So were those notes intended to frighten old Sir Asif into some sort of a public recantation, timed for the exact thirtieth anniversary of the trial? It surely could be.
But, if it was, the American had chosen an opponent altogether too tough for him. His own twenty-four hours’ acquaintance with Sir Asif had made that clear. If ever a man was hardened in his convictions, it was the old Judge. If ever anyone would cheerfully accept death rather than comprise by a word on what he felt to be right, it was Sir Asif.
Perhaps, indeed, the old man had long ago guessed who the author of the anonymous threats was. And it was for that reason that he was treating them with such contempt.
But motive the hard-to-believe-in priest had and had. Did he too have the means? Did he have a typewriter?
As soon as the tirade slackened a little, he pounced.
‘Father Adam, I am most inter –’
‘Now, please. Enough of the “Father”. You’ve got to treat me on totally level terms. It’s Mort. Mort Adam. And what am I to call you?’
For half an instant he wanted to reply, shredding to pieces in a wild outbreak of truthfulness the whole ridiculous pretence he had been saddled with, ‘You should call me Inspector, Inspector Ghote.’ Then he and the American would truly be on level terms. But he swallowed hard and came out with the two syllables that had been asked of him.
‘Ganesh. My name is Ganesh.’
‘Fine, Ganesh. Now we’re just two guys together. So what was it you wanted to ask?’
Evidently some challenge was expected. Something to be crushed with a few more references to ‘social justice’ and ‘the class war’.
‘Well, Fath – Well, Mort, I was going to ask only if you are in any way a writer yourself. You appear to have such fine opinions that I think you must at times put them on to paper.’
The priest looked down for a moment at his feet. He was wearing, not the socks and shoes which he himself had felt to be correct in this house, but a pair of sandals, and much scuffed sandals too.
‘Well, I guess you’re right, Ganesh,’ he said at last. ‘Back in the States I have contributed to a few periodicals.’
A brief wry smile appeared on his pale eyebrow-locked face.
‘I guess my writing was the reason I was sent to India,’ he added.
So had he brought a typewriter with him? But before that question could be approached, Mr Dhebar lurched with massive misunderstanding into the conversation.
‘Ah, then, Father, you are an authority on Indian affairs? I had not realized. Now, would you be prepared to contribute to The Sputnik?’ He held up a pudgy warning finger. ‘But I must tell you, however, that we are unable to pay any grossly inflated American rates. And also that the Editor reserves the right to withhold publication in the event of any opinions expressed, crossing, in his judgement, the fine line between controversy and defamation.’
‘Or any opinions that might upset the censor?’ Father Adam said challengingly.
Mr Dhebar drew himself up.
‘The Sputnik has defied all censorship from its very beginnings,’ he said.
‘By carefully avoiding all real offence.’
It was the Judge.
Damn it, Ghote thought at once. He must once again have walked all the way along the passage to this room keeping his stick clear of the floor.
Well, he had certainly caught Mr Dhebar on the wrong foot.
The heavy-set editor was gobbling like a jungle turkey trying equally to defend The Sputnik and to defer to the Judge.
Sir Asif in the end helped him out of his difficulty.
‘But, my dear Dhebar,’ he said, ‘in the time since you have done me the honour of printing my few reflections on the state of present-day society, we have changed all that, have we not?’
‘Oh yes, Judge sahib,’ the editor said, perking up instantly. ‘Every week we defy them. Oh yes, indeed.’
The Judge smiled. Slightly.
‘Or we would defy them did anyone ever read The Sputnik,’ he said.
And with those words a wild notion came to Ghote. Up to now he had treated Sir Asif with the greatest deference. He had felt that to be his duty, since he was here for the purpose of protecting the old man. But Sir Asif had made things as difficult as he could for him from the very beginning. Very well, see now what opposing the autocrat would do. To hell with politeness and respect, those twin taboos.
‘But, excuse me, Judge,’ he interrupted. A sudden dryness in his throat had made the words come out in a curious croak, but he was going to get out what he had to say, come what might. ‘Excuse me, but why, if you believe no one is ever reading Mr Dhebar’s publication, why do you still write for it?’
Behind him he heard Begum Roshan give a little gasp of dismay, and was aware too that Father Adam had sat abruptly forward in his high-back carved chair. And from the Saint, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he had detected once again that extraordinary irradiating sun-warm smile.
‘A nice point.’
The Judge’s expression was unyielding as ever. But Ghote realized that the words he had spoken were an acknowledgement that his challenge had at least put a finger on the truth.
‘Yes, a nice point. And under the pressure of your cross-examination, Doctor, I fear I shall have to make two admissions. Firstly that perhaps The Sputnik has a slightly wider readership than I was inclined playfully to imply. And secondly that I myself in my old age have fallen prey to the vanity of authorship. I had allowed myself to hope that the plain expression of plain facts, however few the ears that heard them, would do some good in these dark times, that with lies and corruption all around us a few grains of truth would show up like specks of white on the universal blackness.’
‘And the Memoirs, Judge?’ Mr Dhebar broke in, an inexorably puffing locomotive proceeding along its fixed rails. ‘The Memoirs, are they also intended to wake up India?’
‘The Memoirs?’
It was evident to Ghote that the old man, and he was after all a very old man, was for the moment quite unable to recall that he was supposed to be writing Memoirs at all.
He found himself, without thinking, coming to the rescue. But at the same time he was not above taking advantage of the situation to press home the small victory he had just gained.
‘Ah, yes, Judge,’ he said, ‘as your assistant on the Memoirs there are one or two questions I need to put to you as soon as possible. The world is waiting for your words, you know. So would it be convenient if we were to meet this evening before dinner?’
It was an unfair thing to do to an old man. But he had arrived here expecting to receive fair dealing himself, and he had failed to get it. So if there was no other way of inducing Sir Asif to give him more information, then this was how he was going to do it. He must at least get a look at some of the other notes the Judge had received, and he ought too to hear from the old man who in the house, if anybody, had reason to wish him ill.
Well, he had made his bid. Would it succeed?
The Judge stood in silence. He was leaning on his black, silver-topped cane heavily now, and his eyes were so deep-sunken as to be almost closed.
‘No.’
It was not his answer. It was a cry from Begum