respectfully as the senior officers came in. One was small and dark, his well-tanned face set with heavy whiskers below carefully combed, wavy black hair. He was dressed in a simple blue frock coat, and his long riding boots were still dusty. On the table beside him was a thin leather document wallet.

  ‘Hello, sir…gentlemen…I’m Skene, Political Officer from up-country in Jhansi.’ Five foot seven of nervous energy pushed into the gaggle of new arrivals, all of whom were trying to get at the drink, returning Skene’s greeting only perfunctorily.

  At first, Morgan scarcely noticed the other figure, hovering in the background; he was concentrating too hard on the servant’s brimming punch ladle and his own empty glass. But there was something about the way that Hume looked up, his face breaking into the widest grin, his drink forgotten, that caused Morgan to pause.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned, this gouger needs no introduction, Brewill!’ Hume pushed his outstretched palm out to the other man, who practically ran down the room to shake it.

  Almost six foot of handsome, hay-rick-headed, scarlet-coated ensign of Bengal infantry pumped the hands of the 95th officers with glee.

  ‘You know all this lot, don’t you?’ Hume continued delightedly. ‘Bazalgette, Massey, Carmichael…’

  ‘I do, Colonel Hume, I do,’ said the ensign, greeting them ecstatically.

  ‘And your old friend Morgan, of course,’ Hume added.

  ‘Indeed, sir.’ The ensign’s grin suddenly faded. ‘Brevet Major Anthony Morgan; how could I ever forget?’

  Morgan shook the hand of his old sergeant, the husband of his lover, the man he’d never expected to see again, James Keenan.

  Christ, this is ghastly, thought Morgan as he shifted on the horsehair-covered mess chair. How, in the name of all that’s holy, in a country the size of India, have I knocked up against James bloody Keenan again?

  Keenan sat opposite Morgan, looking fixedly at Skene as he explained the situation in Jhansi to the assembled officers.

  ‘You all know what’s happened in the north and around Delhi, and the telegraph reports this morning that General Wheeler and a small force of mixed white and native troops have been besieged in Cawnpore which – as I am sure you all know – is about seven hundred miles north-east of us here in Bombay.’ Skene pulled at his drink whilst the audience – most of them, at least – listened intently to his assessment.

  ‘There’ll be Queen’s troops from Malta and elsewhere along shortly to swell our forces, and I believe that so long as the mutinies don’t spread to the Madras and Bombay Presidencies – and may I congratulate you, Commandant, on the way that things have been handled here in the city – the main centres of rebellion, including Delhi, should soon be under control. But, there’s a lot of countryside and difficult terrain that’s less easy to dominate, and it’s crucial that we must keep the native princes and lesser rulers loyal.’

  Brewill was genuinely pleased to be praised by a ‘political’, but he hissed to his adjutant, ‘Where’s bloody Forgett? He ought to be here.’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I’ll go and find him, shall I?’ McGowan replied.

  ‘No,’ the commandant muttered. ‘You need to hear this as well; sit still.’

  ‘And around the Gwalior area in southern Bengal, ten days’ hard riding up-country from here, things are particularly difficult to gauge. Now, gentlemen, I need your complete discretion concerning what I’m about to say…’ Skene looked around the doze
n or so officers in his audience, Brewill and Hume, the company commanders of the 10th and the 95th and a clutch of subalterns. ‘The whole area is dominated by a series of princelings and maharajahs who are overseen to varying extents by British agents and political officers like me, and referred to as the Central India Agency. Now, I know that sounds untidy and unsatisfactory to the military mind – and it is – but it works, or it has done so far. Despite persistent rumours, there have been no uprisings amongst these states. But much hangs on how the Rhani of Jhansi now reacts to changing events. Her little fiefdom is wealthy and well organised and she pulls the strings at the centre of the spider’s web. She may be a woman, but her intelligence, family connections and strength of character make her damned influential. The others will probably follow her lead, and between them they have about twenty thousand irregulars and household troops – pretty mixed quality, mark you, but fine horsemen and a fair amount of artillery – who’ll be worth their weight in gold against the mutineers, not due so much to their fighting quality but because of the powerful influence that they’ll send to their rebellious “brothers”.’

