Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 2: Flashman and the Mountain of Light, Flash For Freedom!, Flashman and the Redskins
… for whatever purposes.” He grinned his evil, pock-marked grin, and cut me off before I could speak.
“Husoor, we are together in this business, thou and I. If I am blunt, take it not amiss, but harken. They will come at thee all ways, these folk. If some have sleek limbs and plump breasts, why then … take thy pleasure, if thou’rt so minded,” says this generous ruffian, “but remember always what they are. Now … I shall be here and there awhile. Others will come presently to woo thee – not so well favoured as Mangla, alas!”
Well, damn his impudence – and thank God for him. And he was right. For the next hour Flashy’s apartments were like London Bridge Station in Canterbury week. First arrival was a tall, stately, ancient grandee, splendidly attired and straight from a Persian print. He came alone, coldly begging my pardon for his intrusion, and keeping an ear cocked; damned uneasy he seemed. His name was Dewan Dinanath, familiar to me from Broadfoot’s packets, where he was listed as an influential Court adviser, inclined to the peace party, but a weathercock. His business was simple: did the Sirkar intend to return the Soochet fortune to the Court of Lahore? I said that would not be known until I’d reported to Calcutta, where the decision would be taken, and he eyed me with bleak disapproval.
“I have enjoyed Major Broadfoot’s confidence in the past,” sniffs he. “You may have equal confidence in me.” Both of which were damned lies. “This treasure is vast, and its return might be a precedent for other Punjab monies at present in the … ah, care of the British authorities. In the hands of our government, these funds would have a stabilising effect.” They’d help Jawaheer and Jeendan to keep the Khalsa happy, he meant. “A word in season to me, of Hardinge sahib’s intentions …”
“I’m sorry, sir,” says I. “I’m only an advocate.”
“A young advocate,” snaps he, “should study conciliation as well as law. It is to go to Goolab, is it?”
“Or Soochet Singh’s widow. Or the Maharaja’s government. Unless it is retained by Calcutta, for the time being. That’s all I can tell you, sir, I’m afraid.”
He didn’t like me, I could see, and might well have told me so, but a sound caught his ear, and he was through into my bedchamber like an elderly whippet. I heard the door close as my next unexpected guests arrived: two other grave seniors, Fakir Azizudeen, a tough, shrewd-looking heavyweight, and Bhai Ram Singh, portly, jovial, and bespectacled – staunch men of the peace party, according to the packets. Bhai Ram was the one who thought Jawaheer a fool, according to little Dalip.
He opened the ball, with genial compliments about my Afghan service. “But now you come to us in another capacity … as an advocate. Still of the Army, but in Major Broadfoot’s service.” He twinkled at me, stroking his white beard. Well, he probably knew the colour of George’s drawers, too. I explained that I’d been studying law at home –.
“At the Inns of Court, perhaps?”
“No, sir – firm in Chancery Lane. I hope to read for the Bar some day.”
“Excellent,” purrs Bhai Ram, beaming. “I have a little law, myself.” I’ll lay you do, thinks I, bracing myself. Sure enough, out came the legal straight left. “I have been asking myself what difficulty might arise, if in this Soochet business, it should prove that the widow had a coparcener.” He smiled at me inquiringly, and I looked baffled, and asked how that could possibly affect matters.
“I do not know,” says he blandly. “That is why I ask you.”
“Well, sir,” says I, puzzled, “the answer is that it don’t apply, you see. If the lady were Soochet’s descendant, and had a sister – a female in the same degree, that is – then they’d take together. As coparceners. But she’s his widow, so the question doesn’t arise.” So put that in your pipe and smoke it, old Cheeryble; I hadn’t sat up in Simla with towel round my head for nothing.
He regarded me ruefully, and sighed, with a shrug to Fakir Azizudeen, who promptly exploded.
“So he is a lawyer, then! Did you expect Broadfoot to send a farmer? As if this legacy matters! We know it does not, and so does he!” This with a gesture at me. He leaned forward. “Why are you here, sahib? Is it to take up time, with this legal folly? To whet the hopes of that drunken fool Jawaheer –”
“Gently, gently,” Bhai Ram reproved him.
“Gently – on the brink of war? When the Five Rivers are like to run red?” He swung angrily on me. “Let us talk like sane men, in God’s name! What is in the mind of the Malki lat?b Does he wait to be given an excuse for bringing his bayonets across the Sutlej? If so, can he doubt it will be given him? Then why does he not come now – and settle it at a blow? Forget your legacy, sahib, and tell us that!”
He was an angry one this, and the first straight speaker I’d met in the Punjab. I could have fobbed him as I had Dinanath, but there was no point. “Hardinge sahib hopes for peace in the Punjab,” says I. He glared at me.
“Then tell him he hopes in vain!” snarls he. “Those madmen at Maian Mir will see to it! Convince him of that, sahib, and your journey will not have been wasted!” And on that he stalked out, by way of the bedroom.20 Bhai Ram sighed and shook his head.
“An honest man, but impetuous. Forgive his rudeness, Flashman sahib – and my own impertinence.” He chuckled. “Coparceners! Hee-hee! I will not embarrass you by straining your recollection of Bracton and Blackstone on inheritance.” He heaved himself up, and set a chubby hand on my arm. “But I will say this. Whatever your purpose here – oh, the legacy, of course! – do what you can for us.” He regarded me gravely. “It will be a British Punjab in the end – that is certain. Let us try to achieve it with as little pain as may be.” He smiled wanly. “It will bring order, but little profit for the Company. I am ungenerous enough to wonder if that is why Lord Hardinge seems so reluctant.”
He tooled off through the bedroom, but paused at the door.
“Forgive me – but this Pathan orderly of yours … you have known him long?”
Startled, I said, not long, but that he was a picked man.
He nodded. “Just so … would it be forward of me to offer the additional services of two men of my own?” He regarded me benevolently over his specs. “A needless precaution, no doubt … but your safety is important. They would be discreet, of course.”
You may judge that this put the wind up me like a full gale – if this wily old stick thought I was in danger, that was enough for me. I was sure he meant me no harm; Broadfoot had marked him A3. So, affecting nonchalance, I said I’d be most obliged, while assuring him I felt as safe in Lahore as I would in Calcutta or London or Wisconsin, even, ha-ha. He gave me a puzzled look, said he would see to it, and left me in a rare sweat of anxiety, which was interrupted by my final visitor.
He was a fat and unctuous villain with oily eyes, one Tej Singh, who waddled in with a couple of flunkeys, greeting me effusively as a fellow-soldier – he sported an enormous jewelled sabre over a military coat crusted with bullion, his insignia as a Khalsa general. He was full of my Afghan exploits, and insisted on presenting me with a superb silk robe – not quite a dress of honour, he explained fawning, but rather more practical in the sultry heat. He was such a toad, I wondered if the robe was poisoned, but after he’d Heeped his way out, assuring me of his undying friendship and homage, I decided he was just dropping dash where he thought it might do good. A fine garment it was, too; I peeled down and donned it, enjoying its silky coolness while I reflected on the affairs of the day.
Broadfoot and Jassa had been right: I was receiving attention from all kinds of people. What struck me was their impatience – I wasn’t even here yet, officially, and wouldn’t be until I’d been presented in durbar, but they’d come flocking like sparrows to crumbs. Most of their motives were plain enough; they saw through the legacy sham, and recognised me as Broadfoot’s ear trumpet. But it was reassuring that they thought me worth cultivating