The Laughing Skull Page 2

  ‘Today, no one enters those ruins, where once there was mirth and laughter. She was the zamindari lady, the owner of much land, and she administered her estate with a strong hand. She was kind if rents were paid when they fell due, but terrible if someone failed to pay.’

  ‘Well, over fifty years have gone by since she was laid to rest, but still men speak of her with awe. Her spirit is restless, and it is said that she often visits the scenes of her former splendour. She has been seen walking through this gate, or riding in the gardens, or driving in her phaeton down the Rajpur road.’

  ‘And, what happened to all those husbands?’ I asked.

  ‘Most of them died mysterious deaths. Even the doctors were baffled. Tomkins Sahib drank too much. The lady soon tired of him. A drunken husband is a burdensome creature, she was heard to say. He would have drunk himself to death, but she was an impatient woman and was anxious to replace him. You see those datura bushes growing wild in the grounds? They have always done well here.’

  ‘Belladonna?’ I suggested.

  ‘That’s right, huzoor. Introduced in the whisky-soda, they put him to sleep for ever.’

  ‘She was quite humane in her way.’

  ‘Oh, very humane, sir. She hated to see anyone suffer. One sahib, I don’t know his name, drowned in the tank behind the house, where the water-lilies grew. But she made sure he was half-dead before he fell in. She had large, powerful hands, they said.’

  ‘Why did she bother to marry them? Couldn’t she just have had men friends?’

  ‘Not in those days, dear sir. Respectable society would not have tolerated it. Neither in India nor in the West would it have been permitted.’

  ‘She was born out of her time,’ I remarked.

  ‘True, sir. And remember, most of them were fortune-hunters. So, we need not waste too much pity on them.’

  ‘She did not waste any.’

  ‘She was without pity. Especially when she found out what they were really after. The snakes had a better chance of survival.’

  ‘How did the other husbands take their leave of this world?’

  ‘Well, the Colonel-sahib shot himself while cleaning his rifle. Purely an accident, huzoor. Although some say she had loaded his gun without his knowledge. Such was her reputation by now that she was suspected even when innocent. But she bought her way out of trouble. It was easy enough, if you were wealthy.’

  ‘And, the fourth husband?’

  ‘Oh, he died a natural death. There was a cholera epidemic that year, and he was carried off by the haija. Although, again, there were some who said that a good dose of arsenic produced the same symptoms! Anyway, it was cholera on the death certificate. And, the doctor who signed it was the next to marry her.’

  ‘Being a doctor, he was probably quite careful about what he ate and drank.

  ‘He lasted about a year.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He was bitten by a cobra.’

  ‘Well, that was just bad luck, wasn’t it? You could hardly blame it on Susanna.’

  ‘No, huzoor, but the cobra was in his bedroom. It was coiled around the bed-post. And, when he undressed for the night, it struck! He was dead when Susanna came into the room an hour later. She had a way with snakes. She did not harm them and they never attacked her.’

  ‘And, there were no antidotes in those days. Exit the doctor. Who was the sixth husband?’

  ‘A handsome man. An indigo planter. He had gone bankrupt when the indigo trade came to an end. He was hoping to recover his fortune with the good lady’s help. But our Susanna-mem, she did not believe in sharing her fortune with anyone.’

  ‘How did she remove the indigo planter?’

  ‘It was said that she lavished strong drink upon him, and when he lay helpless, she assisted him on the road we all have to take by pouring molten lead in his ears.’

  ‘A painless death, I’m told.’

  ‘But a terrible price to pay huzoor, simply because one is no longer needed….’

  We walked along the dusty highway, enjoying the evening breeze, and some time later we entered the Roshanara Gardens, in those days Delhi’s most popular and fashionable meeting place.

  ‘You have told me how six of her husbands died, Naushad. I thought there were seven?’

  ‘Ah, a gallant young magistrate, who perished right here, huzoor. They were driving through the park after dark when the lady’s carriage was attacked by brigands. In defending her, the gallant young man received a fatal sword wound.’