  Again Skene paused. Even Morgan was concentrating now, and one or two of the subalterns’ jaws hung slack with suspense.

  ‘And talking of gold, India ain’t England: the Rhani runs on graft and geld, so Keenan and I are here to collect enough guineas to buy her loyalty. I’m confident, gentlemen, that if she and her upright supporters – and, gentlemen, if you’d met the lovely Rhani you’d be upright as well…’ Skene had woven his spell so well that this little joke was met with a positive storm of laughter, ‘…will fight alongside us and help to tumble the Pandies to ruin. I look forward to being at your elbow when the prize money for Delhi is decided upon.’

  Aye, thought Morgan, spoken like a real tyro, my lad, those of us that are still alive. And you can bet your best hunter that it’ll be A Morgan and the rest of the Old Nails that’ll be sent in first whilst you and the other nabobs hang back, leaving bloody Keenan with the last laugh.

  As Skene finished speaking and the officers rose to talk and drink before dinner, Morgan saw a servant quietly approach the group of officers he was with, bow slightly to McGowan to attract his attention and then whisper urgently in his ear. The adjutant’s face contorted, he said something in Hindi to the servant, who shook his head and pointed outside before moving back to the edge of the room, clearly agitated.

  ‘That’s bloody odd,’ McGowan said to the group in general. ‘Bin Lal has been to the bungalow where we’ve put Forgett and his family but the doors are locked, all the shutters are down and barred, and there are no lights showing.’

  ‘Well, didn’t your man just bang the door down, then?’ Carmichael, slightly belligerent with too much brandy and hopes of bloodless glory on an empty stomach, asked.

  ‘No, a sepoy wouldn’t do that,’ the adjutant replied. ‘They’ve too much respect for a sahib.’

  ‘What, like they had in Sitapur?’ muttered Carmichael acidly – the news had just reached them of wholesale massacres in the garrison north of Lucknow just days before.

  ‘Well, we’d better go and see what’s detained him, hadn’t we?’ said Morgan, seeing the perfect way of avoiding a deeply awkward conversation with James Keenan.

  ‘Yes, I’d be delighted to have you with me, Morgan,’ said McGowan, as the pair moved towards the entrance to the mess. ‘Better take our revolvers, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh, aye, quite so,’ said Morgan, taking the proffered Tranter and clipping its reassuring weight to his belt.

  ‘I’ll come too, if I may,’ Carmichael interrupted. ‘Too much toad-eating that bloody political for my liking.’

  Yes, you too want to avoid Keenan, don’t you? thought Morgan. Keenan had seen Carmichael at his cowardly worst in the Crimea, and a meeting between the two of them would be almost as difficult as the one he was trying to dodge.

  ‘Do: get your weapons,’ said McGowan as the three of them set off to Skene’s bungalow, which lay with a series of others some quarter of a mile from the mess, just within the walls of the sprawling fort.

  ‘You’re a bit jumpy, ain’t you, McGowan?’ The night air had cooled Carmichael’s brandy-warmed head. ‘Thought we had to act as normal as possible; sahib bristling with ironmongery ain’t exactly calming for John Sepoy, is it?’

  ‘P’raps not,’ McGowan answered, ‘but you never quite know with Forgett. He discovered the whole of the mutineers’ plot, you know, by skulking around dressed up like one of them, skin stained, sucking betel-nut – the complete damn charade – all by himself. Slings the bat like a bloody native, he does, and has now made more enemies than you can count. That’s why we’ve dragooned him and his family into the fort.’

  ‘Think this is it…should be number eight.’ It was tropically dark. McGowan lit a lucifer and searched round the front door frame until he found a small, brass plate engraved ‘Sobroan House’, below a figure eight painted in the 10th’s regimental green. ’Aye, we’re here.’

  He rapped on the door. ‘Forgett…Mrs Forgett, are you in?’

  ‘Does it look as though they’re bloody in?’ Carmichael asked quietly. ‘Here, let’s see if we can’t…’ and he pushed at the front door, which gave as he shoved, but refused to open. ‘There’s something jammed against the door from the inside. Here, Morgan, lend a hand.’

