Supping With Panthers Read online

  Tom Holland is the author of Attis, Deliver Us From Evil, The Vampyre, and The Sleeper in the Sands. His non-fiction writing includes Rubicon, the bestselling Persian Fire and, most recently, Millennium. He lives in London.

  Also by Tom Holland

  Fiction

  THE VAMPYRE

  DELIVER US FROM EVIL

  ATTIS

  THE SLEEPER IN THE SANDS

  Non-fiction

  RUBICON

  PERSIAN FIRE

  MILLENNIUM

  Copyright

  Published by Hachette Digital

  ISBN: 9780748115334

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Tom Holland 1996

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  Hachette Digital

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DY

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Also by Tom Holland

  Copyright

  Preface

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Author’s Note

  For my parents.

  Blood will out.

  ‘Rubbish, Watson, rubbish! What have we to do with walking corpses who can only be held in their grave by stakes driven through their hearts? It’s pure lunacy.’

  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire.

  ‘The blood is the life.’

  Bram Stoker, Dracula.

  PREFACE

  London,

  15 December, 1897.

  To those whom it concerns—

  If you are reading this letter, then you will no doubt suspect the danger you are in. The lawyers you have approached are under instructions to deliver to you a body of papers. The story they reveal is a terrible one. Indeed, only recently did I understand its full extent when a copy of Moorfield’s book was sent to me from Calcutta, together with a bundle of letters and journals. Start with Moorfield’s book, at the chapter titled ‘A Perilous Mission’ – I have left three letters where I found them within the pages of the book. Otherwise the papers are arranged by myself. Read them in the order in which they have been placed.

  My poor friend. Whoever you may be, whenever you may read this – do not doubt, please, that what is recorded did occur.

  May God’s hand protect you.

  Yours in grief and hope,

  ABRAHAM STOKER.

  PART ONE

  Extract from the memoirs of Colonel Sir William Moorfield, C.B., C.M.G., D.S.O., With Rifles in the Raj (London,

  A PERILOUS MISSION

  A secret mission – ‘Shmashana Kali’ – a mountain journey – the bloody idol – an ominous discovery.

  I come now to perhaps the most extraordinary episode of my whole long career in India. In the late summer of 1887, when the boredom of garrison duty had become almost unbearable, I received an unexpected summons to Simla. There were no details of what the mission might be, but since the heat on the plains was by now pretty sweltering I was not averse to a jaunt up to the hills. I have always had a love of mountains and Simla, perched high on a promontory above cedars and mists, was certainly a place of striking beauty. However, I had but little time to admire the views, for no sooner had I arrived at my allotted quarters when a message came to me from one Colonel Rawlinson, ordering me to report to him at once. A quick shave and a change of uniform, and then I was on my way again pronto. Had I known where the meeting was to lead, I might not have walked with such an eager step – and yet the thrill of soldiering was in my blood again, and I would not have exchanged it for all the world!

  Colonel Rawlinson’s office was set apart from the regular H.Q., down a side street so dark that it seemed more suitable to a native bazaar than the quarters of a British officer. Any uneasiness I may have suffered on this account, however, was soon banished by my first sight of Colonel Rawlinson himself, for he was a tall, spruce man with a hint of steel in his eye, and I found myself liking him instinctively. He led me straight away into a teak-lined study, filled with maps and decorated along the walls with the most extraordinary collection of Hindoo gods. There were two men waiting for us there, seated at a circular table. One I recognised at once – it was old ‘Pumper’ Paxton, my commanding officer from Afghanistan! I had not seen him for five years now – yet he looked as hale and hearty as he ever did. Colonel Rawlinson waited as we exchanged our greetings; then, once we had finished, he introduced the second man, who had been sitting until this moment obscured by shadow.

  ‘Captain Moorfield,’ said the Colonel, ‘please meet Huree Jyoti Navalkar.’