  ‘Not the lady’s fault, Naushad.’

  ‘No, my friend. But he was a magistrate, remember, and the assailants, one of whose relatives had been convicted by him, were out for revenge. Oddly enough, though, two of the men were given employment by the lady Susanna at a later date. You may draw your own conclusions.’

  ‘And, were there others?’

  ‘Not husbands. But an adventurer, a soldier of fortune came along. He found her treasure, they say. He lies buried with it, in the cellars of the ruined house. His bones lie scattered there, among gold and silver and precious jewels. The cobras guard them still! But how he perished was a mystery, and remains so till this day.’

  ‘What happened to Susanna?’

  ‘She lived to a good old age, as you know. If she paid for her crimes, it wasn’t in this life! As you know, she had no children. But she started an orphanage and gave generously to the poor and to various schools and institutions, including a home for widows. She died peacefully in her sleep.’

  ‘A merry widow,’ I remarked. ‘The Black Widow spider!’

  Don’t go looking for Susanna’s tomb. It vanished some years ago, along with the ruins of her mansion. A smart new housing estate came up on the site, but not after several workmen and a contractor succumbed to snake bite! Occasionally, residents complain of a malignant ghost in their midst, who is given to flagging down cars, especially those driven by single men. There have been one or two mysterious disappearances. Ask anyone living along this stretch of the Delhi Ridge, and they’ll tell you that’s it’s true.

  And, after dusk, an old-fashioned horse and carriage can sometimes be seen driving through the Roshanara Gardens. Ignore it, my friend. Don’t stop to answer any questions from the beautiful fair lady who smiles at you from behind lace curtains. She’s still looking for a suitable husband.

  The Overcoat

  It was clear frosty weather, and as the moon came up over the Himalayan peaks, I could see that patches of snow still lay on the roads of the hill-station. I would have been quite happy in bed, with a book and a hot-water bottle at my side, but I’d promised the Kapadias that I’d go to their party, and I felt it would be churlish of me to stay away. I put on two sweaters, an old football scarf, and an overcoat, and set off down the moonlit road.

  It was a walk of just over a mile to the Kapadias’ house, and I had covered about half the distance when I saw a girl standing in the middle of the road.

  She must have been sixteen or seventeen. She looked rather old-fashioned—long hair, hanging to her waist, and a flummoxy sequined dress, pink and lavender, that reminded me of the photos in my Grandmother’s family album. When I went closer, I noticed that she had lovely eyes and a winning smile.

  ‘Good evening,’ I said. ‘It’s a cold night to be out.’ ‘Are you going to the party?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s right. And I can see from your lovely dress that you’re going, too. Come along, we’re nearly there.’

  She fell into step beside me and we soon saw lights from the Kapadias’ house shining brightly through the deodars. The girl told me her name was Julie. I hadn’t seen her before but, then, I’d only been in the hill-station a few months.

  There was quite a crowd at the party, and no one seemed to know Julie. Everyone thought she was a friend of mine. I did not deny it. Obviously she was someone who was feeling lonely and wanted to be friendly with people. And she was certainly enjoying herself. I did not see her do much eating or drinking,
but she flitted about from one group to another, talking, listening, laughing; and when the music began, she was dancing almost continuously, alone or with partners, it didn’t matter which, she was completely wrapped up in the music.

  It was almost midnight when I got up to go. I had drunk a fair amount of punch, and I was ready for bed. As I was saying goodnight to my hosts and wishing everyone a merry Christmas, Julie slipped her arm into mine and said she’d be going home, too.

  When we were outside I said, ‘Where do you live, Julie?’

  ‘At Wolfsburn,’ she said. ‘At the top of the hill.’

  ‘There’s a cold wind,’ I said. ‘And although your dress is beautiful, it doesn’t look very warm. Here, you’d better wear my overcoat. I’ve plenty of protection.’