  The two captains applied their shoulders to the door, and each time they crashed home against the woodwork, it opened a little more, inching something heavy and awkward away into the darkened room until there was just enough space for one man to squeeze in.

  Morgan drew his pistol, cocked it and thrust his shoulder and chest into the gap, squirming between the door and the jamb.

  ‘Can you get a lucifer lit, one of you? I can’t see a blind thing.’ Morgan had pushed inside but his eyes were unaccustomed to the dark, and as McGowan scrabbled with another match, he stumbled hard over something on the ground, crashing onto the wooden floor, sending his pistol flying.

  ‘Goddamn…what filthy mess is this?’ As Morgan pulled himself to his feet he was aware of something wet and gluey that had stuck to the palms when he’d broken his fall. The feel was horrid yet familiar, and as he held his hands up to his unseeing eyes, a match flared behind him, showing him that his fingers, forearms and knees were covered in blood. Indeed, he was standing in a puddle of it, which spread as far as the pool of match-light reached, blackly red.

  ‘Christ alive!’ Morgan was appalled. ‘Come in quick, you two.’ But as the others barged through the half-opened door, Morgan looked at the bundle on the floor over which he fallen. ‘Careful, there’s a body there…there, just where you’re standing.’ Carmichael had hung back and as McGowan pushed in, he almost tripped over the corpse, as Morgan had.

  ‘I’ll get the lights going.’ All the bungalows were designed in the same way, and on the wall McGowan quickly found an oil lamp, which he tried to fire. It guttered briefly, shrank from the match and then caught, revealing everything in the room. ‘There, that’s done.’

  Other than the heavy chaise-longue that had been used to bar the door, and the lake of blood, things were remarkably orderly. There was no sign of a struggle, but lying just inside the entrance was the body of a young woman. Both arms were pierced with bone-handled carving knives, which pinned her to the floor, whilst a brown satin dress was pulled up around her waist, showing her underwear and a bush of pubic hair between the separate legs of muslin drawers. There was blood on her thighs whilst round her mouth and neck a towel had been wound. Her auburn hair was thrown into chaos, both blue eyes wide open but seeing nothing.

  ‘God, that’s Kathy Forgett.’ McGowan instantly leant down and pulled her dress back over her bloody knees and ankles, returning a little modesty to her in death.

  ‘Oh, no…’ Morgan had seen dead women before during the famines back in Skibberean – but those corpses were different – and more dead men killed on the field of battle than he wanted to
remember, but nothing like this. He, like the other two, pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and pushed it against his nose and mouth, for there was the most ghastly, foetid stench of blood and abused femininity all about them.

  ‘If this is what they’ve done to Mrs Forgett, where’s the Thanadar?’ McGowan dreaded the answer to his question, but as the three officers moved from the tiny hall of the bungalow to the sitting room and lit the oil lamp there, the answer was apparent.

  ‘What the hell’s that in his mouth?’ asked Carmichael.

  ‘It’s a pig’s tail,’ answered McGowan matter-of-factly.

  There was very little blood, for Forgett had been executed with a butcher’s axe. The policeman lay sprawled on the floor. One blow had fallen obliquely across his neck, severing, Morgan guessed, the spinal column and causing almost instant death, and then the horrid little iron spike that backed the axe’s blade had been buried deep in Forgett’s sternum. Lying on his back with his legs folded under him, the chief of police could almost have been laid out ceremonially, and the impression was only underlined by the pink, curly gristle that emerged from his mouth.

  ‘Aye, that’s what it is.’ Between finger and thumb Morgan delicately pulled the distasteful bit of pork from Forgett’s lolling lips. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Well, at a guess, it’s an allusion to the biting of pig-fat-greased cartridges,’ McGowan volunteered. ‘I told you that Forgett had enemies.’

  ‘Yes, and we need to get after them.’ Carmichael led the others back to the hall and gestured towards the open kitchen door and the yawning back door beyond, which showed as a black oblong of night air. ‘Look at the trail – that’s the way they’ve gone.’ He indicated some smears of blood on the floor, drew his revolver and led the others back to the hall and towards the open kitchen door.