  The man leaned forward; he bobbed his head in the native manner and I saw – with a sense of shock, I don’t mind admitting – that the fellow was not even a soldier, but your typical Babu, a fat, sweating office-wallah. Colonel Rawlinson must have observed my surprise, yet he offered no explanation for the Babu’s presence; instead he began to flick through some papers, then stared up at me again, that look of steel still glinting in his eye.

  ‘Outstanding career record you have here, Moorfield,’ he said.

  I felt myself getting red. ‘Oh, that’s all rot, sir,’ I muttered.

  ‘I see you gave a good account of yourself in the Baluchistan show. Get into the mountains at all, did you?’

  ‘I saw a bit of action there, sir, yes.’

  ‘Fancy seeing a bit more of the hills?’

  ‘I’ll go wherever I’m sent, sir.’

  ‘Even if it’s not in your regular line of soldiering?’

  I frowned at this and caught old Pumper’s eye, but he just looked away and said nothing. I turned back to Colonel Rawlinson. ‘I’m willing to have a crack at anything, sir.’

  ‘Good man!’ he smiled, patting me on the shoulder, then reaching for his swagger stick. He crossed to a large map hanging on the wall, and as he did so his face froze once again into an expression of deadly seriousness. ‘This, Moorfield,’ he said, tapping with his stick at a long purple line, ‘is the frontier of our Indian Empire. It is long and, as you yourself will know only too well, it is thinly protected. And here’ – he tapped with his stick again – ‘is the territory of His Imperial Majesty, the Russian Tsar. Observe further, this zone here – the mountains and the steppes – these belong neither to Russia nor to ourselves. Buffer states, Moorfield – the playground of spies and adventurers. And right now, unless I am very much mistaken, there is a storm brewing there, a mighty tempest, and it seems to be blowing towards our Indian frontier.’ He tapped at an area left blank on the map – ‘Towards here, to be precise.’ He paused. ‘A place named Kalikshutra.’

  I frowned. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it, sir.’

  ‘Not surprised, Moorfield, few have. Just look’ – he tapped at the map again – ‘see how remote it is. High up as hell, and with only a single road that leads to it – here. No other traversable way in – or out. We’ve always been content to leave it well alone – no strategic value, you see.’ He paused, then frowned. ‘Or so,’ he murmured, ‘we had always thought.’ His frown deepened. He stared at the map for a moment more; then he returned to his seat and leaned across to me. ‘We’re getting strange rumours, Moorfield. There’s something brooding there. A month ago, one of our agents came staggering in. He was pale as death and carved with scars, but he also brought us our first hard news. “I have seen them,” he whispered, as a
look of the utmost horror crossed his face. “Kali.” Then he shut his eyes, as though too weak to utter what he wanted to say. “Kali,” he repeated. We left him alone, to get a good night’s sleep. The next morning…’ Colonel Rawlinson paused. His lean, bronzed face seemed suddenly pale. ‘The next morning’ – he cleared his throat – ‘we found him dead.’ He paused again. ‘Poor fellow had shot himself.’

  ‘Shot himself?’ I repeated in disbelief.

  ‘Straight through the heart. Damnedest mess you ever saw.’

  ‘Good God.’ I breathed in deeply. ‘What made him do it?’

  ‘That, Captain, is what we need you to find out.’

  Suddenly, the room seemed very still. I felt those damned Hindoo gods gloating down at me. That we had a true mystery on our hands, I didn’t doubt. I knew full well how dangerous intelligence work could be, and how brave the fellows were who took it on. Such men were not in the habit of shooting themselves in a blind state of funk. Something must have got to the man. Something. But what? I looked up again at Rawlinson.

  The Russians are involved in this business, then, you think, sir?’

  Colonel Rawlinson nodded. ‘We know they are.’ He paused, then lowered his voice. ‘Two weeks ago, a second agent came in.’

  ‘Reliable?’

  ‘Oh, the best.’ Colonel Rawlinson nodded. ‘We call him Sri Sinh – the lion. Quite the best.’