  She did not protest, and allowed me to slip my overcoat over her shoulders. Then we started out on the walk home. But I did not have to escort her all the way. At about the spot where we had met, she said, ‘There’s a short cut from here. I’ll just scramble up the hillside.’

  ‘Do you know it well?’ I asked. ‘It’s a very narrow path.’

  ‘Oh, I know every stone on the path. I use it all the time. And besides, it’s a really bright night.’

  ‘Well, keep the coat on,’ I said. ‘I can collect it tomorrow.’

  She hesitated for a moment, then smiled and nodded to me. She then disappeared up the hill, and I went home alone.

  The next day I walked up to Wolfsburn. I crossed a little brook, from which the house had probably got its name, and entered an open iron gate. But of the house itself little remained. Just a roofless ruin, a pile of stones, a shattered chimney, a few Doric pillars where a verandah had once stood.

  Had Julie played a joke on me? Or had I found the wrong house?

  I walked around the hill to the mission house where the Taylors lived, and asked old Mrs Taylor if she knew a girl called Julie.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Where does she live?’ ‘At Wolfsburn, I was told. But the house is just a ruin.’

  ‘Nobody has lived at Wolfsburn for over forty years. The Mackinnons lived there. One of the old families who settled here. But when their girl died….’ She stopped and gave me a queer look. ‘I think her name was Julie…Anyway, when she died, they sold the house and went away. No one ever lived in it again, and it fell into decay. But it couldn’t be the same Julie you’re looking for. She died of consumption—there wasn’t much you could do about it in those days. Her grave is in the cemetery, just down the road.’

  I thanked Mrs Taylor and walked slowly down the road to the cemetery: not really wanting to know any more, but propelled forward almost against my will.

  It was a small cemetery under the deodars. You could see the eternal snows of the Himalayas standing out against the pristine blue of the sky. Here lay the bones of forgotten Empire-builders—soldiers, merchants, adventurers, their wives and children. It did not take me long to find Julie’s grave. It had a simple headstone with her name clearly outlined on it:

  Julie Mackinnon

  1923-39

  ‘With us one moment,

  Taken the next

  Gone to her Maker,

  Gone to her rest.

  Although many monsoons had swept across the cemetery wearing down the stones, they had not touched this little tombstone.

  I was turning to leave when I caught a glimpse of something familiar behind the headstone. I walked round to where it lay.

  Neatly folded on the grass was my overcoat.

  On Fairy Hill

  Those little green lights that I used to see, twinkling away on Pari Tibba—there had to be a scientific explanation for them, I was sure. After dark we see or hear many things that seem mysterious, irrational. And then by the clear light of day we find that the magic, the mystery has an explanation after all.

  But I did see those lights occasionally—late at night, when I walked home from town to my little cottage at the edge of the forest. They moved too fast for them to be torches or lanterns carried by people. And as there were no roads on Pari Tibba, they could not have been cycle or cart lamps. Someone told me there was phosphorus in the rocks, and that this probably accounted for the luminous glow emanating from the hillside late at night. Possibly; but I was not convinced.

  My encounter with the little people happened by the light of day.

  One morning, early in April, purely on an impulse I decided to climb to the top of Pari Tibba and look around for myself. It was springtime in the Himalayan foothills. The sap was rising—in the trees, in the grass, in the wildflowers, in my own veins. I took the path through the oak forest, down to the little steam at the bottom of the hill, and then up the steep slope of Pari Tibba, hill of the fairies.

  It was quite a scramble getting to the top. The path ended at the stream. After that, I had to clutch at brambles and tufts of grass to make the ascent. Fallen pine needles, slippery underfoot, made it difficult to get a foothold. But finally I made it to the top—a grassy plateau fringed by pines and a few wild medlar trees now clothed in white blossom.

  It was a pretty spot. And as I was hot and sweaty, I removed most of my clothing and lay down under a medlar to rest. The climb had been quite tiring. But a fresh breeze soon brought me back to life. It made a soft humming sound in the pines. And the grass, sprinkled with yellow buttercups, buzzed with the sound of crickets and grasshoppers.

