I soon discovered that Mrs. de Castro kept but few servants. The so-called “boy,” a man of forty, combined the offices of cook and waiter. To me the food was unfamiliar, and consisted of peculiar pillau, tank fish, and curries of the most startling varieties; our fruit was pomegranates and custard-apples.
Everything, however, was beautifully neat and clean, and as soon as Mrs. de Castro had resigned herself to her disappointment in finding me a lady we settled down together on the most amicable terms.
My hostess must have been about seventy. Her sight was rather bad, but otherwise she was by no means decrepit—in fact, was surprisingly active for her age. I let her see at once that I was resolved to be independent—to go out and come in precisely as I pleased; at the same time, I was willing to read aloud the Bangalore Herald, to write a chit, or even to carry a message into the bazaar—which lay at the end of our road. She quite took to Kip, who soon established himself in a very secure position in the house, and we three got on together so well that at the end of a week I do not think a casual visitor would have discovered that I had not been living in Infantry Lines for years. My landlady seldom went out, save on Sunday across the maidan to St. Mark’s Church, but she gave me ample directions, and I soon found my way about our immediate neighbourhood.
My first distant expedition was to see at least the exterior of the jail. I think Mrs. de Castro was not a little astonished at my anxiety to know its whereabouts.
“The jail is nothing to look at,” she said. “You go into the Cubbon Park—there’s a sight for you! Some day I’ll hire a gharry and take you down to the Lal Bagh gardens.”
I had been debating in my own mind whether I would tell this good woman the whole truth and nothing but the truth. As a friend of “Miss Lucy’s,” in other words Mrs. Lakin (to whose mother she had been maid), I had some claim upon her interest and loyalty. She entertained a number of visitors, chiefly women, the wives of shopkeepers, clerks, railway guards and sergeants—a particular set of her own. These swarmed in of an afternoon to have a cup of coffee in the veranda and enjoy a bit of a talk, importing all the latest and raciest bazaar gossip, in which Mrs. de Castro took the most eager interest. Naturally to such people I was an object of the liveliest curiosity; with respect to me, I believe these poor puzzled women floundered about in a very quagmire of conjecture. I avoided them as far as possible, but nevertheless I could not wholly evade them, and their questions and hints were exceedingly sharp. With Mrs. de Castro sharing my secret I was convinced that I could hold them at bay, and accordingly made up my mind to speak. One morning as we sat at breakfast, I began abruptly:
“Mrs. de Castro, I am sure you wonder what I am doing here, a stranger to the place. There is not a soul that I know in the whole of Mysore, save one. You will also be wondering why I am often asking questions about the jail? Now I will tell you the reason—my brother is there.”
“What!” she cried, “the new superintendent?”
“No, I am sorry to say he is undergoing a two years’ sentence—his name is Captain Lingard.”
“Oh lor!” she cried, lifting up her withered hands, “do you tell me so? I heard about the officer from my husband’s nephew, who is head warder. And so that’s what’s brought you to the station. Dear, dear, dear! What’s he been a-doin’ of?”