The Far Pavilions - Mary Margaret Kaye [225]
‘What do a few days matter?’ said Kaka-ji, fanning himself. ‘There is no great need for haste, and we shall all of us benefit from a short rest. Yes, even you, Sahib! For I fear your health is not good these days. You have become much thinner, and have lost your spirits and no longer laugh, or talk and ride with us as before. No, no…’ a raised hand checked Ash's apologies. ‘It is the heat. The heat and this hot wind. We all suffer from it. You and Mulraj who are strong and I who am old, and Jhoti who is young – and pretends that it is the heat and not too many sweetmeats that have turned his stomach. Shushila too, for she has always been sickly, though I think that with her it is partly fear. Shu-shu is afraid of the future, and now that we are so nearly at Bhithor she would delay her arrival, even if only for a day or two.’
‘You have only yourself to blame, Sahib,’ shrugged Mulraj. There was an unaccustomed edge to his voice and his tone was unsympathetic. ‘You know how it is with Shushila-Bai, and had she been kept amused and occupied she might have given less thought to the future – and found the heat easier to bear. But when first you and then Jhoti ceased to ride with us of an evening or join in the gatherings in the durbar tent, those things no longer amused her and she turned to fretting and complaining.’
‘I have been too busy,’ began Ash uncomfortably. ‘There have been so many –’ he broke off abruptly, and frowned: ‘What's all this about Jhoti? Why did he stop coming?’
‘To begin with, I suppose because you did. And when he was taken ill, he could not.’
‘Ill? Since when? Why was I not told?’
Mulraj's brows lifted and for a moment he stared in astonishment; then his eyes narrowed and he said slowly: ‘I see now: you were not even listening. I should have known as much when you did not ask after him or try to see him.’
His voice changed and was no longer unfriendly: ‘I told you myself four days ago, and spoke of it again on the following morning. When you said nothing, but only nodded your head, I thought that you no longer wished to be troubled with such things. I should have known better. What is the matter, Sahib? You have not been yourself of late. Not since that attack upon you. It is not pleasant to know that someone waits and watches for an opportunity to put a bullet through one's head or a knife in one's back; as I myself know only too well. Is it that, Sahib? Or is it something else that troubles you? If I can be of help, you have only to ask.’
Ash flushed and said hurriedly: ‘I know. But there is nothing, only the weather, and you cannot change that. Now tell me about Jhoti. Kaka-ji Rao said something about the heat being too much for him.’
‘Not the heat,’ said Mulraj dryly. ‘Datura – or so I think. Though one cannot be sure.’
Now datura is a plant that grows wild in many parts of India, though more especially in the south. Its white, lily-like flowers are sweetly scented and very beautiful. But its seed, which is round and green, is known as the ‘apple of death’, for it is exceedingly poisonous – and being easily obtained it has been used for centuries as a handy method of getting rid of unwanted husbands, wives or elderly relatives. It is one of the commonest of all poisons, and can be ground into a powder and mixed with almost any food (though bread is the usual choice) and death follows quickly or slowly, depending