  ‘He’d seen Ivans,’ said Pumper, leaning over to me. ‘Scores of the beggars, done up as natives, marching up the road to Kalikshutra.’

  I frowned. Something had just occurred to me. ‘Kalikshutra,’ I repeated, turning back to Rawlinson. Tour first agent, sir – the one who died – if I remember correctly, he only referred to a “Kali”. Might it not be possible that he was talking of a quite different place?’

  ‘No,’ said the Babu, whose presence in the room had gone dean from my mind.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ I said coldly, for I was not used to being spoken to thus by anyone, let alone a Bengali office-man. But the Babu seemed quite unperturbed by my glance of disdain; he stared back at me rudely, then scratched at his rump. ‘Kali is a Hindoo goddess,’ he said, for all the world like a schoolmaster addressing some boy who has been slow with his prep. ‘It is not a place.’

  I must have looked hot at this, for Rawlinson cut me off pretty sharpish. ‘Huree is Professor of Sanskrit at Calcutta University,’ he said hurriedly, as though that served to justify anything. I stared at the man and he met my look, watching me with his insolent, fish-cold eyes.

  ‘I am only a simple Englishman,’ I said – and I flatter myself I made this sarcasm bite. ‘I make no pretence of learning, for the Army camp has been my teaching-ground. Clearly then, I must let you explain to me this link between Kali, the goddess, and Kalikshutra, the place, for I readily admit I don’t see it myself.’

  The Babu bobbed his head. ‘It will be a pleasure, Captain.’

  He shifted in his seat and, bending down, picked up a statue, a great black thing which he then placed on the table in front of me. This, Captain,’ he said, ‘is the goddess Kali.’

  Well, thank Heaven I’m a Christian, was all I could think, for the goddess Kali was the most frightful-looking thing, and no mistake. Pitch-black body, as I’ve mentioned, with swords in her six hands and a tongue dyed like blood. She seemed to be dancing on the body of a man. And that was by no means the worst of it, for only when I looked closer did I see her belt and the garland round her neck. ‘Good Lord,’ I murmured involuntarily. Human hands hung bleeding from her waist, and the garland was made of freshly severed heads!

  ‘She has many names, Captain,’ said the Babu in my ear, ‘but always, she is Kali the Terrible.’

  ‘Well, I’m not surprised!’ I answered. ‘Just look at her!’

  ‘You misunderstand what such a title may mean.’ The Babu smiled slyly. ‘You must try to comprehend, please, Captain, that terror in our Hindoo philosophy is but an opening on to the absolute. What appals, inspires what destroys, can create. When we experience terror, Captain, we are made aware of what the sages call shakti eternal power – the feminine energy which underlies the universe.’

  ‘Are we, by George? You don’t say.’ Well, I’d never heard such rot in all my born days, of course, and I’m afraid I let it show, but the Babu did not seem offended in the slightest. He only gave me another oily smile. ‘You must try to see things as we poor heathens do, Captain,’ he murmured.

  ‘Why the devil should I?’

  The Babu sighed. ‘Fear of the goddess, terror of her power – to you it is just bloody bunk, I know, but to others it is not. Therefore, Captain – know your enemy get into his mind. That – after all – is where Kali waits as well.’

  Slowly, he bowed his head. He muttered some prayer under his breath. And then, as I watched, the Babu seemed to change before my eyes. It was the deucedest thing, but he seemed suddenly a soldier, possessed and cool, and when he spoke again he might have been lecturing the Chiefs of Staff. ‘I have asked you, Captain Moorfield, to appreciate the nature of the devotion that Kali can inspire, for it is likely to be your most potent foe. Do not scorn it, just because you find it abhorrent and strange. Piety can be as dangerous as your soldiers’ guns. Remember – only fifty years ago, Kali’s priests in Assam were offering up the goddess human sacrifice. Had you British not annexed their kingdom, they would doubtless be offering it up still. And the British, of course, have never conquered Kalikshutra. We cannot know what customs are still practised there.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ I exclaimed, scarcely able to believe my ears. ‘You surely don’t mean to say … not human sacrifice?’