  After some time I stood up and surveyed the scene. To the north, Landour with its rusty red-roofed cottages; to the south, the wide valley and a silver stream flowing towards the Ganga. To the west, rolling hills, patches of forest, and a small village tucked into a fold of the mountain.

  Disturbed by my presence, a barking-deer ran across the clearing and down the opposite slope. A band of long-tailed blue magpies rose from the oak trees, glided across the knoll, and settled in another strand of oaks.

  I was alone. Alone with the wind and the sky. It had probably been months, possibly years, since any human had passed that way. The soft lush grass looked most inviting. I lay down again on the sun-warmed sward. Pressed and bruised by my weight, catmint and clover gave out a soft fragrance. A ladybird climbed up my leg and began to explore my body. A swarm of white butterflies fluttered around me.

  I slept.

  I have no idea how long I slept, but when I awoke it was to experience an unusual, soothing sensation all over my limbs, as though they were being gently stroked with rose-petals.

  All lethargy gone, I opened my eyes to find a little girl—or was it a woman?—about two inches high, sitting cross-legged on my chest and studying me intently. Her hair fell in long black tresses. Her skin was the colour of honey. Her firm little breasts were like tiny acorns. She held a buttercup, larger than her hand, and with it she was stroking my tingling flesh.

  I was tingling all over. A sensation of sensual joy surged through my limbs.

  A tiny boy—man?—completely naked, now joined the elfin girl, and they held hands and looked into my eyes, smiling, their teeth little pearls, their lips soft petals of apricot blossom. Were these the nature spirits, the flower fairies, I had often dreamt of? I raised my head and saw that there were scores of little people all over me—exploring my legs, thighs, waist and arms. Delicate, caring, gentle, caressing creatures. They wanted to love me!

  Some of them were laving me with dew or pollen or some soft essence. I closed my eyes. Waves of pure physical pleasure swept over me. I had never known anything like it. My limbs turned to water. The sky revolved around me, and I must have fainted.

  When I awoke, perhaps an hour later, the little people had gone. A fragrance of honeysuckle lingered in the air. A deep rumble overhead made me look up. Dark clouds had gathered, threatening rain. Had the thunder frightened them away, to their abode beneath the rocks and tree-roots? Or had they simply tired of sporting with a strange newcomer? Mischievous they were; for when I looked around for my clothes I could not find them anywhere.

  A wave of
panic surged over me. I ran here and there, looking behind shrubs and tree-trunks, but to no avail. My clothes had disappeared, along with the fairies—if, indeed, they were fairies!

  It began to rain. Large drops cannoned off the dry rocks. Then it hailed and soon the slope was covered with ice. There was no shelter. Naked, I ran down the path to the stream. There was no one to see me—only a wild mountain-goat, speeding away in the opposite direction. Gusts of wind slashed rain and hail across my face and body. Panting and shivering, I took shelter beneath an overhanging rock until the storm had passed. By then it was almost dusk and I was able to ascend the path to my cottage without encountering anyone, apart from a band of startled langoors, who chattered excitedly on seeing me.

  I couldn’t stop shivering, so I went straight to bed. I slept a deep, dreamless sleep and woke up the next morning with a high fever.

  Mechanically I dressed, made myself some breakfast and tried to get through the morning’s chores. When I took my temperature I found it was a hundred and four. So I swallowed a tablet and went back to bed.

  There I lay until late afternoon, when the postman’s knocking woke me. I left my letters unopened on my desk (that in itself was unusual) and returned to my bed.

  The fever lasted almost a week and left me weak and half-starved. I couldn’t have climbed Pari Tibba again, even if I’d wanted to; but I reclined on my window-seat and looked at the clouds drifting over that desolate hill. Desolate it seemed, and yet strangely inhabited. When it grew dark, I waited for those little green fairy lights to appear; but these, it seemed, were now to be denied to me.