“An English sahib was murdered here seven years ago; stabbed and dragged out, and buried under the steps.”
“Ah, bah! ah, bah! How I telling? this not my country,” she wailed most piteously.
“Tell all you know,” persisted Julia. “You do know! My husband is coming to-day; he is a police officer. You had better tell me than him.”
After much whimpering and hand-wringing, we extracted the following information in jerks and quavers:—
The bungalow had a bad name, no one ever entered it, and in spite of the wooden shutters there were lights in the windows every night up to twelve o’clock. One day (so the villagers said), many years ago, a young sahib came to this bungalow and stayed three days. He was alone. He was in the Forest Department. The last evening he sent his horses and servants on to Chanda, and said he would follow in the morning after having some shooting, he and his “boy;” but though his people waited two weeks, he never appeared—was never seen again. The khansamah declared that he and his servant had left in the early morning, but no one met them. The khansamah became suddenly very rich; said he had found a treasure; also, he sold a fine gold watch in Jubbulpore, and took to drink. He had a bad name, and the bungalow had a bad name. No one would stay there more than one night, and no one had stayed there for many years till we came. The khansamah lived in the cook-house; he was always drunk. People said there were devils in the house, and no one would go near it after sundown. This was all she knew.
“Poor fellow, he was so good-looking!” sighed Julia when we were alone. “Poor fellow, and he was murdered and buried here!”
“So I told you,” I replied, “and you would not believe me, but insisted on staying to see for yourself.”
“I wish I had not—oh, I wish I had not! I shall never, never forget last night as long as I live.”
“That must have been his topee and tiffin basket that we saw in the press,” I exclaimed. “As soon as your husband comes, we will tell him everything, and set him on the track of the murderers.”
Breakfast on Christmas morning was a very doleful meal; our nerves were completely shattered by our recent experiences, and we could only rouse ourselves up to offer a very melancholy sort of welcome to our two husbands, when they cantered briskly into the compound. In reply to their eager questions as to the cause of our lugubrious appearance, pale faces, and general air of mourning, we favoured them with a vivid description of our two nights in the bungalow. Of course, they were loudly, rudely incredulous, and, of course, we were very angry; vainly we re-stated our case, and displayed the old topee and tiffin basket; they merely laughed still more heartily and talked of “nightmare,” and gave themselves such airs of offensive superiority, that Julia’s soul flew to arms.