  The Babu shook his head. ‘I say nothing,’ he replied. ‘No agent of the Government has ever penetrated far enough. However…’ His voice trailed away. He paused to glance at the statue, at its necklace of skulls and the red on its tongue. ‘You asked about the link between the goddess and Kalikshutra,’ he murmured.

  I nodded. I liked the fellow more now, and I could sense he was ready with something pretty hot. ‘Go on,’ I said.

  ‘Kalikshutra, Captain Moorfield, means – literally translated – “the land of Kali”. * And yet’ – he paused – ‘it is an insult to my religion to say that Kalikshutra is Hindoo – for elsewhere in India the goddess is worshipped as a beneficent deity, the friend of man, the Mother of all the Universe…’

  ‘Whereas in Kalikshutra?’ I asked.

  ‘Whereas in Kalikshutra…’ Again the Babu paused, and stared at the statue’s grinning face. ‘In Kalikshutra, she is worshipped as Queen of the Demons. Shmashana Kali!’ He spoke these words in a low whisper, and as he uttered them so the room seemed to darken and grow suddenly cold. ‘Kali of the Cremation Grounds, from whose mouth blood flows in a never-ending stream, and who dwells amongst the fiery places of the dead.’ And here the Babu swallowed, and spoke in a language I did not understand. ‘Vetala-pancha-Vinshati,’ I heard, repeated twice, and then the Babu swallowed again and his voice trailed away.

  ‘Sorry?’ said old Pumper after a decent pause.

  ‘Demons,’ replied the Babu shortly. ‘It is the phrase the villagers from the foothills use. An ancient Sanskrit term.’ He turned again to look at me. ‘And such is their fear of these demons, Captain, that the villagers who live below the heights of Kalikshutra refuse to take the road that would lead them there. And this is how we can be sure that the men our agent saw climbing up the road were not natives of the region, but foreigners.’ He paused, then wagged his finger in emphasis. ‘You understand me, Captain? No natives would ever have taken that road.’

  There was a silence and Rawlinson turned to study me. ‘You see the danger?’ he asked, a frown on his face. ‘We can’t have the Russians in Kalikshutra. Once they establish themselves in a place like that, they are near as damnation impregnable. And if they do set up a base -well, it will be on the very border of British India. Perilous, Moorfield – deadly perilous. I don’t think I need to emphasise
that.’

  ‘No indeed, sir.’

  ‘We want you to recce those Ivans out’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You’ll leave tomorrow. Colonel Paxton will follow you the day after that with his regiment’

  ‘Yes, sir. And how many men will I have with me?’

  ‘Ten.’ I must have looked surprised, for Rawlinson smiled. ‘They’ll be good, Moorfield, you needn’t worry about that Remember – you are only going to spy out the lie of the land. If you can take on the Russians yourself, then well and good. If not’ – Rawlinson nodded at Pumper – ‘send for Colonel Paxton. He will be waiting at the base of the road; he’ll have men enough with him to sort the Russians out.’

  ‘With respect, sir…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why don’t we march in with the regiment at once?’

  Rawlinson stroked the curve of his moustache. ‘Politics, Moorfield.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Rawlinson sighed. ‘This is a diplomat’s game as well, I’m afraid. London doesn’t want trouble on the border. In fact – and I shouldn’t be telling you this – we’ve already turned a blind eye to a number of infringements in the region. About three years ago – don’t know if you remember it – Lady Westcote was abducted, together with her daughter and twenty men.’

  ‘Lady Westcote.’

  ‘Wife of Lord Westcote, who had commanded in Kabul.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ I exclaimed, ‘who took her?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ replied Pumper, sitting up suddenly and looking angry. ‘Our attempts to investigate were cut short. Sat on by the politicos.’

  Rawlinson glanced at him, then back at me. ‘The point is this,’ he said, ‘that the Raj can’t be seen marching in to places willy-nilly.’